Reflections of Cuba Part I:
in the cobblestone street,
some hot Cuban beat
i yearn to move with your bleeding feet...
its Saturday Night Fever at the Vampire Discoteca
and you sway in your John Travolta suit... lingering on the brim of the dance-floor
watching me like the hot Spanish prick that you are. And I want you. At least I think I do.
All your comrads have tried, but my eyes are only wide for you.
Some Aj Maclean teenage vampire who no hoblo anglaise... which is why I ask myself "my God, why you!? Why in this crowd, in this weird bar - a salsa club rave-like hybrid" where I feel more at ease cutting up the floor than I do usually in its north american equivalent.
I would have rather you just held out without saying a word. I would have rather left believing in the romantic eye contact we exchanged from afar. But you had to shatter all that. Shatter the cinematic story I was playing out in my mind. You actually danced the last dance with a partner across from you... with another human being. Someone else. Some random chicita with an unmemorable face and an even more nondescript soul.
So I said adios and I shook your hand goodnight. And I was gone. And as were you.
********
Cuba was an overwhelming jambalaya of flavor, emotion and womanhood. It was more surreal than anything else. I will return with more reflections of my experience. I have gained many insights, connections and a new obsession for red snapper fish and Cuban salsa music. I must learn how to dance with a partner in the coming years.
If ever in doubt... I shall now think to myself, "WWCD": What would Che do?...The Answer... "He'd start a revolution!"
x's & o's bros,
LO
If I were any religion I would be: Santeria.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
You sleep, I sleep, we all sleep alone
| I can't tell you how I feel right now. For the time being, I guess you can say I feel an exhausted sense of peace, but I doubt that'll last. Onwards and downwards and around and between, my emotions right now are in perpetual shift. Fucking film sets. Now here's a paradox: I HATE set. I hate it. It's absolutely everything I despise: stressful, crowded, on a time limit, and full of expensive, highly technical equipment. Because it's where all the ideas in your head get birthed into exhaustive, nerve-shredding life, shooting a movie is the very definition of follow-through which, let's face it, is not my forte. However, on the flip side, there are very few things that illicit as much of a rush and sense of satisfaction as getting in your groove and finishing your day. I love talking to actors. I love watching them work. And I love how film zeroes in on those tiny movements and nuances that make me quietly swoon in front of the director's monitor and think : "Ah so...THIS is why we do it." I always though that people who called themselves 'storytellers' were kind of pretentious. But I like to tell stories. It makes me like humanity a lot more. So I think I'll keep doing it. Yours, Inari If I were a piece of subcultural vomit, I would be...green and purple hair. |
Saturday, December 6, 2008
“Cher, you’re a voigin who can’t drive…” – Tai (Clueless 1995)
There’s something imperceptibly sexy about a pair of cotton Hanes underwear. Full-coverage, elastic banded, a shade of beige or burgundy, even perhaps a little bow tied just below the belly button. Maybe I’m just deluded; maybe my perception of “sexy” is (what’s the PC term for) "retarded." Nonetheless, it was a pair of Hanes underwear that gots me a thinking. And so it is underwear that is the placenta to the birth of this post…
Sometimes, but not often, I have these moments when I finally begin to understand the appeal of having a close knit romantic relationship. Someone who calls you all the time, someone you go out to eat with, watch movies, and hold hands with... and whatever else the kids get up to... or down with for that matter.... these days.
Last night I returned to the big city after a quick trip to the Niagara region to apparently go to Simcoe to get my G license. (Which I did rather righteously might I add.) A few days earlier, I had finished writing and polishing the first draft of my first feature film screenplay. Think coming-of-age fantasy, 90s grunge-influenced youth dealing with their parents and the fate of their afterlives… Donnie Darko meets Eternal Sunshine meets… My Girl… except not at all. (The References change almost daily.) Anyways, after I was back in T.O, I emailed the .pdf off to my professor, which then left my night virtually free to engage in any sort of leisure activity my heart so desired. I ran some errands, checked off a few must-do’s in my planner and eventually found that it was time to just, i don't even know, relax or something like it.
What is my definition of "relax"? Well in a cable-less house, it’s difficult to discern… because had we a tv relaxing wouldn’t feel so much like work and at the same time it wouldn't feel so much like “doing nothing,” and i HATE doing nothing. Therefore having cable tv would significantly reduce my anxiety. But that isn't an option. So the big question is: What does one do alone on a Friday night wearing Hanes underwear, feeling accomplished, and finally kind of social? I’d like to say I had myriads of options come to mind, but as I discovered, I’m not as creative with my free time as I once thought I was.
Eventually I decided to put on some tunes. And then I paced around my room a bit, around the empty house, and eventually around the neighborhood, and the greater GTA. And I did this all alone, might I add. Back at home I swept the kitchen floor. This and my music compilation of unrequited love songs were my major mistakes of the evening. There is just something so elusively allusive about the kitchen floor that makes me think about love. Boys particularly. It’s not the floor itself… but the many streams of consciousness that evolve within my mind as a result of the idea of the kitchen floor. I think blue denim and painting walls. I think rainstorms and making pancakes. I think endless conversation and uncomfortable but elated eye-contact... Christmas-themed boxer shorts etc. etc. … All of which are random activities generally done in the company of a significant other and yet all random activities I have only done with humans of the female persuasion (not that I don’t love women… but more than often not in the way a male would affect each of these circumstances.)
Truth be told, I get acutely scared that I’m wasting my youthful looks on my own four walls and computer screen. But then again I shouldn’t worry so much. Stress causes women to age at an irregularly rapid rate. So if and when, any of these Kitchen floor moments come to fruition I might be naturally shriveled like my fingertips post bath-time… and that’s the really scary thought. So I’m having this debacle debate over and over in my head… and I’m arguing back and forth with myself about how I am, and what I want and how it all contradicts each other… and at that very thought I stopped! I literally just threw down the broom and left the kitchen, and the pile of rice-krispees swept into the corner of the floor, and I went to sit on the stairs to reflect... because God forbid I have one thoughtless moment to myself. I realized this is what happens when I have a bit of free time. I think that it would be nice to pencil someone in when I see fit. But once something exciting with a deadline comes up in my life, I just want to erase their existence 100 percent completely - shutter at the thought if they come up again etc. I think the best thing for me and for all babes out there, is just avoid romance or the teased thought of a relationship, and just save it for my imagination and various written scene studies. That’s all. That's all there is to it. I'm Cher friggin Horawitz and I'm saving myself for Luke Perry, except not him... but the idea of him... yah know?
So what’s my New Year’s resolution? Graduate next semester (obviously) AND be a human being who could if they wanted, have it all – the work thing, the friend thing and maybe the kitchen floor-Hanes-her-way-meets-Christmas-boxer shorts-thing. No, 86 that completely right away right now, 100 percent!! My New Years resolution is to continue to trust myself and continue to be in two places at once. I know that makes no sense at all... but I don't make sense sometimes. It’s not a bad thing. And it’s a fairly easy resolution to keep. But then again, I don’t like it “easy.” I don't like it "easy" at all.
Maybe I'll see you New Years Eve... maybe I won't,
Lo.
If I were a holiday decoration I would be: This depends. I say I’d be a Nativity set, but I know I’m actually homemade construction paper garland rings made with Elmer’s glue at heart.
Wow. I like run on sentences.
Sometimes, but not often, I have these moments when I finally begin to understand the appeal of having a close knit romantic relationship. Someone who calls you all the time, someone you go out to eat with, watch movies, and hold hands with... and whatever else the kids get up to... or down with for that matter.... these days.
Last night I returned to the big city after a quick trip to the Niagara region to apparently go to Simcoe to get my G license. (Which I did rather righteously might I add.) A few days earlier, I had finished writing and polishing the first draft of my first feature film screenplay. Think coming-of-age fantasy, 90s grunge-influenced youth dealing with their parents and the fate of their afterlives… Donnie Darko meets Eternal Sunshine meets… My Girl… except not at all. (The References change almost daily.) Anyways, after I was back in T.O, I emailed the .pdf off to my professor, which then left my night virtually free to engage in any sort of leisure activity my heart so desired. I ran some errands, checked off a few must-do’s in my planner and eventually found that it was time to just, i don't even know, relax or something like it.
What is my definition of "relax"? Well in a cable-less house, it’s difficult to discern… because had we a tv relaxing wouldn’t feel so much like work and at the same time it wouldn't feel so much like “doing nothing,” and i HATE doing nothing. Therefore having cable tv would significantly reduce my anxiety. But that isn't an option. So the big question is: What does one do alone on a Friday night wearing Hanes underwear, feeling accomplished, and finally kind of social? I’d like to say I had myriads of options come to mind, but as I discovered, I’m not as creative with my free time as I once thought I was.
Eventually I decided to put on some tunes. And then I paced around my room a bit, around the empty house, and eventually around the neighborhood, and the greater GTA. And I did this all alone, might I add. Back at home I swept the kitchen floor. This and my music compilation of unrequited love songs were my major mistakes of the evening. There is just something so elusively allusive about the kitchen floor that makes me think about love. Boys particularly. It’s not the floor itself… but the many streams of consciousness that evolve within my mind as a result of the idea of the kitchen floor. I think blue denim and painting walls. I think rainstorms and making pancakes. I think endless conversation and uncomfortable but elated eye-contact... Christmas-themed boxer shorts etc. etc. … All of which are random activities generally done in the company of a significant other and yet all random activities I have only done with humans of the female persuasion (not that I don’t love women… but more than often not in the way a male would affect each of these circumstances.)
Truth be told, I get acutely scared that I’m wasting my youthful looks on my own four walls and computer screen. But then again I shouldn’t worry so much. Stress causes women to age at an irregularly rapid rate. So if and when, any of these Kitchen floor moments come to fruition I might be naturally shriveled like my fingertips post bath-time… and that’s the really scary thought. So I’m having this debacle debate over and over in my head… and I’m arguing back and forth with myself about how I am, and what I want and how it all contradicts each other… and at that very thought I stopped! I literally just threw down the broom and left the kitchen, and the pile of rice-krispees swept into the corner of the floor, and I went to sit on the stairs to reflect... because God forbid I have one thoughtless moment to myself. I realized this is what happens when I have a bit of free time. I think that it would be nice to pencil someone in when I see fit. But once something exciting with a deadline comes up in my life, I just want to erase their existence 100 percent completely - shutter at the thought if they come up again etc. I think the best thing for me and for all babes out there, is just avoid romance or the teased thought of a relationship, and just save it for my imagination and various written scene studies. That’s all. That's all there is to it. I'm Cher friggin Horawitz and I'm saving myself for Luke Perry, except not him... but the idea of him... yah know?
So what’s my New Year’s resolution? Graduate next semester (obviously) AND be a human being who could if they wanted, have it all – the work thing, the friend thing and maybe the kitchen floor-Hanes-her-way-meets-Christmas-boxer shorts-thing. No, 86 that completely right away right now, 100 percent!! My New Years resolution is to continue to trust myself and continue to be in two places at once. I know that makes no sense at all... but I don't make sense sometimes. It’s not a bad thing. And it’s a fairly easy resolution to keep. But then again, I don’t like it “easy.” I don't like it "easy" at all.
Maybe I'll see you New Years Eve... maybe I won't,
Lo.
If I were a holiday decoration I would be: This depends. I say I’d be a Nativity set, but I know I’m actually homemade construction paper garland rings made with Elmer’s glue at heart.
Wow. I like run on sentences.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
A vague presentiment of doom
I miss those moments of clarity I used to have on winter nights. Maybe it's because it's been unusually warm these past few days, as well as unusually wet. There is something about the smell of cold air that evokes minor epiphanies. That, or one of the early signs of hypothermia is minor psychosis. I don't know.
So...the holidays. I know I'm jumping the gun, because there is that clusterfuck known as a film shoot to contend with first. I think I've eaten up all my reserves of pre-set panic and must now resort to on-set hysteria to get me through it all. I look forward to it, natch. But the holidays! That is another bowl of upchuck altogether. I won't doom myself by saying I expect great or terrible things, but I will admit that I'm entering the festivities with the cautiously optimistic hope that it won't be completely miserable.
I've often been accused of being self-defeatist, to which I respond with a hearty 'Fuck you, douche-wanker'. Self-defeatism is a reductionist's answer to everything...those are just negative thoughts, you should just do this, you just need more confidence (like it's some kind of toggle you can switch...please). I think I've made this rant before, but I'll say it again and again and again and again until I completely swallow my own beautiful lies: when all is said and done and you find yourself staring at inner oblivion, empathy is the only thing that will convince you that you are not completely alone.
Yours,
Inari
If I were a perfect body part, I would be...a collarbone.
So...the holidays. I know I'm jumping the gun, because there is that clusterfuck known as a film shoot to contend with first. I think I've eaten up all my reserves of pre-set panic and must now resort to on-set hysteria to get me through it all. I look forward to it, natch. But the holidays! That is another bowl of upchuck altogether. I won't doom myself by saying I expect great or terrible things, but I will admit that I'm entering the festivities with the cautiously optimistic hope that it won't be completely miserable.
I've often been accused of being self-defeatist, to which I respond with a hearty 'Fuck you, douche-wanker'. Self-defeatism is a reductionist's answer to everything...those are just negative thoughts, you should just do this, you just need more confidence (like it's some kind of toggle you can switch...please). I think I've made this rant before, but I'll say it again and again and again and again until I completely swallow my own beautiful lies: when all is said and done and you find yourself staring at inner oblivion, empathy is the only thing that will convince you that you are not completely alone.
Yours,
Inari
If I were a perfect body part, I would be...a collarbone.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
you see tinsel at night and plaid in the morning
Pretend this is written on Hilroy lined paper in a 3-hole duotang with a blue bic pen I found on the floor.
part one: "Tinsel"
I imagine an evening in his parents' semi-finished basement. We sit on that snake-like couch that fills the entire room, you and me. And the four or five of them are spread around on the rug or wherever. It's Christmas time, so naturally I allow myself to relax... at least in the evenings when i've allotted time for some mindless fun.
The house (which is one of many houses in this elite suburban town that looks just the same as the one next door) is decked with the kind of holiday decor a mom would buy at a craft show. This makes us think of the craft show phase conversation we had while on a walk searching for grapes a Fall evening in weeks past.
We're watching movies or Fresh Prince or something. We talk and analyze easy things. The kind of conversation that makes us smile and laugh, like which Aunt Vivian we prefer - pre or post Nicky. We have the kind of time one has with "friends" not "classmates" or worse yet, "film student classmates" ...and I'm thankful for this... and I imagine you are too.
We eat raspberries from the container, listen to home-made rap jingles and play silly games like Never Have I Ever, except you and I are the only ones who never have to swig in comparison to the sausage party we've somehow invaded. Later we go for a haunted walk and crave 88 fine Vietnamese Cuisine. We stand in a circle and I look over at you and you're smiling and laughing and comfortable. Maybe you're a little sleepy, but that's nothing new. We feel like kids at moments like this... when we're around them...when we're in this town... perhaps because this is essentially a middle-school Friday night agenda sans TGIF and tear-aways.
I get lost in this thought and I laugh some more. I feel like i'm on an escalator, but really my feet are just numb and there's ice on the asphalt. A moment goes by and I look up and I see that we're not in that ticky-tacky town at all. You're really just sitting in the kitchen drinking NiQuil and inhaling nail polish remover and I'm cooking the same thing I cook every night - angering carnivores everywhere. We are only just reminiscing. The tap is dry and shia's empty and we're antsy for it. I don't know if we want it or need it. Maybe we don't want it at all. Maybe this was all just a fleeting thought pregnant with a snapshot from third year that I had in my own mind?
I wonder sometimes how things could have been different if some "jenk" stuff didn't go down? I can't seem to think of how else to phrase that even though I try my best for mediocre eloquence. I wonder about it and I think you wonder about it too. Once in a while I wish things didn't become so weird... even as much as I dig weird as weird is only but a natural feeling and I take comfort in what is considered "natural." There really isn't an ending for this but I'm ready to move on to my next thought. We can talk more about this later.
part two: "Plaid"
I believe in that worldly adage "United we stand, Divided we fall" which I believe is originally a patriotic song lyric of some sort. But what it stands for is more than often true in work, in love, in family and friends.
