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Saturday - - MAY 04 - - 4:55 am |
Listening to: Maxwell's Urban Hang Suite, the CD from The Summer.
I just got home. My hands are still frozen. Adrenalin still pooled and crystallized in all different nerves. Alcohol travelling and fading through veins. Cigarettes wafting into nothing.
The night began with work. Then with a party at God's house. Typical. From there to a farmer's field with C and J, dancing in the headlights of my car, the doors ajar, Janis Joplin haunting us from the tape deck. From there to the broke down, blocked off road containing a supposed mad goat. The little Honda, parked there at the gates, headlights beaming down the sharp, barbed tunnel of dried trees and rotted road blocks. Then a flooded engine.
Walking back to the city, literally mile(s) away, drinking salvaged beer and telling stories, the three of us. Breaking down snow fences, helping each other over barbed wire, and out of huge holes that we fell in. Dodging the three cops who stopped and asked if we needed help. The victory dances of each Amazing-Race obstacle, be it fence or mile-long-stretch of empty midnight road or, hours later, reaching the car of J, just in time to bring it back to the Honda, which started only after so much down time. The final victory dance and kissing, the tossing of the symbolic beer bottle. The drive back to the city with the sun rising. And finally the sneak entrance, at the end of the night, through the window without rousing sleeping sentinels and refracted sun dogs.
I think of tonight. The party. The mid-term exam, centuries ago, in fifth period. The Kit-Kat bars. The broken mirror at lunch. The broken key in the lock of Carla's apartment. Flooded engines, ghost stories, dancing, raving across farmer's fields, being scared shitless. Mad goats. Janis. A three way bond. Hours of pilgrimage in the dark and cold and, eventually, the street lights, tired and bitter but excited and having more fun than any time in recent memory.
I think of tonight.
Period.
Tuesday - - APR. 16 - - 9:15 pm |
Listening to: An import CD. It's Gackt. I actually own a Gackt CD. When KC gave it to me, I almost passed out.
Currently reading: Less Than Zero, by Brett Easton Ellis.
Thinking about: My nipple.
I really have very little to say right now. So, I'm just going to post a survey that I gratuitously stole from -e6. I'm doing this because I don't want to fall behind again in my blogging, and I am too exhausted right now to type up anything significant. It's easier just to cut-and-paste.
Is it a bad sign that I've been exhausted for weeks now? I think it is.
Four things you would eat on the last day of your life:
. Olives
. Noodles in milk
. Aged marshmallows
. Sushi
Four CDs from your collection that you will never get tired of:
. Enigma's Greatest Hits
. Janis Joplin - 18 Essential Hits
. Moulin Rouge soundtrack (1 and 2)
. Bjork - Post
Four movies that made you think:
. Dancer in the Dark
. Requiem for a Dream
. American History X
. Ghost World
Four vacations you have taken:
. Dominican Republic
. Las Vegas
. Tahoe
. Mexico
Four songs stuck in your head frequently:
. Bette Middler - Wind Beneath My Wings
. Whitney Huston - I Will Always Love You
. Tina Turner - Private Dancer (or) Simply the Best
. Rufus Wainwright - Instant Pleasure
Four things you'd like to learn:
. Japanese
. more Spanish
. all there is to know about film making
. all there is to know about forensics
Four beverages you drink frequently:
. Vodka
. Coffee
. Vodka
. Water
Four TV shows you liked when you were a kid:
. anything anime
. Tales from the Crypt
. Charlie Brown
. Captain Planet
Four things you wanted to be when you grew up:
. A detective/forensic guy
. Mortician
. A Writer
. Someone who dug ditches
Four places to go in your city:
. McNally Robinson
. Movies
. Parties/Raves/Bassment
. Into a slowly spiralling ladder of insanity and depression
Four things that never fail to cheer you up:
. Friends (think Meri, astraea, KC)
. Vodka
. Pornography
. Sex
And because I don't want to study for physics yet...
Five items you have brand loyalty to:
1) American Eagle (yes, yes, I know)
2) Joe Boxers
3) Trojan
4) Smirnoff
5) ... this is hard because I don't have brand loyalty
Five snacks you enjoy:
1) Ocean Spray Craisins
2) Soy nuts
3) Vodka
4) Aged marshmallows
5) Swedish berries
Five songs you know the words to, even without the music:
1) I Will Always Love You, by Whitney Huston
2) Both Hands, Ani Difranco
3) The Wind Beneath my Wings, Bette Middler
4) Mother Superior, Bad Religion
5) You Oughta Know, Alanis Morisette
Five games you like:
1) Resident Evil I and II
2) Silent Hill II
3) Final Fantasy III, VII, and Tactics
4) Contra
5) humping club from younger days
Five albums that changed your life:
1) Janis Joplin's Greatest Hits
2) Jagged Little Pill, Alanis Morisette
3) The Greatest Hits of Billie Holiday
4) Baduhism, Eryka Baduh
5) Maxwell's Urban Hang Suite, Maxwell
Five things you can't live without:
1) Freedom of expression, i.e. writing, music, sex
2) Coffee
3) My friends
4) Vodka
5) Books
Five good things to touch:
1) Sweaty hair (only dance sweat, or sex sweat)
2) Skin
3) The shape from the back of the neck to the small of the back
4) Book pages
5) Mi pene
Five things you'd buy with one thousand dollars:
1) A library
2) A house in the Dominican Republic
3) A horse
4) A fusion cafe/club
5) Vodka, or entrance to the Slam Championships in New York
And for good measure... Five books anyone should read before they die:
1) The Colore Purple, Alice Walker
2) Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
3) 100 Years of Solitude (or) Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
4) Memoirs of a Geisha, Arthur Golden
5) Desperation (or) Salem's Lot (or) Rose Madder, Stephen King
And by the way...