They say when you live in the city your friends are your family... but sometimes I can't help but wonder if the value I hold others is nearly equivalent of there value of me. And sometimes, even if it's just for a second I think of the Rose City and if the people there are any different or any better - value me less or more. Then I remember that this is just me over analyzing everything and then I focus again and I feel better. I like to focus and i like to feel control. It improves my mood significantly. I like work too - that helps. I'm somewhat of a workaholic you can say. Yet at the same time, I'd like the freedom of jetting off to Costa Rica or Egypt at a moment's notice. And at the same time I'd like to waste days away sitting under trees reading William Blake and making out... if I remember how, that is.
Anyways, the point is... I can't at this moment jet off... but I will. I once paid a palm reader on the street 15 bucks and she told me I was going to be a "globe-trotter." I believe her even if she was constantly looking over my shoulder for the cops. No matter how far you go...you can always go "home" again... wherever you consider that home to be. Some of us think that if we don't do something now we'll never do it.... and I thank God I was born with the security in myself to know I'm totally not like that.
A game for you to play:
1. Never have I ever: recorded a song about the ozone layer on a Windows 95.
2. Never have I ever: wore spandex bicycle shorts with neon stripes on the side.
3. Never have I ever: danced on a riser at a shkeify bar, while wearing "Gina" earrings.
4. Never have I ever: liked your best-friend.
5. Never have I ever: ate at the Mandarin then got bad in a parked car.
I need some chamomile and a newspaper asap, blogging makes me feel a little silly.
xoLo.
If i were pajamas I would be: man's plaid shirt, tube socks with 2 stripes on the ankle and CK briefs circa 1990.
part one: "Tinsel"
I imagine an evening in his parents' semi-finished basement. We sit on that snake-like couch that fills the entire room, you and me. And the four or five of them are spread around on the rug or wherever. It's Christmas time, so naturally I allow myself to relax... at least in the evenings when i've allotted time for some mindless fun.
The house (which is one of many houses in this elite suburban town that looks just the same as the one next door) is decked with the kind of holiday decor a mom would buy at a craft show. This makes us think of the craft show phase conversation we had while on a walk searching for grapes a Fall evening in weeks past.
We're watching movies or Fresh Prince or something. We talk and analyze easy things. The kind of conversation that makes us smile and laugh, like which Aunt Vivian we prefer - pre or post Nicky. We have the kind of time one has with "friends" not "classmates" or worse yet, "film student classmates" ...and I'm thankful for this... and I imagine you are too.
We eat raspberries from the container, listen to home-made rap jingles and play silly games like Never Have I Ever, except you and I are the only ones who never have to swig in comparison to the sausage party we've somehow invaded. Later we go for a haunted walk and crave 88 fine Vietnamese Cuisine. We stand in a circle and I look over at you and you're smiling and laughing and comfortable. Maybe you're a little sleepy, but that's nothing new. We feel like kids at moments like this... when we're around them...when we're in this town... perhaps because this is essentially a middle-school Friday night agenda sans TGIF and tear-aways.
I get lost in this thought and I laugh some more. I feel like i'm on an escalator, but really my feet are just numb and there's ice on the asphalt. A moment goes by and I look up and I see that we're not in that ticky-tacky town at all. You're really just sitting in the kitchen drinking NiQuil and inhaling nail polish remover and I'm cooking the same thing I cook every night - angering carnivores everywhere. We are only just reminiscing. The tap is dry and shia's empty and we're antsy for it. I don't know if we want it or need it. Maybe we don't want it at all. Maybe this was all just a fleeting thought pregnant with a snapshot from third year that I had in my own mind?
I wonder sometimes how things could have been different if some "jenk" stuff didn't go down? I can't seem to think of how else to phrase that even though I try my best for mediocre eloquence. I wonder about it and I think you wonder about it too. Once in a while I wish things didn't become so weird... even as much as I dig weird as weird is only but a natural feeling and I take comfort in what is considered "natural." There really isn't an ending for this but I'm ready to move on to my next thought. We can talk more about this later.
part two: "Plaid"
I believe in that worldly adage "United we stand, Divided we fall" which I believe is originally a patriotic song lyric of some sort. But what it stands for is more than often true in work, in love, in family and friends.
They say when you live in the city your friends are your family... but sometimes I can't help but wonder if the value I hold others is nearly equivalent of there value of me. And sometimes, even if it's just for a second I think of the Rose City and if the people there are any different or any better - value me less or more. Then I remember that this is just me over analyzing everything and then I focus again and I feel better. I like to focus and i like to feel control. It improves my mood significantly. I like work too - that helps. I'm somewhat of a workaholic you can say. Yet at the same time, I'd like the freedom of jetting off to Costa Rica or Egypt at a moment's notice. And at the same time I'd like to waste days away sitting under trees reading William Blake and making out... if I remember how, that is.
Anyways, the point is... I can't at this moment jet off... but I will. I once paid a palm reader on the street 15 bucks and she told me I was going to be a "globe-trotter." I believe her even if she was constantly looking over my shoulder for the cops. No matter how far you go...you can always go "home" again... wherever you consider that home to be. Some of us think that if we don't do something now we'll never do it.... and I thank God I was born with the security in myself to know I'm totally not like that.
A game for you to play:
1. Never have I ever: recorded a song about the ozone layer on a Windows 95.
2. Never have I ever: wore spandex bicycle shorts with neon stripes on the side.
3. Never have I ever: danced on a riser at a shkeify bar, while wearing "Gina" earrings.
4. Never have I ever: liked your best-friend.
5. Never have I ever: ate at the Mandarin then got bad in a parked car.
I need some chamomile and a newspaper asap, blogging makes me feel a little silly.
xoLo.
If i were pajamas I would be: man's plaid shirt, tube socks with 2 stripes on the ankle and CK briefs circa 1990.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
"Without you, I'm lost and weird."
It all comes down to simple adoration. Simple love, carried out simply. Speechless, thoughtless, untrue and unreal and intangible everywhere but in your bones.
Without you, I'm lost and weird. You make me feel more than normal.
Yours,
Inari
If I were a meat puppet, I would be....Pepperonochio
Without you, I'm lost and weird. You make me feel more than normal.
Yours,
Inari
If I were a meat puppet, I would be....Pepperonochio
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The unmatch’d form & feature of blown Youth, says Ophelia.
From the film, Wonder Boys:
Hannah Green (Katie Holmes): James will know about George Sanders.
James Leer (Tobey Maguire): George Sanders?
Hannah Green: Mr. Crabtree was saying how George Sanders killed himself, only he couldn't remember how.
James Leer: Pills. April 25, 1972, in a Costa Brava hotel room.
Terry Crabtree (Robert Downey, Jr): How comprehensive of you.
Hannah Green: James is amazing. He knows all the movie suicides. Go ahead, James. Tell him.
James Leer: There are so many.
Hannah Green: Well, just a few. The big ones.
James Leer: Pier Angeli, 1971 or '72, also pills. Donald "Red" Barry, shot himself in 1980. Charles Boyer, 1978, pills again. Charles Butterworth, 1946, I think. In a car. Supposedly, it was an accident, but, you know, he was distraught. Dorothy Dandridge, pills, 1965. Albert Dekker, 1968. He hung himself. He wrote his suicide note in lipstick on his stomach. William Inge, carbon monoxide, 1973. Carole Landis, pills again. I forget when. George Reeves, "Superman" on TV, shot himself. Jean Seberg, pills, of course, 1979. Everett Sloane - he was good - pills. Margaret Sullivan, pills. Lupe Velez, a lot of pills. Gig Young, he shot himself and his wife in 1978. There are tons more.
Hannah Green: I haven't heard of half of them.
Terry Crabtree: You did them alphabetically.
James Leer: It's just how my brain works, I guess.
*********************************************************************************
It has been one year since I have been shopping at the Eaton Center. Perhaps I resist what I consider the purposeless voyage to identify myself as a starving artist, or because I’m saving for the future, or that I revel in the pride of a working class upbringing. Or perhaps it is because my relocation to Bloorwest has positioned me closer to the vintage sex that is Kensington market, which I have teased and had many times. And it’s been quite satisfactory.
Or perhaps it’s because I often find money, consumerism and the desire for material possessions symbolic of status and greed, and I say 86 the man. A large fraction of my wardrobe does consist of hand-me-downs from my sister (and I’m not ashamed to admit it), and even items off my good friend the clearance rack.
I’m not (but maybe I have been once) an extravagant spender. However, I have more material items than I want or need. I have a whole chest of dolls and train-sets covered in dust that those kids running the streets of Havana would make of better use. I have a lot of stuff. And my standards of “a lot” are comparable to the societal standard of a lot and my desire for goods technically is not significantly lower than the societal norm. This is all regardless of the fact that the bulk of the ideas I support would be semi-blacklisted given this was the McCarthy era.
So it has been approximately a year since I have been at the Eaton Centre shopping. Almost a year. Which means, I lied on the first line of this thing for impact. I lie sometimes. White lies. Fibs. Exaggerations. Just for something to tell the Priest at Saturday evening confession. Anyways. I finally had the time to venture for a morning-turn afternoon of mindless (but in my case mindful) shopping at Toronto’s most visited tourist attraction, so I went and I shopped.
The main event:
It’s a Thursday and the Center is stocked, decked and bursting at the waist-line with Holiday-themed goods and shoppers. I’m dolled up for the occasion. My face is all painted (make-up - my most obvious vice) and I’m wearing black dress shoes. And to me black dress shoes are synonymous to womanhood – the “dressing like I can afford it” me.
I’m here to purchase a plain, warm fashion boot and generally to absorb and enjoy the newly unpackaged holiday spirit, and the basic catharsis often associated with shopping. These plans were abruptly disrupted and prevented by the yelling mothers, nasty tweens, arrogant store clerks and cheap penny-pushers I was surrounded by. Canadians have a reputation for their good manners. Perhaps all of these people were from out of town?
My biggest mistake however, was my visit to Hollister. But now in retrospect, it is considerably less of an atrocity than it had seemed at the time. I actually uttered the words (in my mind) “Fuck Hollister”, and I don’t like to swear. I was lured in by its high budget art direction and catchy pop soundtrack pounding loud enough to hear a wing away from the actual store. Once inside I felt ambushed by peppy size zero’s and tanned OC wannabes trying to assist in making my Hollister experience a rather “fetch” one. Now, I like a lot of the clothing in Hollister, regardless of their cheap quality and simulated-thrift look. But I just couldn’t handle the cliental it attracts. Perfect-ironed hair, impeccable fake and bake tans and a waist-line the size of an asparagus. And this seemed uniform among the entire herd. No need for school dress codes when uniforms are already self-imposed, and provided by the good bettys and dudes at the Tiki-stand Hollister brand. Maybe I’m jealous of such perfection? But then again, maybe I’m not.
Being in this store reminded me of the evening before when I fell asleep watching the old adaptation of Brave New World 1980. Here, I felt like the Epsilon to the store clerk Alphas. And if Huxley’s world did become our fate, in reality I’d be at least a Beta; so you can imagine the strict regime the Hollister-Abercrombie-American Apparel juggernauts are imposing on today’s malnourished-by-choice youth. “History Is bunk!” I had to get out of there.
After going to 15 different shoe-stores on all 3 floors of the Eaton Center, I find myself wandering around the shoe department in Sears during a 2-hour-only 40% off sale. Celine Dion is roasting chestnuts over the P A system and the aisles are crawling with middle-aged shoppers who aren’t “browsing” but “scouring” for deals as if they were plowing through war wreckage for their missing young. My goodness I feel anxiety among a packed crowd.
I spend 4 and a half minutes staring at the display of ladies’ Isotoner gloves and it takes me into a world all my own. Everyone has disappeared except for me and these gloves. I look down at my hands and think of the hands I haven’t seen for two (this year three) Christmases. How sometimes my hands look like how I remember her hands to look. Skinny with knobby knuckles and dry skin from rinsing out the sink and bathtub with Mr. Clean or Vim. I catch a glimpse of something my own and think it’s hers. Do I see it, or do I just want it, like I want the boots. Exactly 4 and a half minutes go by.
After my daydream bubble pops, I see the boots I came for and grab them off the shelf. A man wearing dockers and a golf shirt approaches me and asks for my thoughts on the footwear I have in hand. He’s looking for his daughter. “For Christmas”, he says. I tell the man I bought the same pair last year, they’re inexpensive, look fine, and do a decent job for the label-less fake UGG that they are. He seems pleased by my sales pitch and picks up a box for his gift-list. That is until I lose control of my lips and tell the man that given the occasion a sandal would be more appropriate. He didn’t get I was referring to the fact that Christmas is Jesus’ birthday. I’m not that funny. I’ve come to accept it.
I manage to slip away from the awkward moment, and I find a quiet space to myself where I pen some thoughts in a notebook and prepare to try on my fake UGGz which are actually “Nevada” brand. God, I can’t believe I’m admitting that. I wore Nevada overalls in elementary school longer than a child should wear such a garment. I try on the boots and notice the lady beside me. She slips a stocking over her age-spotted foot and tries cramming it into a teal stiletto pump. Did I mention she smelled of tuna? This quirky (and kind of disgusting detail) set off my hunger alarm. So I try on the boots, swipe my debit card and motor to the Booster Juice for a large sized carrot juice. I feel good. Satisfied - which is more than I can say for everyone else running laps around me (around this mall) in search of things to fill the emotional wholes inside them. Or perhaps to celebrate a job well done. Either way I feel satisfied and I just want to get out of there and go home, shelve my purchases for those few occasions I go out and see people see me. I want to go home and wash my hands of the greed and rudeness I witnessed in a number of Scrooge-types. I wanted to forget the lack of Christmas spirit and the amount of brain cells I killed in Hollister.
Now, I know I said I’m never at the Eaton Center, and I just ranted about the wasteland of the size-zero marketing targets. But the next day I find myself at the mall again after having breakfast with my brother and his chic.
I’m walking on Yonge along the Santa Clause parade after devouring a mango-banana crepe topped with blueberries (yay anti-oxidants) only to detour through the Bay. On this day I find myself harboring a completely opposing sentiment to the experience the day prior. I took it all in. The Christmas store displays, the smiling faces, the twinkly santa eyes in all the parade-watching children. I was in the Holiday spirit and just wanted to throw dollars to the street. I sprayed my wrist with Chanel #5 and tried on party dresses as if I was in New York City and was actually a social debutante.
I found myself in the men’s department looking at all of the tweed vests, satin ties and feathered fedoras. These vintage pieces remarkably correlate with my recent obsession for Madison Avenue businessmen of the early 60s (brought to 21st century prime-time). But they also remind me so much of my old man back home. How every time I see him he ages more and more. But how he’s still there and will be for a long time. That one day, I will have the success he didn’t and can dress him up in designer threads and feel like I’ve earned it. I refuse to live off credit. And I refuse to live in debt. I value emotion more than dollars. I prefer to hold on to nostalgia than any material good I own.
And with that, I am left wondering how many people in this city will die this holiday, and I hope that they don’t spend that afternoon at the Eaton Center… or God-forbid, in Hollister.
I often contradict myself. This lie is true.
Time for my soma. – That’s better.
- Lo
If I were any Magic School Bus Character I would be: Carmen.
Hannah Green (Katie Holmes): James will know about George Sanders.
James Leer (Tobey Maguire): George Sanders?
Hannah Green: Mr. Crabtree was saying how George Sanders killed himself, only he couldn't remember how.
James Leer: Pills. April 25, 1972, in a Costa Brava hotel room.
Terry Crabtree (Robert Downey, Jr): How comprehensive of you.
Hannah Green: James is amazing. He knows all the movie suicides. Go ahead, James. Tell him.
James Leer: There are so many.
Hannah Green: Well, just a few. The big ones.
James Leer: Pier Angeli, 1971 or '72, also pills. Donald "Red" Barry, shot himself in 1980. Charles Boyer, 1978, pills again. Charles Butterworth, 1946, I think. In a car. Supposedly, it was an accident, but, you know, he was distraught. Dorothy Dandridge, pills, 1965. Albert Dekker, 1968. He hung himself. He wrote his suicide note in lipstick on his stomach. William Inge, carbon monoxide, 1973. Carole Landis, pills again. I forget when. George Reeves, "Superman" on TV, shot himself. Jean Seberg, pills, of course, 1979. Everett Sloane - he was good - pills. Margaret Sullivan, pills. Lupe Velez, a lot of pills. Gig Young, he shot himself and his wife in 1978. There are tons more.
Hannah Green: I haven't heard of half of them.
Terry Crabtree: You did them alphabetically.
James Leer: It's just how my brain works, I guess.
*********************************************************************************
It has been one year since I have been shopping at the Eaton Center. Perhaps I resist what I consider the purposeless voyage to identify myself as a starving artist, or because I’m saving for the future, or that I revel in the pride of a working class upbringing. Or perhaps it is because my relocation to Bloorwest has positioned me closer to the vintage sex that is Kensington market, which I have teased and had many times. And it’s been quite satisfactory.
Or perhaps it’s because I often find money, consumerism and the desire for material possessions symbolic of status and greed, and I say 86 the man. A large fraction of my wardrobe does consist of hand-me-downs from my sister (and I’m not ashamed to admit it), and even items off my good friend the clearance rack.
I’m not (but maybe I have been once) an extravagant spender. However, I have more material items than I want or need. I have a whole chest of dolls and train-sets covered in dust that those kids running the streets of Havana would make of better use. I have a lot of stuff. And my standards of “a lot” are comparable to the societal standard of a lot and my desire for goods technically is not significantly lower than the societal norm. This is all regardless of the fact that the bulk of the ideas I support would be semi-blacklisted given this was the McCarthy era.
So it has been approximately a year since I have been at the Eaton Centre shopping. Almost a year. Which means, I lied on the first line of this thing for impact. I lie sometimes. White lies. Fibs. Exaggerations. Just for something to tell the Priest at Saturday evening confession. Anyways. I finally had the time to venture for a morning-turn afternoon of mindless (but in my case mindful) shopping at Toronto’s most visited tourist attraction, so I went and I shopped.
The main event:
It’s a Thursday and the Center is stocked, decked and bursting at the waist-line with Holiday-themed goods and shoppers. I’m dolled up for the occasion. My face is all painted (make-up - my most obvious vice) and I’m wearing black dress shoes. And to me black dress shoes are synonymous to womanhood – the “dressing like I can afford it” me.
I’m here to purchase a plain, warm fashion boot and generally to absorb and enjoy the newly unpackaged holiday spirit, and the basic catharsis often associated with shopping. These plans were abruptly disrupted and prevented by the yelling mothers, nasty tweens, arrogant store clerks and cheap penny-pushers I was surrounded by. Canadians have a reputation for their good manners. Perhaps all of these people were from out of town?
My biggest mistake however, was my visit to Hollister. But now in retrospect, it is considerably less of an atrocity than it had seemed at the time. I actually uttered the words (in my mind) “Fuck Hollister”, and I don’t like to swear. I was lured in by its high budget art direction and catchy pop soundtrack pounding loud enough to hear a wing away from the actual store. Once inside I felt ambushed by peppy size zero’s and tanned OC wannabes trying to assist in making my Hollister experience a rather “fetch” one. Now, I like a lot of the clothing in Hollister, regardless of their cheap quality and simulated-thrift look. But I just couldn’t handle the cliental it attracts. Perfect-ironed hair, impeccable fake and bake tans and a waist-line the size of an asparagus. And this seemed uniform among the entire herd. No need for school dress codes when uniforms are already self-imposed, and provided by the good bettys and dudes at the Tiki-stand Hollister brand. Maybe I’m jealous of such perfection? But then again, maybe I’m not.
Being in this store reminded me of the evening before when I fell asleep watching the old adaptation of Brave New World 1980. Here, I felt like the Epsilon to the store clerk Alphas. And if Huxley’s world did become our fate, in reality I’d be at least a Beta; so you can imagine the strict regime the Hollister-Abercrombie-American Apparel juggernauts are imposing on today’s malnourished-by-choice youth. “History Is bunk!” I had to get out of there.
After going to 15 different shoe-stores on all 3 floors of the Eaton Center, I find myself wandering around the shoe department in Sears during a 2-hour-only 40% off sale. Celine Dion is roasting chestnuts over the P A system and the aisles are crawling with middle-aged shoppers who aren’t “browsing” but “scouring” for deals as if they were plowing through war wreckage for their missing young. My goodness I feel anxiety among a packed crowd.
I spend 4 and a half minutes staring at the display of ladies’ Isotoner gloves and it takes me into a world all my own. Everyone has disappeared except for me and these gloves. I look down at my hands and think of the hands I haven’t seen for two (this year three) Christmases. How sometimes my hands look like how I remember her hands to look. Skinny with knobby knuckles and dry skin from rinsing out the sink and bathtub with Mr. Clean or Vim. I catch a glimpse of something my own and think it’s hers. Do I see it, or do I just want it, like I want the boots. Exactly 4 and a half minutes go by.
After my daydream bubble pops, I see the boots I came for and grab them off the shelf. A man wearing dockers and a golf shirt approaches me and asks for my thoughts on the footwear I have in hand. He’s looking for his daughter. “For Christmas”, he says. I tell the man I bought the same pair last year, they’re inexpensive, look fine, and do a decent job for the label-less fake UGG that they are. He seems pleased by my sales pitch and picks up a box for his gift-list. That is until I lose control of my lips and tell the man that given the occasion a sandal would be more appropriate. He didn’t get I was referring to the fact that Christmas is Jesus’ birthday. I’m not that funny. I’ve come to accept it.
I manage to slip away from the awkward moment, and I find a quiet space to myself where I pen some thoughts in a notebook and prepare to try on my fake UGGz which are actually “Nevada” brand. God, I can’t believe I’m admitting that. I wore Nevada overalls in elementary school longer than a child should wear such a garment. I try on the boots and notice the lady beside me. She slips a stocking over her age-spotted foot and tries cramming it into a teal stiletto pump. Did I mention she smelled of tuna? This quirky (and kind of disgusting detail) set off my hunger alarm. So I try on the boots, swipe my debit card and motor to the Booster Juice for a large sized carrot juice. I feel good. Satisfied - which is more than I can say for everyone else running laps around me (around this mall) in search of things to fill the emotional wholes inside them. Or perhaps to celebrate a job well done. Either way I feel satisfied and I just want to get out of there and go home, shelve my purchases for those few occasions I go out and see people see me. I want to go home and wash my hands of the greed and rudeness I witnessed in a number of Scrooge-types. I wanted to forget the lack of Christmas spirit and the amount of brain cells I killed in Hollister.
Now, I know I said I’m never at the Eaton Center, and I just ranted about the wasteland of the size-zero marketing targets. But the next day I find myself at the mall again after having breakfast with my brother and his chic.
I’m walking on Yonge along the Santa Clause parade after devouring a mango-banana crepe topped with blueberries (yay anti-oxidants) only to detour through the Bay. On this day I find myself harboring a completely opposing sentiment to the experience the day prior. I took it all in. The Christmas store displays, the smiling faces, the twinkly santa eyes in all the parade-watching children. I was in the Holiday spirit and just wanted to throw dollars to the street. I sprayed my wrist with Chanel #5 and tried on party dresses as if I was in New York City and was actually a social debutante.
I found myself in the men’s department looking at all of the tweed vests, satin ties and feathered fedoras. These vintage pieces remarkably correlate with my recent obsession for Madison Avenue businessmen of the early 60s (brought to 21st century prime-time). But they also remind me so much of my old man back home. How every time I see him he ages more and more. But how he’s still there and will be for a long time. That one day, I will have the success he didn’t and can dress him up in designer threads and feel like I’ve earned it. I refuse to live off credit. And I refuse to live in debt. I value emotion more than dollars. I prefer to hold on to nostalgia than any material good I own.
And with that, I am left wondering how many people in this city will die this holiday, and I hope that they don’t spend that afternoon at the Eaton Center… or God-forbid, in Hollister.
I often contradict myself. This lie is true.
Time for my soma. – That’s better.
- Lo
If I were any Magic School Bus Character I would be: Carmen.
Monday, November 17, 2008
The world is quiet here
"Two paradoxical things are happening at the same time: On one hand, mass media generates a monoculture, so the structure of existence becomes identical (regardless of geography). People in Clear Lake, Iowa suddenly have the same general worldview and experience as people in Santa Fe and Miami and Fargo. However, the acceleration and splintering of media destroys the potential for cultural universals. There are fewer and fewer specific cultural touchstones that every member a certain generation shares simultaneously (Johnny Carson, Led Zeppelin, “Jaws,” etc.). As a result, people end up feeling alienated by their own normalcy; they feel lonely within a crowd. And this is a huge cultural problem."
-Chuck Klosterman
Would it be pointing out the obvious to note the uneasy silence of a morning-rush subway car? I decided to turn off my audio book so I can make witty observations on commuter life and I am met...with nothing. Literally...NOTHING. All these people and the only sign of human life is a heavily muffled Pink Floyd song from some dude's earbuds. If I were in my drama-queen-Richard-Linklater mood, I would say that this silence disturbed me to my very soul and I feel completely alienated by a society that discourages human contact in favour of single-serving existences enforced by invisible walls forming invisible cubicles. But I'm not. I turned on my audio book.
I fucking love Mondays.
Phlegmatically yours,
Inari
If I were a subculture mix-breed, I would be....Mormon Sk8tr Punk
-Chuck Klosterman
Would it be pointing out the obvious to note the uneasy silence of a morning-rush subway car? I decided to turn off my audio book so I can make witty observations on commuter life and I am met...with nothing. Literally...NOTHING. All these people and the only sign of human life is a heavily muffled Pink Floyd song from some dude's earbuds. If I were in my drama-queen-Richard-Linklater mood, I would say that this silence disturbed me to my very soul and I feel completely alienated by a society that discourages human contact in favour of single-serving existences enforced by invisible walls forming invisible cubicles. But I'm not. I turned on my audio book.
I fucking love Mondays.
Phlegmatically yours,
Inari
If I were a subculture mix-breed, I would be....Mormon Sk8tr Punk
Thursday, November 13, 2008
7:49 p.m.
I've been wearing my glasses as of late and they make me look like a hipster intellectual, which is good, but they give me awful headaches, which is bad. Not that it matters because I get pretty bad headaches anyway because of the stress, which is worse. What if I have a brain tumor? I'm not a hypochondriac, I just worry. I don't think it's a tumor because I hardly use my cell phone (were those studies ever conclusive? Did I ever read those studies? Were there studies conducted?) Apparently I'm notorious for not picking up my phone. It's just because I'm bad with them. Telephones, I mean. It's just such an awkward way to talk to someone. How can you have a comfortable silence on a phone? A conversation without a comfortable silence is no conversation at all...it's just chatter.
Adele says that I might be unhappy because I'm surrounded by friends who make me feel like an outsider. I think she has a point. I often choose friends who are different from me and I always get a strange satisfaction from being on the outside of the action. "But," she said "that gets old, fast." And it's true. It does. The thing is, I still like them. Hell, I still love some of them. But they hurt me and they keep hurting me. I'm not good at severing ties. I'm only good at letting them dissolve.
I'm listening to 'Empty Houses Are Lonely' and I want to move to North Dakota. What is with North Dakota and its population of extremely cool people? Ok, so I only know of Tom Brosseau and Chuck Klosterman, but their coolness outweighs the fact that there are only two of them. Besides, what is the population of North Dakota? Like, 80? Sweet monkeys. I didn't mean that to disrespect North Dakota. I think I read on Wikipedia that it has one of the lowest population densities of any of the states. It's all fact, I swear.
I just want to sleep and sleep and sleep and never wake up. I feel like an old lady. No, I feel like I did when I was in the hospital, only it doesn't hurt as much to bend. Maybe the early sunsets are messing up my internal clock. Maybe I'm a narcoleptic (I'm not a hypochondriac, I just worry). I should stop. I'm going to lie down.
Soporifically yours,
Inari
If I were a pantry item, I would be....a half-eaten jar of Nutella.
Adele says that I might be unhappy because I'm surrounded by friends who make me feel like an outsider. I think she has a point. I often choose friends who are different from me and I always get a strange satisfaction from being on the outside of the action. "But," she said "that gets old, fast." And it's true. It does. The thing is, I still like them. Hell, I still love some of them. But they hurt me and they keep hurting me. I'm not good at severing ties. I'm only good at letting them dissolve.
I'm listening to 'Empty Houses Are Lonely' and I want to move to North Dakota. What is with North Dakota and its population of extremely cool people? Ok, so I only know of Tom Brosseau and Chuck Klosterman, but their coolness outweighs the fact that there are only two of them. Besides, what is the population of North Dakota? Like, 80? Sweet monkeys. I didn't mean that to disrespect North Dakota. I think I read on Wikipedia that it has one of the lowest population densities of any of the states. It's all fact, I swear.
I just want to sleep and sleep and sleep and never wake up. I feel like an old lady. No, I feel like I did when I was in the hospital, only it doesn't hurt as much to bend. Maybe the early sunsets are messing up my internal clock. Maybe I'm a narcoleptic (I'm not a hypochondriac, I just worry). I should stop. I'm going to lie down.
Soporifically yours,
Inari
If I were a pantry item, I would be....a half-eaten jar of Nutella.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Wartime Stories:"close your eyes. and open your heart."
I have a pen pal. Someone I hardly know but care very much about and I know he cares about me too. Last night I spent 2 hours just writing page after cathartic, existential page of words to him catching him up on my life and state of mind as it stands. The most striking part of his letter to me (to which I was responding) was a very simple question...
"Lo, what are you most thankful for this year?"
I didn't even have to think or blink an eye. I am thankful for everything. The good, the bad and the ugly. But especially for my bestfriends & sisters.
I would like to take a moment and give a special thanks to 3 important gems in my life. Desiree, Inari & Roxy.
You are the most beautiful women to me. I learn so much from each of you.
I would like to congratulate Des on her film shoot. Babe you did it and you did it looking sexy. All of that hard work pays off in the end. I am so impressed by your burst of confidence over these past few months. You belong with those Flirty Girls and don't ever forget that. I’ll always remember one of our first drunken nights together you said to me (while shaking your finger between the two of us all drunkenly beautiful): “we’re connected. Me and you.” You may not remember this… but I do… because we are. Us living together… is no fleeting chance happening.
Rox. It’s your convocation today and although none of us are there in the audience… at least mom is and that’s all that matters. Congratulations on your Masters. Let’s celebrate on an island with dirty martinis (for you) and shots of tequilia (for me). Remember money is meaningless, memories are treasures.
On Monday November 10 it is Inari’s 21st birthday. The last of the sexless to turn the 2 and 1. She already knows it will be one melancholic trip, as it recently has been for us both. We are in Limbo but remember… the longer we sleep, the more chance we get to dream. Life will be so much sweeter, after the wait. Trust me. That’s all I ask. There is no tragedy that is without its share of humor. Without irony there is no life.
Thank you.
Peace & Love… LO….Xoxo
If I was a wartime story I would be: a battle-wound.
"All that you see or seem,
is but a dream within a dream."
Edgar Allan Poe
Monday, November 3, 2008
I'm a Rainbow in your Jail cell... Beware of the percussionists
Sometimes, no matter how much it looks like a person changes they're still the fat kid with the big mouth who hurled all over the bleachers at the Main Arena.
The one who always played the Yoshi to some other chic's Princess Toadstool. Who danced around to her brother's Duderanch and sublime and went as a pumpkin for Halloween not a stripper version of a dental hygienist (not that I'm placing judgment). The one who never had a date to prom but it didn't really matter because the guy I liked didn't either...
And yet, however trivial these observations and self-reflections, it's like I'm the only one not in highschool anymore from my hometown. Everyone still hangs out with the same friends, and date the same people (and then rotate within the group when it seems necessary). Inbred, I know.
No matter how much has changed and how well I do in the Big City, I'm still that fat girl with glasses who does her homework and enjoys it and everyone else is the rock star.
When a person is romantically-jaded they have become that way for a good reason. Now I haven't thought about you for quite sometime, but when you re-emerge I can't help but think you were the last person I had a genuine crush on. Even if you were some burn-out from high school whose number is probably 64. God. The very thought kinda makes me wanna upchuck.
It all started because a friend mentioned you the other day and then you popped up in my dream last night which was so weird. We found ourselves alone in a kitchen. We were at a houseparty, typical of our hometown. You were just about to say something but then your cell-phone rang... which happened to be my alarm clock as well. I woke up. Got my self a peach from the fridge and watched a little Freaks & Geeks. It put me at ease just a little... until i realized it was the episode when Lindsey hooks up with the babe drummer. Beware of the percussion.