Take the "How slutty are you" Test
created by sami
Saturday - - APR. 13 - - 6:55 pm |
Listening to: Moulin Rouge Soundtrack, volume 2
Staring at: A glass of Diet Coke.
A glass of Diet Coke on my computer desk. A clear glass, a black liquid, sitting there among the narcissi of unfurled lily-faced Christmas lights. Scattered light in the Diet Coke, helium marigolds moving so slowly that they are in hyper space, caterpaulting and shedding skins behind like flakes of colored continents. Scattered light in Diet Coke, faded-out little galaxies of cobalt and caramel, which are actually office buildings, which are actually streetlights, which are actually porch lights in black night, that are being seen from miles above, through the clear glass of an airplane window.
I'll drink South Africa, or the flakes of it. I'll drink Ontario or Phoenix. Scattered marigolds, swirling galaxies inside my mouth, inside my stomach. Now, I am awake.
*ahem*
That was my piece of prose poetry for the day. I was listening to the amazing Moulin Rouge 2 soundtrack, playing my heartstrings with as much deft presentation as the original film versions of "Come What May," "The Show Must Go On," or "Bolero." But then I remembered that I had purchased Björk's new album, Vespertine. So I put it in, and sure enough I felt moved to write something random, strange, and secretively meaningful.
Last night, I came very close to hopping into a car and driving out of the city in one direction for the whole night. My friends came and tried to kidnap me from work. They were going to take me driving out of the city and maybe out of the province. They just wanted to take me and get the hell out, and meet up with some people from another city that we knew. I was all up for it. It would have been so key, just to leave and think about the consequences when we came back, and only then.
But, of course I had prior engagements that I simply could not break. So, I had to pass. Now, I am kidding myself in the kidneys for giving up the opportunity to ditch like that. Life in Saskatoon is cruel, especially lately. With astraea getting robbed "point blank," with KC getting into a small car accident with his mom while coming into the city, with all the assignments and reports and tests that are catching up to me, and all the weeks of being lethargic and tired. Saskatoon is becoming just another dead weight, slowly becoming heavier and heavier the longer I spend carrying it around.
But what can you do? Shoot yourself in the head? That's no good. If I'm dead, I can never get on the Oprah Winfrey show, or the cover of Time Magazine.
I need a hookup tonight. I need a haircut so I can look as hot as Barry Watson. I need to go to the sex clinic. And I need a nipple appointment.
My Creative Writing teacher is out to ruin my life and my love of writing. I find that I am too opinionated to take a class in anything that I have any particular interest in. The teachers are so determined to lay out rigid little laws and rules about those things that are supposed to be the most creative. And the other writers in the class are concerned only with appearing more intellectual and obtuse than the other writers. (Is it just me, or are writers becoming more and more egocentric?) I do not understand the point in trying to appear on a higher creative or intellectual level if your writing does not say anything.
Figurative language, metaphors, and hyper-creativity are all important. In fact, they all make me cum. At night, I dream dirty dreams about Plath and Atwood and Neruda, Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Ondaatje. But all the great poets who use figurative language, metaphors, and hyper-creativity are doing something, saying something, or showing something.
Anyone can write a poem that sounds pretty but makes no sense. It takes a writer to write a poem that sounds pretty and means something. What is the point of this race to see who can confuse the most people? I do not understand how writers (or one in particular I could mention) can be so concerned with confusing their reader and appearing on a higher intellectual plane.
Listen, you writer: if you do nothing but look down on your audience, you will not have one (that is to say if you ever will, beyond your Creative Writing peers). In writing, you will never be as high as you think, because almost all writing, and especially mind-fuck poetry, is subjective. And if your reader wants you to be on a higher plane, then you will be. But if your reader believes hard enough that you have been deciphered and decidedly dull-witted and trite, then you will be that, too.
So write to write. Don't write to compete, or spite, or enbiggen yourself.
Bitch.
Now I am listening to the second volume of the Moulin Rouge soundtrack again. The song playing right now is the last one, "Bolero." It is just amazing. All the songs on here are just amazing. I took Björk out for a while.
I love the emotional depth of her music, that Björk woman. No one does music or lyrics like her. Vespertine is an impossibly rich, visceral marriage of slow- to mid-paced electronica, gorgeous symphonic suggestion, and Björk's almost-alien, ferociously unique voice. She has, as she always does with the release of a new album, taken the reins on the electronica/emotive genre, which so often becomes the business of geeks and tekniks.
And the Moulin Rouge soundtrack goes without saying. If you have seen the movie, then you know the sweeping, dramatic depth of the music found on this disc.
I need to be fevered tonight. Lip-gloss lacquered in fever. Cut my strings, momma, let me fly into the pale, flaked iris of the patio light. Let me bounce between the magnets lining the stairwell as I drift down, spinning between negative and positive and negative, into this basement. Let me cum. Let me splash through the beaded curtain, (oh! Tiesto-- oh! Maxwell), let me swim on a jetstream of limp latex lubricant Labello lip shine bubbles, backwards, into the eye of the needle.
So. Okay. Now I'm done. Now I'm going outside.
Pedalling through the dark currents, I find an accurate copy, a blueprint, of the pleasure in me.
Want To Know Which Element You Are?
Stuck between the sky and the ground, you lack
the sudden impulse that Air has but are unable to root yourself down like Earth. Though you have troubles
finishing projects, people can depend on you for the most part (even if it means pulling a few all-nighters).
On the plus side, you are extremely adaptable and thus can adjust to any situation. Sure, you might not like
it, but it doesn't weigh you down.
Best Match: Fire, just enough 'oomph' to keep your interest.
Worst Match: Spirit, you'll be out the door before they make up their minds.
Streea wasted a bunch of time making this test.
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