I don't really know what you are up to now, or if I ever even once crossed your mind as someone you even considered a friend. Based on your former and latter significant others, I doubt you were into my looks... but I thought maybe by some small chance you were more than that... God you're such a douche. I don't even care. But I do. I'm a friggin walking contradiction. Always and with everything.
Moreover, everyone else who has ever come along. I'm sorry. Do us both a favor and move on because I'll get bored and won't care because this last crush left me kind of jaded. On top of it all, I'm way too self-righteous and so goddamn apathetic towards relationships it's unbelievable.
Anyways. I'm gonna get back to working on my feature script. But I leave you with two songs that remind me of you. Or "him" rather because I imagine he would never ever read this and know I was talking about him...
1.
Hello
I've waited here for you
Everlong
Tonight
I throw myself into
And out of the red, out of her head she sang
Come down
And waste away with me
Down with me
Slow how
You wanted it to be
I'm over my head, out of her head she sang
Chorus-
And I wonder
When I sing along with you
If everything could ever feel this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again
The only thing I'll ever ask of you
You've got to promise not to stop when I say when
She sang
Verse 2-
Breathe out
So I could breathe you in
Hold you in
And now
I know you've always been
Out of your head, out of my head I sang
Chorus-
And I wonder
When I sing along with you
If everything could ever feel this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again
The only thing I'll ever ask of you
You've got to promise not to stop when I say when
She sang
Chorus-
And I wonder
If everything could ever feel this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again
The only thing I'll ever ask of you
You've got to promise not to stop when I say when
She sang
2.
Im an ocean in your bedroom
Make you feel warm
Make you want to re-assume
Now we know it all for sure
Im a dance hall dirty breakbeat
Make the snow fall
Up from underneath your feet
Not alone, Ill be there
Tell me when you want to go
Im a meth lab first rehab
Take it all off
And step inside the running cab
Theres a love that knows the way
Im the rainbow in your jail cell
All the memories of
Everything youve ever smelled
Not alone, Ill be there
Tell me when you want to go
Sideways falling
More will be revealed my friend
Dont forget me
I cant hide it
Come again make me excited
Im an inbred and a pothead
Two legs that you spread
Inside the tool shed
Now we know it all for sure
I could show you
To the free field
Overcome and more
Will always be revealed
Not alone, Ill be there
Tell me when you want to go
Sideways falling
More will be revealed my friend
Dont forget me
I cant hide it
Come again get me excited
Im the bloodstain
On your shirt sleeve
Coming down and more are coming to believe
Now we know it all for sure
Make the hair stand
Up on your arm
Teach you how to dance
Inside the funny farm
Not alone, Ill be there
Tell me when you want to go
xoxo - LO
ps. If I was any Scorsese flick i would be: Taxi Driver.
The one who always played the Yoshi to some other chic's Princess Toadstool. Who danced around to her brother's Duderanch and sublime and went as a pumpkin for Halloween not a stripper version of a dental hygienist (not that I'm placing judgment). The one who never had a date to prom but it didn't really matter because the guy I liked didn't either...
And yet, however trivial these observations and self-reflections, it's like I'm the only one not in highschool anymore from my hometown. Everyone still hangs out with the same friends, and date the same people (and then rotate within the group when it seems necessary). Inbred, I know.
No matter how much has changed and how well I do in the Big City, I'm still that fat girl with glasses who does her homework and enjoys it and everyone else is the rock star.
When a person is romantically-jaded they have become that way for a good reason. Now I haven't thought about you for quite sometime, but when you re-emerge I can't help but think you were the last person I had a genuine crush on. Even if you were some burn-out from high school whose number is probably 64. God. The very thought kinda makes me wanna upchuck.
It all started because a friend mentioned you the other day and then you popped up in my dream last night which was so weird. We found ourselves alone in a kitchen. We were at a houseparty, typical of our hometown. You were just about to say something but then your cell-phone rang... which happened to be my alarm clock as well. I woke up. Got my self a peach from the fridge and watched a little Freaks & Geeks. It put me at ease just a little... until i realized it was the episode when Lindsey hooks up with the babe drummer. Beware of the percussion.
I don't really know what you are up to now, or if I ever even once crossed your mind as someone you even considered a friend. Based on your former and latter significant others, I doubt you were into my looks... but I thought maybe by some small chance you were more than that... God you're such a douche. I don't even care. But I do. I'm a friggin walking contradiction. Always and with everything.
Moreover, everyone else who has ever come along. I'm sorry. Do us both a favor and move on because I'll get bored and won't care because this last crush left me kind of jaded. On top of it all, I'm way too self-righteous and so goddamn apathetic towards relationships it's unbelievable.
Anyways. I'm gonna get back to working on my feature script. But I leave you with two songs that remind me of you. Or "him" rather because I imagine he would never ever read this and know I was talking about him...
1.
Hello
I've waited here for you
Everlong
Tonight
I throw myself into
And out of the red, out of her head she sang
Come down
And waste away with me
Down with me
Slow how
You wanted it to be
I'm over my head, out of her head she sang
Chorus-
And I wonder
When I sing along with you
If everything could ever feel this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again
The only thing I'll ever ask of you
You've got to promise not to stop when I say when
She sang
Verse 2-
Breathe out
So I could breathe you in
Hold you in
And now
I know you've always been
Out of your head, out of my head I sang
Chorus-
And I wonder
When I sing along with you
If everything could ever feel this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again
The only thing I'll ever ask of you
You've got to promise not to stop when I say when
She sang
Chorus-
And I wonder
If everything could ever feel this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again
The only thing I'll ever ask of you
You've got to promise not to stop when I say when
She sang
2.
Im an ocean in your bedroom
Make you feel warm
Make you want to re-assume
Now we know it all for sure
Im a dance hall dirty breakbeat
Make the snow fall
Up from underneath your feet
Not alone, Ill be there
Tell me when you want to go
Im a meth lab first rehab
Take it all off
And step inside the running cab
Theres a love that knows the way
Im the rainbow in your jail cell
All the memories of
Everything youve ever smelled
Not alone, Ill be there
Tell me when you want to go
Sideways falling
More will be revealed my friend
Dont forget me
I cant hide it
Come again make me excited
Im an inbred and a pothead
Two legs that you spread
Inside the tool shed
Now we know it all for sure
I could show you
To the free field
Overcome and more
Will always be revealed
Not alone, Ill be there
Tell me when you want to go
Sideways falling
More will be revealed my friend
Dont forget me
I cant hide it
Come again get me excited
Im the bloodstain
On your shirt sleeve
Coming down and more are coming to believe
Now we know it all for sure
Make the hair stand
Up on your arm
Teach you how to dance
Inside the funny farm
Not alone, Ill be there
Tell me when you want to go
xoxo - LO
ps. If I was any Scorsese flick i would be: Taxi Driver.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
the saddest song in the shape of a woman
I'd like to share these lyrics. If you, like me, like to listen to angsty music - the kind where you just feel the heart and body yearning... i recommend bright eyes. here's a taste.
the Perfect Sonnet:
Lately I've been wishing I had one desire
Something that would make me never want another
Something that would make it so that nothing mattered
All would be clear then
But I guess I'll have to settle for a few brief moments
And watch it all dissolve into a single second
And try to write it down into a perfect sonnet
or one foolish line
'Cause that's all that you'll get so you'll have to accept
You are here then you're gone
But I believe that lovers should be tied together and
Thrown into the ocean in the worst of weather
and left there to drown
Left there to drown in their innocence
But as for me I'm coming to the final chapter
I read all of the pages and there is still no answer
Only all that was before I know must soon come after
That is the only way it can be
So I stand in the sun
And I breathe with my lungs
Trying to spare me the weight of the truth
Saying everything you've ever seen was just a mirror
And you've spent your whole life sweating in an endless fever
And now you are laying in a bathtub full of freezing water
Wishing you were a ghost
But once you knew a girl and you named her Lover
And danced with her in kitchens through the greenest summer
But autumn came, She disappeared
You can't remember where she said she was going to
But you know that she's gone 'cause she left you a song
That you don't want to sing
We're singing I believe that lovers should be chained together
And thrown into a fire with their songs and letters
And left there to burn
Left there to burn in their arrogance
But as for me I'm coming to my final failure
I've killed myself with changes trying to make things better
But I ended up becoming something other than what I had planned to be
Now I believe that lovers should be draped in flowers
And layed entwined together on a bed of clover
And left there to sleep
Left there to dream of their happiness
xo LO.
ps if i were a love song i would be "leaving on a jet plane."
the Perfect Sonnet:
Lately I've been wishing I had one desire
Something that would make me never want another
Something that would make it so that nothing mattered
All would be clear then
But I guess I'll have to settle for a few brief moments
And watch it all dissolve into a single second
And try to write it down into a perfect sonnet
or one foolish line
'Cause that's all that you'll get so you'll have to accept
You are here then you're gone
But I believe that lovers should be tied together and
Thrown into the ocean in the worst of weather
and left there to drown
Left there to drown in their innocence
But as for me I'm coming to the final chapter
I read all of the pages and there is still no answer
Only all that was before I know must soon come after
That is the only way it can be
So I stand in the sun
And I breathe with my lungs
Trying to spare me the weight of the truth
Saying everything you've ever seen was just a mirror
And you've spent your whole life sweating in an endless fever
And now you are laying in a bathtub full of freezing water
Wishing you were a ghost
But once you knew a girl and you named her Lover
And danced with her in kitchens through the greenest summer
But autumn came, She disappeared
You can't remember where she said she was going to
But you know that she's gone 'cause she left you a song
That you don't want to sing
We're singing I believe that lovers should be chained together
And thrown into a fire with their songs and letters
And left there to burn
Left there to burn in their arrogance
But as for me I'm coming to my final failure
I've killed myself with changes trying to make things better
But I ended up becoming something other than what I had planned to be
Now I believe that lovers should be draped in flowers
And layed entwined together on a bed of clover
And left there to sleep
Left there to dream of their happiness
xo LO.
ps if i were a love song i would be "leaving on a jet plane."
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Bat shit crazies
There is a mouse in my room.
Colour me unimpressed.
If I really wanted to, I'd use this mouse as a metaphor for everything that's pissing me off right now: small, invisible, hiding itself amongst all the books and movies and distracting crap I keep crammed in my room, robbing me of sleep and unsettling me just because I know it exists. I haven't seen the sonofabitch yet, so that adds to its insidiousness. I don't know if I'm afraid of mice, but I don't like the idea of someone living in my space, someone freeloading off my rent, without my permission.
As a metaphor, it upsets me. As vermin, it annoys me. Either way, I'll kill the fucker if it ever comes out. My policy on pest: Zero Tolerance.
Exterminatingly-yours,
Inari
If I were an animated cat, I would be...Dragon, from The Secret of NIMH. The one who ate Mrs. Brisby's husband.
Colour me unimpressed.
If I really wanted to, I'd use this mouse as a metaphor for everything that's pissing me off right now: small, invisible, hiding itself amongst all the books and movies and distracting crap I keep crammed in my room, robbing me of sleep and unsettling me just because I know it exists. I haven't seen the sonofabitch yet, so that adds to its insidiousness. I don't know if I'm afraid of mice, but I don't like the idea of someone living in my space, someone freeloading off my rent, without my permission.
As a metaphor, it upsets me. As vermin, it annoys me. Either way, I'll kill the fucker if it ever comes out. My policy on pest: Zero Tolerance.
Exterminatingly-yours,
Inari
If I were an animated cat, I would be...Dragon, from The Secret of NIMH. The one who ate Mrs. Brisby's husband.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Deep End Diving
I'm exhausted which means I'm in the perfect frame of mind to blog.
So if there's one thing I've learned from three years of film school and countless sleepless nights on sets is that the biggest favour you can do for yourself is to just own up to your ignorance and not give a fuck. I figure, it's pretty inescapable...I'm never not going to know something and the fact that I don't know these things usually doesn't say anything about me except that I'm inexperienced, which is probably the best shoe-fitting definition of who I am. I'm young, inexperienced and full of desire to learn and experience as much as possible in as little time as possible. That said, this experience still hurts and it still sucks and it makes me want to just go home and blog and eat chocolate cake with whipped cream which is exactly what I'm doing right now.
I am so tired. And I can't stop thinking about how much I miss him. And how long it's taken for me to realize just how much of him I've lost. God, I get so angry sometimes.
Exhaustingly yours,
Inari
If I were inappropriate film innuendo, I would be..."Dolly in."
So if there's one thing I've learned from three years of film school and countless sleepless nights on sets is that the biggest favour you can do for yourself is to just own up to your ignorance and not give a fuck. I figure, it's pretty inescapable...I'm never not going to know something and the fact that I don't know these things usually doesn't say anything about me except that I'm inexperienced, which is probably the best shoe-fitting definition of who I am. I'm young, inexperienced and full of desire to learn and experience as much as possible in as little time as possible. That said, this experience still hurts and it still sucks and it makes me want to just go home and blog and eat chocolate cake with whipped cream which is exactly what I'm doing right now.
I am so tired. And I can't stop thinking about how much I miss him. And how long it's taken for me to realize just how much of him I've lost. God, I get so angry sometimes.
Exhaustingly yours,
Inari
If I were inappropriate film innuendo, I would be..."Dolly in."
Monday, September 22, 2008
when i was 5 i was a bunny with a fat lip
“My favorite review described me as the cinematic equivalent of junk mail.”
It's a mad house.
We're all super busy.
So. I'll be brief.
I live for this rush.
I'm only 20 for 3 more days.
I love to write. I love what I'm writing and think about it all
the time. I talk to the dead about it. It helps.
I feel that already this is probably the best week of September.
The weekend was meaningful. And this coming weekend will be
even moreso. I want there to be lots of kissing... but not
involving me. I wish to be a spectator and commentator
but not an actor in the sensation.
I'm living off of the energy from my acting class this morning
and my memories of past autumns. of your apple pie.
of my - "im a funny girl phase".
i miss that phase. I want to be joe pesci in Goodfellas.
do I amuse you? im funny?
My fingers hurt but I can't wait to touch my cello strings.
I seriously am in love with Mary Louise Parker
and wish i wrote WEEDS.
I am surrounded by sexy women and love it.
(shout out to my roomies , my sister and homegirls o and my
regular hooker. (all my bests in one big bannana boat bowl
of Thumbs Up Korean for a cool 5.95.)
My head feels light and airy.
I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders
or is slowly lifting up.
Thank you for one of th most life-changing and life shaping years.
It was brilliant.
I feel alive. And that's all I've really wanted since the day i died.
xo
Lo is HIGH.
ps. If I were halloween treats I would be:
- the house that gives the orange, can of RC cola, rockets and a halloween
pencil with a black tip. o how i miss trick or treating on walts street
Steve Buscemi
It's a mad house.
We're all super busy.
So. I'll be brief.
I live for this rush.
I'm only 20 for 3 more days.
I love to write. I love what I'm writing and think about it all
the time. I talk to the dead about it. It helps.
I feel that already this is probably the best week of September.
The weekend was meaningful. And this coming weekend will be
even moreso. I want there to be lots of kissing... but not
involving me. I wish to be a spectator and commentator
but not an actor in the sensation.
I'm living off of the energy from my acting class this morning
and my memories of past autumns. of your apple pie.
of my - "im a funny girl phase".
i miss that phase. I want to be joe pesci in Goodfellas.
do I amuse you? im funny?
My fingers hurt but I can't wait to touch my cello strings.
I seriously am in love with Mary Louise Parker
and wish i wrote WEEDS.
I am surrounded by sexy women and love it.
(shout out to my roomies , my sister and homegirls o and my
regular hooker. (all my bests in one big bannana boat bowl
of Thumbs Up Korean for a cool 5.95.)
My head feels light and airy.
I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders
or is slowly lifting up.
Thank you for one of th most life-changing and life shaping years.
It was brilliant.
I feel alive. And that's all I've really wanted since the day i died.
xo
Lo is HIGH.
ps. If I were halloween treats I would be:
- the house that gives the orange, can of RC cola, rockets and a halloween
pencil with a black tip. o how i miss trick or treating on walts street
Steve Buscemi
Monday, September 1, 2008
Singapore Sling
Chapter One
They say there are two sides to every story. I agree with “them” who ever they may be - assuming “they” is actually a small and highly secure unit that controls and directs the tides of popular culture. I also assume that “they” were born in bland business suits and use a profuse amount of Depp styling products, all the while planting such all-purpose universally recognized truths and idioms within society for the masses to adopt, and later reference at their convenience (like I am doing right now.)
I argue however that there are more than two sides to every story given the obvious factor that a “story” usually involves a number of characters each with their own set of experiences resulting in burgeoning stories that shoot off of the main branch. “Spin-offs” one might identify them as. A story can also focus around a single event that affects a group of characters related or otherwise. This single event may be one individual’s experience, but in turn stirs the pot of so many people’s daily grind. Explicably becoming a smorgasbord of story as opposed to one serving of a single dish from one restaurateur.
A woman gets cancer for the second time. This time however she does not respond to any of her treatments and thus lies in a hospital bed on New Years Eve hooked to an IV drip, eyes half closed, jaundice skin the color of squash and sunken cheek bones that remind her youngest daughter of the animated crypt keeper from the YTV television series she watched as a child.
This woman is surrounded by the closest members in her family, all paying hyper attention to the sound of her breaths, the acute rise of her tummy up and down -- the slightest pause making each of their hearts skip a beat, sometimes in unison. At this point the members of the woman’s family present, are all dumbfounded by the mystery of life, death and the lottery of disease -- lost in the silence of thought, memory, prayer, all of which are too ideal for the current and seemingly expected inevitable dooms of the woman’s ill-fated reality.
The heart rate monitor beeps.
The woman’s youngest daughter rests her head against the woman’s chest, feeling the bump of the mastectomy scar from 9 years earlier through the thinning fabric of a hospital gown washed a batch too many. She hums Day Dream Believer by the Monkeys as finally, the woman’s body succumbs to the evil unknown invading her cells, traveling her veins – reaping her of her old age, her motherhood, her every last desire on Earth that could have been (should have been), and catapulting her into an entirely separate unknown. This unknown being the second of two sides to this woman’s story. The story that ensues while on the “other side.” Hence there are two standard sides of one person’s being. One while alive on Earth and one that carries on after that person has passed on to whatever and wherever the other side may be. In any case, after the woman passes on, her being perpetually affects and crafts the stories of all those she touched as she goes on to live inside the hearts of each of them all at varying degrees but really to a fucking immeasurable level.
Chapter Two
This is not the woman’s story. This is the result of the woman’s story on her youngest daughter’s being – whom of which just happens to be me.
Cocktail anyone?
xoLO
They say there are two sides to every story. I agree with “them” who ever they may be - assuming “they” is actually a small and highly secure unit that controls and directs the tides of popular culture. I also assume that “they” were born in bland business suits and use a profuse amount of Depp styling products, all the while planting such all-purpose universally recognized truths and idioms within society for the masses to adopt, and later reference at their convenience (like I am doing right now.)
I argue however that there are more than two sides to every story given the obvious factor that a “story” usually involves a number of characters each with their own set of experiences resulting in burgeoning stories that shoot off of the main branch. “Spin-offs” one might identify them as. A story can also focus around a single event that affects a group of characters related or otherwise. This single event may be one individual’s experience, but in turn stirs the pot of so many people’s daily grind. Explicably becoming a smorgasbord of story as opposed to one serving of a single dish from one restaurateur.
A woman gets cancer for the second time. This time however she does not respond to any of her treatments and thus lies in a hospital bed on New Years Eve hooked to an IV drip, eyes half closed, jaundice skin the color of squash and sunken cheek bones that remind her youngest daughter of the animated crypt keeper from the YTV television series she watched as a child.
This woman is surrounded by the closest members in her family, all paying hyper attention to the sound of her breaths, the acute rise of her tummy up and down -- the slightest pause making each of their hearts skip a beat, sometimes in unison. At this point the members of the woman’s family present, are all dumbfounded by the mystery of life, death and the lottery of disease -- lost in the silence of thought, memory, prayer, all of which are too ideal for the current and seemingly expected inevitable dooms of the woman’s ill-fated reality.
The heart rate monitor beeps.
The woman’s youngest daughter rests her head against the woman’s chest, feeling the bump of the mastectomy scar from 9 years earlier through the thinning fabric of a hospital gown washed a batch too many. She hums Day Dream Believer by the Monkeys as finally, the woman’s body succumbs to the evil unknown invading her cells, traveling her veins – reaping her of her old age, her motherhood, her every last desire on Earth that could have been (should have been), and catapulting her into an entirely separate unknown. This unknown being the second of two sides to this woman’s story. The story that ensues while on the “other side.” Hence there are two standard sides of one person’s being. One while alive on Earth and one that carries on after that person has passed on to whatever and wherever the other side may be. In any case, after the woman passes on, her being perpetually affects and crafts the stories of all those she touched as she goes on to live inside the hearts of each of them all at varying degrees but really to a fucking immeasurable level.
Chapter Two
This is not the woman’s story. This is the result of the woman’s story on her youngest daughter’s being – whom of which just happens to be me.
Cocktail anyone?
xoLO
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
In Toronto
It's a little early for a Summer '08 post-mortem.
As you might have noticed, I've deleted most (i.e. all) of my previous entries. I'm not going to offer an explanation except to say that I own 1/3 of this blog and I can do whatever the hell I want with my fraction. Hah! However, I do offer sincere apologies because self-censorship isn't really what this space is about. At least, that's how I see it. What's the point of publishing free-hand rantings if you stop and regret it later? My usual philosophy is: You've tainted the air with your words, now live with it. There is always that moment of hesitation before you click that shiny, orange 'Publish Post' button and once you do there is no going back (in theory). But alack...alas...that's what I've done. Not to be gone forever mind you...only to resurface years later as 'Inari Classic'.
I'm so happy to be home. It's good times. I woke up far too early...probably something to do with the time difference even though time zone logic would suggest otherwise. Already the moods are going up and down and now I'm wondering if my moods are only undulating because I pay such close attention to them. Hmm? I need to get out of this gorgeous brain of mine and start living present-tense! At least, that what I imagine my imaginary therapist would tell me.
No plans for today or for any of the days leading up to when I go back to work. I need to print out a schedule for my boss that will somehow keep my weekends open and still allow me to make enough money to pay rent...and make my movie...and maintain my rather expensive book-buying habits. Gosh, Inari! You got a library card! Use it!
I have nothing else to say. Odd. I probably shouldn't have posted.
Too late now.
Head-noddingly yours,
Inari
If I were a lyric, I would be: "I got soul but I'm not a soldier"
As you might have noticed, I've deleted most (i.e. all) of my previous entries. I'm not going to offer an explanation except to say that I own 1/3 of this blog and I can do whatever the hell I want with my fraction. Hah! However, I do offer sincere apologies because self-censorship isn't really what this space is about. At least, that's how I see it. What's the point of publishing free-hand rantings if you stop and regret it later? My usual philosophy is: You've tainted the air with your words, now live with it. There is always that moment of hesitation before you click that shiny, orange 'Publish Post' button and once you do there is no going back (in theory). But alack...alas...that's what I've done. Not to be gone forever mind you...only to resurface years later as 'Inari Classic'.
I'm so happy to be home. It's good times. I woke up far too early...probably something to do with the time difference even though time zone logic would suggest otherwise. Already the moods are going up and down and now I'm wondering if my moods are only undulating because I pay such close attention to them. Hmm? I need to get out of this gorgeous brain of mine and start living present-tense! At least, that what I imagine my imaginary therapist would tell me.
No plans for today or for any of the days leading up to when I go back to work. I need to print out a schedule for my boss that will somehow keep my weekends open and still allow me to make enough money to pay rent...and make my movie...and maintain my rather expensive book-buying habits. Gosh, Inari! You got a library card! Use it!
I have nothing else to say. Odd. I probably shouldn't have posted.
Too late now.
Head-noddingly yours,
Inari
If I were a lyric, I would be: "I got soul but I'm not a soldier"
Saturday, August 16, 2008
This Sally wants her Harry.
The release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince has been delayed from November 2008 to July 2009.
8 months.
I manage to have the worst thought possible. How many people, who were looking forward to the film, will die between November and next July? I know what you’re thinking… and yes, I am a riot at parties.
Six degrees of separation: A law of the universe? Would the Earth turn backwards if we were disconnected from the person next to us on the subway? Hopefully not, since at the moment I feel about 10,000 degrees away from everyone in the universe.
My soul is currently split seven ways.
1.
I want to dance. The kind of dance where you’ve been partying up a storm the whole night, and you’re both gross, sweaty, and sloppy. But you find each other. Your hands find their places, and suddenly the group party falls away and it’s just the two of you. Maybe one of you tries to say something, but the noise carries it away. Thundering loud club music, and yet somehow you’re softly swaying in each other’s arms. Like nature. Like waves to the shore.
2.
I want to hold hands. The kind where the fingers lock. So innocent, yet oddly saucy, happening secretly in the dark of a movie theatre, or a club, or some campus walkway at night… No one is around to witness it. Who grabbed whose? Can’t remember. It happens with neither of you mentioning it before, during…. or after.
3.
I want eye contact. The kind of moment where I want to ask what the eyes are saying. And they answer me wordlessly.
4.
I want to be hugged. There were times when I felt so bitter about being hugged. When I felt so upset, so angry… and suddenly I was being hugged. I didn’t hug back, and all I could think was how mad I was that they had the nerve to think that this stupid hug was going to make me feel any better. They are just arms, and cruel people have arms too. But right now I want a hug. I want to be on that selfish receiving end… where I can weep, and keep my arms at my side …and still they continue to hold me, trying to blanket the fire.
5.
I want a kiss on the shoulder blade. It sort of always sneaks up on you. Since, I am rarely looking at my shoulder blades.
6.
I want a hand to brush the hair out of my eyes. Even if it isn’t really all that much in them.
7.
I want to be in the same room as someone who cares about me. Between four walls, zero degrees of separation, sharing the air, and the universe with someone else.
Because when the world starts to spin backwards, when I’m not in the room with someone who cares… I start to think about the one who doesn’t. And then I think of our first dance, and his hands and eyes; I think about the Xs and the Os. I think about the drunk nights, the sober mornings. I think about my dad waiting with a shotgun, and then passing him the keys to his car. I think about all the time spent…
And I wonder how substantial a difference 8 months really makes.
Signed,
Desiree Thrash
If I were a screenplay revision colour, I would be… Buff.
8 months.
I manage to have the worst thought possible. How many people, who were looking forward to the film, will die between November and next July? I know what you’re thinking… and yes, I am a riot at parties.
Six degrees of separation: A law of the universe? Would the Earth turn backwards if we were disconnected from the person next to us on the subway? Hopefully not, since at the moment I feel about 10,000 degrees away from everyone in the universe.
My soul is currently split seven ways.
1.
I want to dance. The kind of dance where you’ve been partying up a storm the whole night, and you’re both gross, sweaty, and sloppy. But you find each other. Your hands find their places, and suddenly the group party falls away and it’s just the two of you. Maybe one of you tries to say something, but the noise carries it away. Thundering loud club music, and yet somehow you’re softly swaying in each other’s arms. Like nature. Like waves to the shore.
2.
I want to hold hands. The kind where the fingers lock. So innocent, yet oddly saucy, happening secretly in the dark of a movie theatre, or a club, or some campus walkway at night… No one is around to witness it. Who grabbed whose? Can’t remember. It happens with neither of you mentioning it before, during…. or after.
3.
I want eye contact. The kind of moment where I want to ask what the eyes are saying. And they answer me wordlessly.
4.
I want to be hugged. There were times when I felt so bitter about being hugged. When I felt so upset, so angry… and suddenly I was being hugged. I didn’t hug back, and all I could think was how mad I was that they had the nerve to think that this stupid hug was going to make me feel any better. They are just arms, and cruel people have arms too. But right now I want a hug. I want to be on that selfish receiving end… where I can weep, and keep my arms at my side …and still they continue to hold me, trying to blanket the fire.
5.
I want a kiss on the shoulder blade. It sort of always sneaks up on you. Since, I am rarely looking at my shoulder blades.
6.
I want a hand to brush the hair out of my eyes. Even if it isn’t really all that much in them.
7.
I want to be in the same room as someone who cares about me. Between four walls, zero degrees of separation, sharing the air, and the universe with someone else.
Because when the world starts to spin backwards, when I’m not in the room with someone who cares… I start to think about the one who doesn’t. And then I think of our first dance, and his hands and eyes; I think about the Xs and the Os. I think about the drunk nights, the sober mornings. I think about my dad waiting with a shotgun, and then passing him the keys to his car. I think about all the time spent…
And I wonder how substantial a difference 8 months really makes.
Signed,
Desiree Thrash
If I were a screenplay revision colour, I would be… Buff.
Friday, August 15, 2008
The KKK took my baby away!!
Morning After Disclaimer: I wrote this entry last night and waited to post it until the morning mainly because my stolen internet was not cooperating with me. Looking back, I should warn you that it reads more like a PMSing rant as opposed to a thoughtful blog entry. Funny thing is... I'm not PMSing.
Enjoy...
I feel people watching me. I know when people are looking at me and seeing me work or play or eat or whatever humanistic ritual I am conducting like everyone else – I know some are wondering what is running through my head. What is going on behind those eyes? If only I could explain in a few short words I wouldn’t be the rogue I am told that I am from those onlookers I have encountered in my life.
What are other people thinking? I watch people. I know they are thinking something but I don’t know what exactly those somethings are. Truth be told, I’m too often consumed by my own thinking, lost in a labyrinth of personal thought that it really doesn’t tickle my curiosity all that much when it comes to other peoples mental activity. If I’m interested I will ask. And when I am really interested… I will ask a lot. There are a few people in my life that I am very interested in and would like to get to know them so much more… I am just nervous to make that leap! It will happen when the moment is right.
Anyways! -- A lot of people in my life can be quite transparent actually. And although they think they are subtle and alluring; well you’re not.
In fact, I believe that the people who think they are one way (which makes them look cool to a specific degree) and actually take the time to tell others that they are this way they think they are are actually the complete opposite. And I would argue that this makes the whole lot of these folk come off as jackasses.
On that note - I was out with a peer not to long ago and all they did was talk about themselves. Come to think of it, all they ever do is talk about themselves. (There are only few people I can tolerate this from – some of which I actually quite enjoy this from - but this is comprised of only a special select few).
Anyways, at the end of the night finally this person asked about me and mentioned how they always seem to be the one who does all the talking. Well that’s because they start talking about themselves and their current fleeting plans, meaningless sexual escapades and other various shenanigans….and anytime I try to segue and share a personal experience to relate to their’s and perhaps shift the conversation to a more theoretical note… they shift it right back to superficial nothingness and repetition by not acknowledging my comments by doing something like taking a sip of coffee or posing for the onlookers around them… meanwhile making themselves look like a big ol’ dumbass.
It is these types of people – the self-involved\unaware\talkers-never listeners-kind- that are the most unaware of their actions in public and who are genuinely conceded to an incurable extent. Forever will they ask me what’s on my mind only after the coffee is done, the bill is paid and I’m ready to bolt home to my roommates and our patio and cut loose the extra baggage.
This belief of mine actually reminds me that --
Recently, one of the most valued and respected individuals in my life recommended I pen my own personal manifesto – a short impassioned volume on my thoughts and beliefs exploring some of the most powerful claims and truths I have learned and made in my life and formulated as a result of my accumulated experiences.
The manifesto would focus predominately on the definition of human behavior, nature and relationships – as all manifestos are technically variants of such defining subjects.
The bulk of the manifesto would ruminate sex and love – the fact that I do not believe that true romantic love involves sex – because sex is lust and human’s innate need and desperation to get off.
In relation, some of the other (and perhaps significantly less sexy topics in comparison) include human weakness - how controlled we are by our peers and by food and addiction in general. Humans are slaves to their addictions. Humans are slaves to their constant paranoia and thoughts about others thinking about them. And ultimately, humans are slaves to time.
On another note. I just finished watching Requiem and made myself a tea with a jenk-load of sweetener, both of which are activities that always put me in a “pissed off with the human race – the world is damned and was made that way because we thrive off of it” kind of mood. If we know the habits we do are bad why do we continue to do them?
The sick thing is… (and I bet you most people watching Requiem experience similar reactions) is that this movie does not scare me away from ever doing drugs even though it so intensely shows the tragedy it can often lead to. The movie, rather, is powerfully successful and difficult to watch and a true portrayal of human behavior because it scares me that it doesn’t scare me away from drugs. Like - I can understand without actually understanding. I can see how easy it is to get lost in it all – unable to find your way back – unwilling and unwanting to find your way back.
Which leads again to human weakness. Why are we so goddamn weak? So much bad happens to so many people unasked for… and yet here we are going and putting it on ourselves.
People get raped by unwanted disease and hardship everyday and yet people rape themselves willingly with drugs, or lies, or body image issues, or jealously or work or romance and relationship drama -- and they think that these issues are the important ones. These are mere distractions. Death is a mere distraction. The root of all of this self-rape-near-death?? Insecurity. And those who are distracted with drama and issues etc etc are those ones who fail to acknowledge other people’s lives in their company and ask only about them when the bill is long paid for.
LA LA LA. Distraction. Our minds are mush. Our hearts are goo. Our brain is fried. We are controlled by our bad habits. People THRIVE off of drama and problems and hysterics.
The funny thing is - I’m feeling for the most part happy these days with the occasional downer moment – nothing I can’t grab by the balls and challenge and work through – which is why sometimes I just don’t have that much to say to you and I am completely content in my routine. Which is also why you are probably not interested to hear what I have to say or what is going on with me… No drama. All smiles.
Two New Goals –
1) Be open to breaking routine. Carpe Diem blah blah blah….
2) Babes knit - so learn the fuck how!
Honesty Circle #1 –
I like to flirt with girls but only the ones that work at cafes or sushi take out places on Queen St E. and give me free extras and dig my head scarves.
Peace & Love Gangstas.
-LO.
If I was any sort of drug device\paraphernalia I would be:
The tied Elastic band.
Ps – DON’T IMPOSE YOUR BELIEFS ON OTHER PEOPLE’S ART. MAKE YOUR OWN GODDAM ART. And while you’re at it… go and throw your big ugly signature on it down in the corner or all over the first and\or last title card of the film. Damn Auteurs. Move the hell to France and eat all the goddamn cheese you want. I’m happily resistant to eating dairy. Even though I had a glass of milk today and it was deeee-licious! Mooo. Bahhh. GRrrr. Cryyyy… tear….
Enjoy...
I feel people watching me. I know when people are looking at me and seeing me work or play or eat or whatever humanistic ritual I am conducting like everyone else – I know some are wondering what is running through my head. What is going on behind those eyes? If only I could explain in a few short words I wouldn’t be the rogue I am told that I am from those onlookers I have encountered in my life.
What are other people thinking? I watch people. I know they are thinking something but I don’t know what exactly those somethings are. Truth be told, I’m too often consumed by my own thinking, lost in a labyrinth of personal thought that it really doesn’t tickle my curiosity all that much when it comes to other peoples mental activity. If I’m interested I will ask. And when I am really interested… I will ask a lot. There are a few people in my life that I am very interested in and would like to get to know them so much more… I am just nervous to make that leap! It will happen when the moment is right.
Anyways! -- A lot of people in my life can be quite transparent actually. And although they think they are subtle and alluring; well you’re not.
In fact, I believe that the people who think they are one way (which makes them look cool to a specific degree) and actually take the time to tell others that they are this way they think they are are actually the complete opposite. And I would argue that this makes the whole lot of these folk come off as jackasses.
On that note - I was out with a peer not to long ago and all they did was talk about themselves. Come to think of it, all they ever do is talk about themselves. (There are only few people I can tolerate this from – some of which I actually quite enjoy this from - but this is comprised of only a special select few).
Anyways, at the end of the night finally this person asked about me and mentioned how they always seem to be the one who does all the talking. Well that’s because they start talking about themselves and their current fleeting plans, meaningless sexual escapades and other various shenanigans….and anytime I try to segue and share a personal experience to relate to their’s and perhaps shift the conversation to a more theoretical note… they shift it right back to superficial nothingness and repetition by not acknowledging my comments by doing something like taking a sip of coffee or posing for the onlookers around them… meanwhile making themselves look like a big ol’ dumbass.
It is these types of people – the self-involved\unaware\talkers-never listeners-kind- that are the most unaware of their actions in public and who are genuinely conceded to an incurable extent. Forever will they ask me what’s on my mind only after the coffee is done, the bill is paid and I’m ready to bolt home to my roommates and our patio and cut loose the extra baggage.
This belief of mine actually reminds me that --
Recently, one of the most valued and respected individuals in my life recommended I pen my own personal manifesto – a short impassioned volume on my thoughts and beliefs exploring some of the most powerful claims and truths I have learned and made in my life and formulated as a result of my accumulated experiences.
The manifesto would focus predominately on the definition of human behavior, nature and relationships – as all manifestos are technically variants of such defining subjects.
The bulk of the manifesto would ruminate sex and love – the fact that I do not believe that true romantic love involves sex – because sex is lust and human’s innate need and desperation to get off.
In relation, some of the other (and perhaps significantly less sexy topics in comparison) include human weakness - how controlled we are by our peers and by food and addiction in general. Humans are slaves to their addictions. Humans are slaves to their constant paranoia and thoughts about others thinking about them. And ultimately, humans are slaves to time.
On another note. I just finished watching Requiem and made myself a tea with a jenk-load of sweetener, both of which are activities that always put me in a “pissed off with the human race – the world is damned and was made that way because we thrive off of it” kind of mood. If we know the habits we do are bad why do we continue to do them?
The sick thing is… (and I bet you most people watching Requiem experience similar reactions) is that this movie does not scare me away from ever doing drugs even though it so intensely shows the tragedy it can often lead to. The movie, rather, is powerfully successful and difficult to watch and a true portrayal of human behavior because it scares me that it doesn’t scare me away from drugs. Like - I can understand without actually understanding. I can see how easy it is to get lost in it all – unable to find your way back – unwilling and unwanting to find your way back.
Which leads again to human weakness. Why are we so goddamn weak? So much bad happens to so many people unasked for… and yet here we are going and putting it on ourselves.
People get raped by unwanted disease and hardship everyday and yet people rape themselves willingly with drugs, or lies, or body image issues, or jealously or work or romance and relationship drama -- and they think that these issues are the important ones. These are mere distractions. Death is a mere distraction. The root of all of this self-rape-near-death?? Insecurity. And those who are distracted with drama and issues etc etc are those ones who fail to acknowledge other people’s lives in their company and ask only about them when the bill is long paid for.
LA LA LA. Distraction. Our minds are mush. Our hearts are goo. Our brain is fried. We are controlled by our bad habits. People THRIVE off of drama and problems and hysterics.
The funny thing is - I’m feeling for the most part happy these days with the occasional downer moment – nothing I can’t grab by the balls and challenge and work through – which is why sometimes I just don’t have that much to say to you and I am completely content in my routine. Which is also why you are probably not interested to hear what I have to say or what is going on with me… No drama. All smiles.
Two New Goals –
1) Be open to breaking routine. Carpe Diem blah blah blah….
2) Babes knit - so learn the fuck how!
Honesty Circle #1 –
I like to flirt with girls but only the ones that work at cafes or sushi take out places on Queen St E. and give me free extras and dig my head scarves.
Peace & Love Gangstas.
-LO.
If I was any sort of drug device\paraphernalia I would be:
The tied Elastic band.
Ps – DON’T IMPOSE YOUR BELIEFS ON OTHER PEOPLE’S ART. MAKE YOUR OWN GODDAM ART. And while you’re at it… go and throw your big ugly signature on it down in the corner or all over the first and\or last title card of the film. Damn Auteurs. Move the hell to France and eat all the goddamn cheese you want. I’m happily resistant to eating dairy. Even though I had a glass of milk today and it was deeee-licious! Mooo. Bahhh. GRrrr. Cryyyy… tear….
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
he said, babe, you're just a wave, you're not the water
I'm having one of those sleepless nights where I lye awake and let my mind take me to the wildest planes of my imagination. I'm actually having one of those sleepless weeks where my mind is constantly on, constantly dreaming up new situations, and analyzing those that already exist with a fine tooth comb.
With Inari off to San Diego and Desiree and I with hectic schedules... I have not so surprisingly embraced being alone, regardless of the dark and painful places it may lead me.
Anyhow. I have been alone with my thoughts and it has been a lovely visit thus far.
Although lately I have taken on this front that I am in a period of my life where I have the inability to "like" boys... I have actually realized that this is only true to some degree. Once in a while a boy or two comes along that strikes a cord. No, I don't "like" like these boys, but I do want to get to know them and what they believe, perhaps because it is so different from what I stand for, or perhaps because passion is a major turn on, and passion is what they've got.
Side Note: I have been going to church a lot lately and its making me feel more up and ready for life. I am not a "churchy" person but I do claim to be "spiritual". Something comes over me when I am there... as if when I pray... something, someone, somewhere is listening. I know they are. I've also been digging a lot of William Blake lately. I recommend spiritual exploration. It's right-sexy.
I am going to conclude, (rather) focus the next stage of my entry on the very purpose I decided to write in the first place tonight. I want to share with you some profound quotes that I came across as I was conducting copious amount of script research the past few days at work. These are some that struck a cord with me and the tangles of my heart.
“Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk- real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.”
-- Jack Kerouac
“Take one fresh and tender kiss
Add one stolen night of bliss
One girl, one boy, some grief,
some joy Memories are made of this.”
-- Johnny Cash
"I met a girl who sang the blues
and I asked her for some happy news,
but she just smiled and turned away.
And the three men I admire most,
The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost,
They caught the last train to the coast
The day the music died."
-- Don McLean, "American Pie"
"Not being beautiful was the true blessing... Not being beautiful forced me to develop my inner resources. The pretty girl has a handicap to overcome.”
-- Golda Meir
“Why did I allow myself to be bored ever in the past and to compensate for it got high or drunk or rages or all the tricks people have because they want anything but serene understanding of just what there is, which is after all so much.”
- Jack Kerouac
"…maybe it’s the time of year. Yes, and maybe it’s the time of man.
And I don’t know who I am. But life is for learning."
-- Joni Mitchell
"No matter what people tell you, words and ideas can change the world."
--The Dead Poet's Society
And lastly...
"To make an impact, you have to go to extremes."
-- Drive Me Crazy (yes the Melissa Joan Hart movie with Adrian Grenier)
This past weekend I discovered I am one hell of a screamer.
Sayonara & Sweet Dreams.
- xoxo,
Lola Anarcha N.
If I were any American historical event I'd be: WOODSTOCK
p s. my sister told me this morning, that she woke up to the sound of my mom's shuffling slippers and dusting mop. I believe she was there.
...I'm going to try to fall asleep now, praying as I do every night, that she visits me in a dream.
With Inari off to San Diego and Desiree and I with hectic schedules... I have not so surprisingly embraced being alone, regardless of the dark and painful places it may lead me.
Anyhow. I have been alone with my thoughts and it has been a lovely visit thus far.
Although lately I have taken on this front that I am in a period of my life where I have the inability to "like" boys... I have actually realized that this is only true to some degree. Once in a while a boy or two comes along that strikes a cord. No, I don't "like" like these boys, but I do want to get to know them and what they believe, perhaps because it is so different from what I stand for, or perhaps because passion is a major turn on, and passion is what they've got.
Side Note: I have been going to church a lot lately and its making me feel more up and ready for life. I am not a "churchy" person but I do claim to be "spiritual". Something comes over me when I am there... as if when I pray... something, someone, somewhere is listening. I know they are. I've also been digging a lot of William Blake lately. I recommend spiritual exploration. It's right-sexy.
I am going to conclude, (rather) focus the next stage of my entry on the very purpose I decided to write in the first place tonight. I want to share with you some profound quotes that I came across as I was conducting copious amount of script research the past few days at work. These are some that struck a cord with me and the tangles of my heart.
“Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk- real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.”
-- Jack Kerouac
“Take one fresh and tender kiss
Add one stolen night of bliss
One girl, one boy, some grief,
some joy Memories are made of this.”
-- Johnny Cash
"I met a girl who sang the blues
and I asked her for some happy news,
but she just smiled and turned away.
And the three men I admire most,
The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost,
They caught the last train to the coast
The day the music died."
-- Don McLean, "American Pie"
"Not being beautiful was the true blessing... Not being beautiful forced me to develop my inner resources. The pretty girl has a handicap to overcome.”
-- Golda Meir
“Why did I allow myself to be bored ever in the past and to compensate for it got high or drunk or rages or all the tricks people have because they want anything but serene understanding of just what there is, which is after all so much.”
- Jack Kerouac
"…maybe it’s the time of year. Yes, and maybe it’s the time of man.
And I don’t know who I am. But life is for learning."
-- Joni Mitchell
"No matter what people tell you, words and ideas can change the world."
--The Dead Poet's Society
And lastly...
"To make an impact, you have to go to extremes."
-- Drive Me Crazy (yes the Melissa Joan Hart movie with Adrian Grenier)
This past weekend I discovered I am one hell of a screamer.
Sayonara & Sweet Dreams.
- xoxo,
Lola Anarcha N.
If I were any American historical event I'd be: WOODSTOCK
p s. my sister told me this morning, that she woke up to the sound of my mom's shuffling slippers and dusting mop. I believe she was there.
...I'm going to try to fall asleep now, praying as I do every night, that she visits me in a dream.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Out of the Red, Out of her Head She Sang…
I want to be a globetrotter. In fact it is my plan to eventually reach a point in my life where I can travel from place to place and breathe in copious amounts of inspiration. Taste the sweet and supple satisfaction of being surrounded by strange lands, strange smells, strange ways in which I am not accustomed but damn well will dive into given the opportunity. In fact, I would pretty much embrace many extremes given I find myself in a situation where something is extremely appealing or “I just feel like doing something – doing whatever I want…_
Like getting a tattoo for example. I will only do this when it pops into my head spontaneously and I could literally just walk into a parlor and be like, “Ink me.” I would.
On a moments notice.
I’m not a dater. I am not a girl who asks boys out or who easily agrees to a date.
That’s it. I’ve declared it. It’s final. I’m not a make-outter or casual “layer.”
But sometimes it is fun to flirt. Correction - It’s often fun to flirt (hellooo I am a Libra). And I find myself flirting with boys I pick out of the crowd or who I have on speed-dial or back-up just to get my kicks and flirt with given the convenience and the fact that I know they think I have babe-potential and would succumb to such simple verbal pleasures. I do take advantage of this for lack of a better sort of entertainment or outlet for the sexual frustrations of any single soul. Im sick and twisted.
And screw off if you think I’m what some ass-holes would brand a “tease.” I’m a little wounded right now as I was recently pounced on. Trapped by someone who forced themselves on me. I hate cheesy lines like… “O, I’ve never stopped liking you.” Or… “I love your innocence.” EW. I HATE the fact that there are boys out there who have jerked off to “innocence.” Who have tried to steal this so-called “innocence.”
I like how it drives boys crazy that I say goodnight at the door. Or I cut the relationship off before it starts or gets into all that lovey-dovey, talk on the phone 24-7, txt constantly junk. Seriously. This is what I refer to as “suffocation.” I’m just not “girl-friend” material. Not right now anyways. Not with you.
I am rocking mad attitude right now, aren’t I… I am being a little biotch.
I could likely still be jaded from my high school days. Ok, I wasn’t the foxiest girl of the bunch… in fact… I wasn’t even that good-looking. I had braces and glasses… and the few fellas that did find me somewhat attractive got off simply on my “innocent\librarian” look that fulfilled their pubescent sex fantasies. CRINGE.
But in high school there are a select few individuals who I “liked.” LIKE LIKED. I have never like liked any boy that sincerely since then. The kind of like where you feel it everywhere. The kind of like where you get ROLLERCOASTER FEELING when you see them walking toward you in the hall. I love the feeling of the drop.
You think about them. You want to see the person, talk to the person, run into the person, get to know the person etc etc. eeeeeeee The- I – can’t- help – but – smile – im – so – smitten – feeling.
Those were the days.
Unfortunately… none of these individuals I felt this way about back in elementary school and high school felt the same way or anything for that matter, for me. I was simply the chic who got 100 all the time, the chic who you would humor at a school dance with one slow song, maybe even a chat in class. But never, not once did you ever consider me “girlfriend” material.
I remember the week I got my braces off after 5 years of shier embarrassment of having a mouth full of metal and a big ol’ tooth-missing gap that I had in every year-book picture since grade 8 graduation. Mad Sexy. Well that week during reading week first year, he came up to me at a party and he asked to see me smile knowing I had just gotten my braces off and false tooth installed... He smiled and complimented my righteous pearly-whites. In that moment I thought I would know what It feels like to be liked back. To maybe even be a girlfriend. Bastard lead me on. The cherry on top → Had a super hot totally cool girlfriend the next week. (That’s a whole other story).
BUT NOW - Tables have turned. Do I feel bad for often leading guys on… not really because I have not been convinced that a boy has liked me for me and not the way I look and not the way they characterize me in their meatheads as their cute little innocent virgin girl to be all their own. News-flash. I don’t rip off the Catholic school uniform and reveal some lacey negligee. I reveal some fruit of the loom 100 percent cotton my mom bought me for Christmas. Comfortable and economically-practical bitches.
Anyways. Im getting lost in a rant I shouldn’t be ranting about. I just wanted to say that I think I’m still “jaded.” And the day I stop being “jaded” is going to be incredible. It will mean that I have gotten over the past and over myself (then and now) and able to experience dating and romance with joy and pleasure, freely and willingly.
I am a hopeless romantic. I’d love to be able to get lost into some crazy romantic adventures with some babe and travel the world. But until I meet that asshole, I am so overwhelmingly content with just swatting them flies as they come. I like boys. I will continue to flirt with them, smile at them, allure them. But I will not and am in no hurry to date them. Kiss them. Boff them or do anything else that involves them and me doing something I don’t want to do.
Strange men: please don’t come up to me at the Subway or Greyhound station and request my number. And please don’t harass me and call me a “gold-digger” when I refuse to give you (a SCARY STRANGER) my number and\or panties. CRINGE AGAIN.
I watched a film called Teenage Girl today. It was about a middle-aged man who felt like a teenage girl inside… or something roughly along those lines. It was beautiful – the ideas and themes it addressed. So often people see our exterior and think of us a certain way. I am not the person on the inside that I often portray on the outside (materially speaking). And do I have to be… I want to look one way because I like the image aesthetically… This does not mean I have to match or act a certain way just to satisfy others’ narrow minded assumptions that comply neatly with their mind’s feeble characterizations of the way I physically look.
I like wearing hoop earrings. I dig make-up, lace and tequila shots. But no Sir – I do not ever want to or have had any sort of interest in going down on you.
So Zip those pants and get me the fuck out of your fantasy.
I think it’s fitting I end on a few angry bars of Carly Simon while lathering up in the shower…
“You walked into the party
Like you were walking onto a yacht…”
Xoxo
Peace and love
LO.
If I were an elementary school class trip I would be:
- Porky’s Pig Farm
Like getting a tattoo for example. I will only do this when it pops into my head spontaneously and I could literally just walk into a parlor and be like, “Ink me.” I would.
On a moments notice.
I’m not a dater. I am not a girl who asks boys out or who easily agrees to a date.
That’s it. I’ve declared it. It’s final. I’m not a make-outter or casual “layer.”
But sometimes it is fun to flirt. Correction - It’s often fun to flirt (hellooo I am a Libra). And I find myself flirting with boys I pick out of the crowd or who I have on speed-dial or back-up just to get my kicks and flirt with given the convenience and the fact that I know they think I have babe-potential and would succumb to such simple verbal pleasures. I do take advantage of this for lack of a better sort of entertainment or outlet for the sexual frustrations of any single soul. Im sick and twisted.
And screw off if you think I’m what some ass-holes would brand a “tease.” I’m a little wounded right now as I was recently pounced on. Trapped by someone who forced themselves on me. I hate cheesy lines like… “O, I’ve never stopped liking you.” Or… “I love your innocence.” EW. I HATE the fact that there are boys out there who have jerked off to “innocence.” Who have tried to steal this so-called “innocence.”
I like how it drives boys crazy that I say goodnight at the door. Or I cut the relationship off before it starts or gets into all that lovey-dovey, talk on the phone 24-7, txt constantly junk. Seriously. This is what I refer to as “suffocation.” I’m just not “girl-friend” material. Not right now anyways. Not with you.
I am rocking mad attitude right now, aren’t I… I am being a little biotch.
I could likely still be jaded from my high school days. Ok, I wasn’t the foxiest girl of the bunch… in fact… I wasn’t even that good-looking. I had braces and glasses… and the few fellas that did find me somewhat attractive got off simply on my “innocent\librarian” look that fulfilled their pubescent sex fantasies. CRINGE.
But in high school there are a select few individuals who I “liked.” LIKE LIKED. I have never like liked any boy that sincerely since then. The kind of like where you feel it everywhere. The kind of like where you get ROLLERCOASTER FEELING when you see them walking toward you in the hall. I love the feeling of the drop.
You think about them. You want to see the person, talk to the person, run into the person, get to know the person etc etc. eeeeeeee The- I – can’t- help – but – smile – im – so – smitten – feeling.
Those were the days.
Unfortunately… none of these individuals I felt this way about back in elementary school and high school felt the same way or anything for that matter, for me. I was simply the chic who got 100 all the time, the chic who you would humor at a school dance with one slow song, maybe even a chat in class. But never, not once did you ever consider me “girlfriend” material.
I remember the week I got my braces off after 5 years of shier embarrassment of having a mouth full of metal and a big ol’ tooth-missing gap that I had in every year-book picture since grade 8 graduation. Mad Sexy. Well that week during reading week first year, he came up to me at a party and he asked to see me smile knowing I had just gotten my braces off and false tooth installed... He smiled and complimented my righteous pearly-whites. In that moment I thought I would know what It feels like to be liked back. To maybe even be a girlfriend. Bastard lead me on. The cherry on top → Had a super hot totally cool girlfriend the next week. (That’s a whole other story).
BUT NOW - Tables have turned. Do I feel bad for often leading guys on… not really because I have not been convinced that a boy has liked me for me and not the way I look and not the way they characterize me in their meatheads as their cute little innocent virgin girl to be all their own. News-flash. I don’t rip off the Catholic school uniform and reveal some lacey negligee. I reveal some fruit of the loom 100 percent cotton my mom bought me for Christmas. Comfortable and economically-practical bitches.
Anyways. Im getting lost in a rant I shouldn’t be ranting about. I just wanted to say that I think I’m still “jaded.” And the day I stop being “jaded” is going to be incredible. It will mean that I have gotten over the past and over myself (then and now) and able to experience dating and romance with joy and pleasure, freely and willingly.
I am a hopeless romantic. I’d love to be able to get lost into some crazy romantic adventures with some babe and travel the world. But until I meet that asshole, I am so overwhelmingly content with just swatting them flies as they come. I like boys. I will continue to flirt with them, smile at them, allure them. But I will not and am in no hurry to date them. Kiss them. Boff them or do anything else that involves them and me doing something I don’t want to do.
Strange men: please don’t come up to me at the Subway or Greyhound station and request my number. And please don’t harass me and call me a “gold-digger” when I refuse to give you (a SCARY STRANGER) my number and\or panties. CRINGE AGAIN.
I watched a film called Teenage Girl today. It was about a middle-aged man who felt like a teenage girl inside… or something roughly along those lines. It was beautiful – the ideas and themes it addressed. So often people see our exterior and think of us a certain way. I am not the person on the inside that I often portray on the outside (materially speaking). And do I have to be… I want to look one way because I like the image aesthetically… This does not mean I have to match or act a certain way just to satisfy others’ narrow minded assumptions that comply neatly with their mind’s feeble characterizations of the way I physically look.
I like wearing hoop earrings. I dig make-up, lace and tequila shots. But no Sir – I do not ever want to or have had any sort of interest in going down on you.
So Zip those pants and get me the fuck out of your fantasy.
I think it’s fitting I end on a few angry bars of Carly Simon while lathering up in the shower…
“You walked into the party
Like you were walking onto a yacht…”
Xoxo
Peace and love
LO.
If I were an elementary school class trip I would be:
- Porky’s Pig Farm
Monday, June 30, 2008
Crunching the Numbers
Always look on the bright side of life…
On the way to my internship, the train is stalled at Christie station. A voice comes over the intercom, “Attention TTC customers. We are currently experiencing a delay on the Bloor-Danforth Line at Islington Station due to an injury at track level.” A woman behind me inhales sharply. There are a few other scattered gasps, one “Oh God”, and many whispers. In unison we all think the same thought. Someone jumped.
I wonder if he/she used their soon-to-expire June metro pass one last time? Or a soon to be discontinued adult ticket stub? Or did they have to dish out the $2.75? Is that the going rate of a final hurrah?
Life broken down into rates:
500 - The cost of rent.
250 - The rumoured number of TTC suicides per year (that’s just under 5 per week)
195 - Cost of a psychotherapist per hour
144 - Number of tissues per box.
109 - Cost of a TTC Metro Pass per month
69 - Number of calories per 1 oz. of Whiskey Fireball Shooter
50 - Dollars per trip to No Frills
28 - Cost of hydro per month
2 - Maximum number of Red Bulls recommended per day.
0 - How much I get paid to intern per hour.
0 - How much I get paid to intern with holiday time-and-a-half per hour.
Rate my sanity is leaving me? Astronomical.
Rate in which my interest towards ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE is dissipating? Probably need a PHD and thermochromic liquid crystal to calculate.
And so, the month of July means another 109 dollars (that I do not have) must go to the TTC. The bright side? Somehow I am still the person on the train, and not the one in front of it.
Always look on the bright side of life…
Desiree Thrash.
If I were a rate I would be: One jar of nut butter per week.
On the way to my internship, the train is stalled at Christie station. A voice comes over the intercom, “Attention TTC customers. We are currently experiencing a delay on the Bloor-Danforth Line at Islington Station due to an injury at track level.” A woman behind me inhales sharply. There are a few other scattered gasps, one “Oh God”, and many whispers. In unison we all think the same thought. Someone jumped.
I wonder if he/she used their soon-to-expire June metro pass one last time? Or a soon to be discontinued adult ticket stub? Or did they have to dish out the $2.75? Is that the going rate of a final hurrah?
Life broken down into rates:
500 - The cost of rent.
250 - The rumoured number of TTC suicides per year (that’s just under 5 per week)
195 - Cost of a psychotherapist per hour
144 - Number of tissues per box.
109 - Cost of a TTC Metro Pass per month
69 - Number of calories per 1 oz. of Whiskey Fireball Shooter
50 - Dollars per trip to No Frills
28 - Cost of hydro per month
2 - Maximum number of Red Bulls recommended per day.
0 - How much I get paid to intern per hour.
0 - How much I get paid to intern with holiday time-and-a-half per hour.
Rate my sanity is leaving me? Astronomical.
Rate in which my interest towards ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE is dissipating? Probably need a PHD and thermochromic liquid crystal to calculate.
And so, the month of July means another 109 dollars (that I do not have) must go to the TTC. The bright side? Somehow I am still the person on the train, and not the one in front of it.
Always look on the bright side of life…
Desiree Thrash.
If I were a rate I would be: One jar of nut butter per week.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
freezies
Between making movie-films, interning, and scanning key tags at ‘Big Ass Grin Fitness’ there is never enough time for… Anything, besides writer’s block, coffee runs, and shaking a martini shaker at ‘Way Too Much Pink Fitness’.
If I could freeze time, I swear… I would not…
Steal or loot a Blu-Ray player. I promise I would not look under people’s clothes. I wouldn’t kick anyone in the shin, or reposition their hands to touch themselves inappropriately. I doubt I would have the patience to save every kitten about to be hit by a car. Nor would I be forward-thinking enough to slip a cloth grocery bag into every shopping cart. I doubt I have the upper body strength to drag criminals into the backseats of police cars. And I promise I would not update my Facebook status.
I would however…
Write a television pilot. I would walk from here to Harrow on foot just to pet my dog. I would carry my coffee into a bookstore. I would storyboard. I would go into Hermes and only browse, without having to feel like a douche bag. I would watch the Lord of the Rings extended editions from beginning to end, draw a bath instead of a shower, and take a few steady breaths.
But would I…?
Take the time to use an ink and paper dictionary, over dictionary.com? Would I do forty minutes of cardio instead of twenty? Would I finish my laundry?
Would I hug him tight and whisper in his ear that he still does it for me?
Signed,
Desiree Thrash
If I were a feature screenplay, I would be: Page 24
If I could freeze time, I swear… I would not…
Steal or loot a Blu-Ray player. I promise I would not look under people’s clothes. I wouldn’t kick anyone in the shin, or reposition their hands to touch themselves inappropriately. I doubt I would have the patience to save every kitten about to be hit by a car. Nor would I be forward-thinking enough to slip a cloth grocery bag into every shopping cart. I doubt I have the upper body strength to drag criminals into the backseats of police cars. And I promise I would not update my Facebook status.
I would however…
Write a television pilot. I would walk from here to Harrow on foot just to pet my dog. I would carry my coffee into a bookstore. I would storyboard. I would go into Hermes and only browse, without having to feel like a douche bag. I would watch the Lord of the Rings extended editions from beginning to end, draw a bath instead of a shower, and take a few steady breaths.
But would I…?
Take the time to use an ink and paper dictionary, over dictionary.com? Would I do forty minutes of cardio instead of twenty? Would I finish my laundry?
Would I hug him tight and whisper in his ear that he still does it for me?
Signed,
Desiree Thrash
If I were a feature screenplay, I would be: Page 24
Friday, June 13, 2008
Writing Letters to the Dead.
Happy Friday the 13th Lo-vers!
My intention was not to check my horoscope this morning when I logged onto my rather slow connection to Modzilla Firefox, but rather to Google image mermaid pictures. Apparently I needed an Astology.com fix and when I clicked on “Libra” I was not only happily satiated but inspired!
Think what you may. I read my horoscope. I eat the cookie for the fortune and I believe in what the Psychic who lived above a Subway Restaurant said about my future…
That said; here she is:
Libra:
You have wonderful ideas inside of you, so go deep and grab one of them today! The more far-fetched, the better -- people have been waiting for you to bust out with something unexpected (like you used to do all the time!). Get back together with your old self and integrate them back into your present life more. Just because you grow past a certain phase of life doesn't mean you should leave everything about it behind you. Take the healthy, positive stuff and bring it back into who you are, now.
Sometime ago – circa 2005-ish – I stopped doing certain things I loved and which were very much a part of my identity. I lost interest in painting and drawing and writing poetry. These are loves I did quite frequently – and quite frequently I did them as little sentiments of my appreciation for other people. These were my own personal letters to friends and family.
Something inside me however died -- sending these passions of mine into a deep and heavy hibernation. During this hiatus I transformed this way and that way – in every direction – some wrong some right – most necessary – all mind blowing.
Last summer, these passions started to awaken… very slowly… and definitely surely. Lately (during my time off) I’ve indulged in these activities and interests in varying doses of satisfaction and it’s pumping the blood into my veins at a rate of an all-time-high.
I’m feeling very awake, regardless of my border-line-insomniac sleeping patterns. Suddenly I have the attention span to read a book in a sitting, watch many television episodes in a row and to just sit and enjoy listening to a radio program in its entirety → all things I used to be able to do so easily but then became hard after the dead of winter 2005.
(Side-note: If I’m being cryptic or losing myself in my thoughts I apologize.)
My point here -- is that my horoscope raises a very fantastic point. In our one lifetime – our identity transforms many times, such that in each phase of our life we can very much be a completely different person – we can LOOK like a completely different person and take on different personalities, invest our time in different mantras and execute ridiculous routines. We can also be attracted to very different people and mates. (This obviously affects what we do and how we act).
As a whole, this transformation can unfold over a period of many years, it can happen overnight, or it can be triggered by joys, heartaches or those fuckin devastations that rip the skin from our flesh and leave us to bleed out all of our blood. Personally, I can relate most with the latter - the skin-ripping one.
On that note, we experience a transfusion post-blood loss; thus new blood enters our body and we start the new of our identity – arguably neither for the better or for the worse – but for the different. With all these experiences I would think all the change is actually a benefit to one’s (my) maturity – and hence one’s (my) ever-expanding wisdom.
But wait. I’m not done explaining myself. Regardless of the transfusion, some of your original blood remains. So with your new blood and old blood – you are able to live newly – and hopefully post trauma – you are able to live more fully. I therefore take my passions and memories of the past and use them in what I do. Although this was a Libra horoscope I present it to all of you to think about and reflect on your very own phases of YOU that have transpired throughout the years.
Again:
Just because you grow past a certain phase of life doesn't mean you should leave everything about it behind you. Take the healthy, positive stuff and bring it back into who you are, now.
My only horoscope edit: Beware of this term “healthy” and this term “positive.” I may seem like a perky light-bulb of optimism – it doesn’t mean I can’t be morbid as hell. I think (sometimes,) bad is good… just be aware of this piece of gold.
Alas, this wasn’t a very “sexy” post – but that’s why we’re SEXLESS in the city ☺
Ok. I must return to my painting, my drawing - and thus all of my other letters to the dead.
Adios Muchachos,
Xoxo
LO.
Currently Obsessed with: Kite Flying
Spending much of my time: Writing children’s poetry.
Wanting to learn more on: The NRDC (its all about getting Green people).
Dreaming about and longing for: Someone I’ll never see again and Someone I’ve never met before.
If I were an object found in Mr. Dress Up’s treasure chest I would be:
A kite handmaid from China
… or some sort of mermaid costume.
My intention was not to check my horoscope this morning when I logged onto my rather slow connection to Modzilla Firefox, but rather to Google image mermaid pictures. Apparently I needed an Astology.com fix and when I clicked on “Libra” I was not only happily satiated but inspired!
Think what you may. I read my horoscope. I eat the cookie for the fortune and I believe in what the Psychic who lived above a Subway Restaurant said about my future…
That said; here she is:
Libra:
You have wonderful ideas inside of you, so go deep and grab one of them today! The more far-fetched, the better -- people have been waiting for you to bust out with something unexpected (like you used to do all the time!). Get back together with your old self and integrate them back into your present life more. Just because you grow past a certain phase of life doesn't mean you should leave everything about it behind you. Take the healthy, positive stuff and bring it back into who you are, now.
Sometime ago – circa 2005-ish – I stopped doing certain things I loved and which were very much a part of my identity. I lost interest in painting and drawing and writing poetry. These are loves I did quite frequently – and quite frequently I did them as little sentiments of my appreciation for other people. These were my own personal letters to friends and family.
Something inside me however died -- sending these passions of mine into a deep and heavy hibernation. During this hiatus I transformed this way and that way – in every direction – some wrong some right – most necessary – all mind blowing.
Last summer, these passions started to awaken… very slowly… and definitely surely. Lately (during my time off) I’ve indulged in these activities and interests in varying doses of satisfaction and it’s pumping the blood into my veins at a rate of an all-time-high.
I’m feeling very awake, regardless of my border-line-insomniac sleeping patterns. Suddenly I have the attention span to read a book in a sitting, watch many television episodes in a row and to just sit and enjoy listening to a radio program in its entirety → all things I used to be able to do so easily but then became hard after the dead of winter 2005.
(Side-note: If I’m being cryptic or losing myself in my thoughts I apologize.)
My point here -- is that my horoscope raises a very fantastic point. In our one lifetime – our identity transforms many times, such that in each phase of our life we can very much be a completely different person – we can LOOK like a completely different person and take on different personalities, invest our time in different mantras and execute ridiculous routines. We can also be attracted to very different people and mates. (This obviously affects what we do and how we act).
As a whole, this transformation can unfold over a period of many years, it can happen overnight, or it can be triggered by joys, heartaches or those fuckin devastations that rip the skin from our flesh and leave us to bleed out all of our blood. Personally, I can relate most with the latter - the skin-ripping one.
On that note, we experience a transfusion post-blood loss; thus new blood enters our body and we start the new of our identity – arguably neither for the better or for the worse – but for the different. With all these experiences I would think all the change is actually a benefit to one’s (my) maturity – and hence one’s (my) ever-expanding wisdom.
But wait. I’m not done explaining myself. Regardless of the transfusion, some of your original blood remains. So with your new blood and old blood – you are able to live newly – and hopefully post trauma – you are able to live more fully. I therefore take my passions and memories of the past and use them in what I do. Although this was a Libra horoscope I present it to all of you to think about and reflect on your very own phases of YOU that have transpired throughout the years.
Again:
Just because you grow past a certain phase of life doesn't mean you should leave everything about it behind you. Take the healthy, positive stuff and bring it back into who you are, now.
My only horoscope edit: Beware of this term “healthy” and this term “positive.” I may seem like a perky light-bulb of optimism – it doesn’t mean I can’t be morbid as hell. I think (sometimes,) bad is good… just be aware of this piece of gold.
Alas, this wasn’t a very “sexy” post – but that’s why we’re SEXLESS in the city ☺
Ok. I must return to my painting, my drawing - and thus all of my other letters to the dead.
Adios Muchachos,
Xoxo
LO.
Currently Obsessed with: Kite Flying
Spending much of my time: Writing children’s poetry.
Wanting to learn more on: The NRDC (its all about getting Green people).
Dreaming about and longing for: Someone I’ll never see again and Someone I’ve never met before.
If I were an object found in Mr. Dress Up’s treasure chest I would be:
A kite handmaid from China
… or some sort of mermaid costume.
Monday, June 2, 2008
If he was the King, then I’m Lisa-Marie.
aloha!
Before I woke up this morning I was praying in my head that I would open my eyes to paisley curtains, shag carpeting and perhaps even a lava lamp flowing ambiently next to some fiber-optic lights on the dresser with a record collection categorized alphabetically from Abba to Zappa. I reached for my glasses, popped out my retainers and looked around the room to unfortunately realize that I was in my bedroom in my hometown sans bean bag chair, sans beaded doorway, sans bong...
So it really is 2008 huh? Bummer.
Before returning to the Big City T.Dot for a much needed dose of Inari, Des and a little Marry\Boff\Kill session and Lost season 3 on DVD, I am embarking on an equally needed and greatly desired road-trip North to visit my older sister (who I openly admit is one huge fox\man-eater).
It’s an annual trip and this year I’m going with the Working Class Hero himself… no -not John Lennon… but my old Italian padre, who (when fairly inebriated) refers to himself as the King of the 60s and 70s social scene in small-city southern Ontario and even some areas of Buffalo and Queenston-Lewiston believe it or not. I look forward to boarding the greyhound and changing the scene up a bit - keeping things interesting and new. The times they are-a changing. Are they changing for the better? I’d only be so blessed to arrive in Ottawa tomorrow night to wildly discover that the Greyhound was actually a time-machine and instead of Paul Martin, Trudeau was Prime Minister and the FLQ was a rockin’ the front page of the Ottawa Citizen. I contradict myself such that I need to keep things new and interesting... and yet I long for yesterday... the past...
Perhaps my overwhelming nostalgia for the 60s\70s era (which happened decades before my birth) is genetic, just like my blue eyes and my beautiful shower singing skills. In fact, I am almost positive that it is genetic.
I am going to go ahead and state the obvious… so much is different now than it was then. The music, the movies… the BABES. O how I long for some babe from the past –Hoffman as Ben Braddock, Pacino circa Dog Day Afternoon. GEORGE HARRISON. There really is no correlation however, to the babes in which I am attracted. Think for a moment about the babes you are attracted to…
Any patterns? Similarities? One theory is that you are often attracted to babes that in some way embody the qualities or an image of your father… This is a theory almost Freudian in nature. “Freud On Babes” – I’d read that book. Would you read that book?
“Babe”: (n.) (adj.)
The term “Babe” I admit is very gray. What constitutes a “babe” you ask? I’ve tried to explain this a countless amount of times. To be honest, the definition of babe stems back to its origins in 2004’s much used term “foxy” also used to describe “babes” who have some sort of quality… magnetism… and yet are not your typical – run of the mill “popular” babe. Sorry Mr. Hollister I am referring to you when I say typical popular. But here is where the definition gets murky… because your personality may contradict or accent those hunky good looks of yours in a way that screams BABE with a polo stick.
You know what? I am not even going to try to define it much further. When you see a babe… and you think to yourself… “dude – what a babe” than that’s all there is to it.
Now only if I was a little less indecisive regarding which babes I actually like it would make life a lot simpler. BECAUSE Just because you think dude’s a babe… doesn’t mean you like them… right?
Anyways. I’m off to Ottawa… a city I must say is crawling with babes (or so I have had past experiences which have proven this statement to be true…)
Au revoir les poison jaune! See you when I get back…
Xoxo
Lo.
If I was the wife of any dead Rock-Star I’d be: June Carter Cash.
Before I woke up this morning I was praying in my head that I would open my eyes to paisley curtains, shag carpeting and perhaps even a lava lamp flowing ambiently next to some fiber-optic lights on the dresser with a record collection categorized alphabetically from Abba to Zappa. I reached for my glasses, popped out my retainers and looked around the room to unfortunately realize that I was in my bedroom in my hometown sans bean bag chair, sans beaded doorway, sans bong...
So it really is 2008 huh? Bummer.
Before returning to the Big City T.Dot for a much needed dose of Inari, Des and a little Marry\Boff\Kill session and Lost season 3 on DVD, I am embarking on an equally needed and greatly desired road-trip North to visit my older sister (who I openly admit is one huge fox\man-eater).
It’s an annual trip and this year I’m going with the Working Class Hero himself… no -not John Lennon… but my old Italian padre, who (when fairly inebriated) refers to himself as the King of the 60s and 70s social scene in small-city southern Ontario and even some areas of Buffalo and Queenston-Lewiston believe it or not. I look forward to boarding the greyhound and changing the scene up a bit - keeping things interesting and new. The times they are-a changing. Are they changing for the better? I’d only be so blessed to arrive in Ottawa tomorrow night to wildly discover that the Greyhound was actually a time-machine and instead of Paul Martin, Trudeau was Prime Minister and the FLQ was a rockin’ the front page of the Ottawa Citizen. I contradict myself such that I need to keep things new and interesting... and yet I long for yesterday... the past...
Perhaps my overwhelming nostalgia for the 60s\70s era (which happened decades before my birth) is genetic, just like my blue eyes and my beautiful shower singing skills. In fact, I am almost positive that it is genetic.
I am going to go ahead and state the obvious… so much is different now than it was then. The music, the movies… the BABES. O how I long for some babe from the past –Hoffman as Ben Braddock, Pacino circa Dog Day Afternoon. GEORGE HARRISON. There really is no correlation however, to the babes in which I am attracted. Think for a moment about the babes you are attracted to…
Any patterns? Similarities? One theory is that you are often attracted to babes that in some way embody the qualities or an image of your father… This is a theory almost Freudian in nature. “Freud On Babes” – I’d read that book. Would you read that book?
“Babe”: (n.) (adj.)
The term “Babe” I admit is very gray. What constitutes a “babe” you ask? I’ve tried to explain this a countless amount of times. To be honest, the definition of babe stems back to its origins in 2004’s much used term “foxy” also used to describe “babes” who have some sort of quality… magnetism… and yet are not your typical – run of the mill “popular” babe. Sorry Mr. Hollister I am referring to you when I say typical popular. But here is where the definition gets murky… because your personality may contradict or accent those hunky good looks of yours in a way that screams BABE with a polo stick.
You know what? I am not even going to try to define it much further. When you see a babe… and you think to yourself… “dude – what a babe” than that’s all there is to it.
Now only if I was a little less indecisive regarding which babes I actually like it would make life a lot simpler. BECAUSE Just because you think dude’s a babe… doesn’t mean you like them… right?
Anyways. I’m off to Ottawa… a city I must say is crawling with babes (or so I have had past experiences which have proven this statement to be true…)
Au revoir les poison jaune! See you when I get back…
Xoxo
Lo.
If I was the wife of any dead Rock-Star I’d be: June Carter Cash.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
give me a home where the buffalo roam
Home on the range. I just finished watching the latest trailer for The Dark Knight again. This time around I noticed the shot of Aaron Eckhart as Two-Face.
There are two Desiree Thrashes.
There is the Desiree Thrash who uses a metro pass to ride the subway for fun. A Desiree Thrash who is a “label whore”; who dreams of the day she will be able to afford to put a $500 charm on a $6000 piece of luggage. A Desiree who makes snarky comments about that addition to the ROM, and knows that it takes 55 minutes to get from Ossignton Station to York University. A Desiree who needs 4 strapless bras to get through the week, and has calluses where her pumps rub. This is the Desiree who worries that people judge her based on the state of her manicure, and buys 80 calorie skim milk over 90 calorie skim milk. She’s the Desiree who could watch the CN Tower from her patio for hours, and dreams of dating the guy in the band…
Then there is the Desiree Thrash who is sitting perched on a fence made from logs, watching her father mowing a field with his John Deer tractor. She wears her mother’s tube socks, and a pair of Daisy Duke’s. A Desiree that knows that $5 for a bale of hay is a lot, and recognizes a Fox snake when she sees one. This is the Desiree that had Olympic dreams, and a leopard-print saddle pad. She knows that getting hay in your bra is one of the most uncomfortable experiences in the world. She is the Desiree Thrash who used to ride her horse over jumps sitting backwards in the saddle. A Desiree who used to get right back up after she fell…
“I am at two with nature.” – Woody Allen
Signed,
Desiree Thrash x2
If I were a TTC subway stop I would be … Bay Station.
There are two Desiree Thrashes.
There is the Desiree Thrash who uses a metro pass to ride the subway for fun. A Desiree Thrash who is a “label whore”; who dreams of the day she will be able to afford to put a $500 charm on a $6000 piece of luggage. A Desiree who makes snarky comments about that addition to the ROM, and knows that it takes 55 minutes to get from Ossignton Station to York University. A Desiree who needs 4 strapless bras to get through the week, and has calluses where her pumps rub. This is the Desiree who worries that people judge her based on the state of her manicure, and buys 80 calorie skim milk over 90 calorie skim milk. She’s the Desiree who could watch the CN Tower from her patio for hours, and dreams of dating the guy in the band…
Then there is the Desiree Thrash who is sitting perched on a fence made from logs, watching her father mowing a field with his John Deer tractor. She wears her mother’s tube socks, and a pair of Daisy Duke’s. A Desiree that knows that $5 for a bale of hay is a lot, and recognizes a Fox snake when she sees one. This is the Desiree that had Olympic dreams, and a leopard-print saddle pad. She knows that getting hay in your bra is one of the most uncomfortable experiences in the world. She is the Desiree Thrash who used to ride her horse over jumps sitting backwards in the saddle. A Desiree who used to get right back up after she fell…
“I am at two with nature.” – Woody Allen
Signed,
Desiree Thrash x2
If I were a TTC subway stop I would be … Bay Station.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Sexless in the City - The Origin Story
We're all siting around our black and white checkered kitchen table, just finishing up a dinner of salad, soup and nutella sandwhiches pondering over just what the night will bring to our utterly fabulous lives. Are they utterly fabulous? The word "utterly" reminds me of a cow's utter. Gross.
I live with two righteous babes, Desiree Thrash and Inari Grindcore. They're into some weird junk; but i dig it. They're just perpetuating my education of life and that I am so very thankful for. I'm thankful for a lot right now. Des and Inari and I are students of life. It's our first summer living in the Big City T.O and we're right-stoked. Funny. If New York is the Big Apple... is Toronto the Big Phallace? I spelled that wrong. I wonder why...
(Side note: Why did I say "but i dig it"? It should read "And I dig it!")
I'm a raging psychopath that wants to paint flash all over your bedroom walls.
Ok. That's enough for now. I'm the only one in this house that has never blogged or journaled before. Was it a wise choice for me to introduce our blog? Wise?
The Wise Men are also known as Magi. There were three wise men. We are three wise women... or at least we are in wisdom training.
Well. Here we are. Sexless in the City. Cheers to that.
Sincerely,
Lola Anarcha N.
If I were an instrument I would be:
Tambourine. (I'd get bad with the Xylophone...)
I live with two righteous babes, Desiree Thrash and Inari Grindcore. They're into some weird junk; but i dig it. They're just perpetuating my education of life and that I am so very thankful for. I'm thankful for a lot right now. Des and Inari and I are students of life. It's our first summer living in the Big City T.O and we're right-stoked. Funny. If New York is the Big Apple... is Toronto the Big Phallace? I spelled that wrong. I wonder why...
(Side note: Why did I say "but i dig it"? It should read "And I dig it!")
I'm a raging psychopath that wants to paint flash all over your bedroom walls.
Ok. That's enough for now. I'm the only one in this house that has never blogged or journaled before. Was it a wise choice for me to introduce our blog? Wise?
The Wise Men are also known as Magi. There were three wise men. We are three wise women... or at least we are in wisdom training.
Well. Here we are. Sexless in the City. Cheers to that.
Sincerely,
Lola Anarcha N.
If I were an instrument I would be:
Tambourine. (I'd get bad with the Xylophone...)
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