Donut Holes

There's a donut shop in Thorold.

It opened in '78 when a couple, new in town, purchased a boarded up soda-shop, installed an espresso maker, planted a garden outback, and hung some art.

They were hippie types. The kind of young lovers you'd expect to be eco-friendly, fair trade yuppies of the modern era. They drove down from Nevada in search of a cooler climate. In search of some personal freedom. They didn't have a structured plan, but a longing for something completely new. They weren't looking for reinvention, they were looking for a change of pace. "Whatever will be, will be" was just a long drive North.

So they left... Neil Young playing on the 8-track, as mile by mile, the couple sang along to pass the time. This wasn't about Vietnam, or their love-hate conflict for their birth country. They had a reverence for America, they did. But after having strange amounts of sex without ever getting pregnant... without ever using prophylactics ("skin on skin baby"), the couple realized their inability to conceive together - and what better celebration of their love then to bring a child into this world? This new America? And since this celebration could never be, the couple couldn't bear to be surrounded by the walls and the woods, the roads, the rivers and the bathroom stalls which they screwed in. Let's blame it on money hungry, industrial, fuel mongering polluted to shit white America. So they packed it all up for some new air. For some new Canadian life giving air.

And then came Molly Sees. Their diner.

Molly Sees (est. 1978 as it says under the antique sign) has become a local fixture among the Canadian townfolk. Thorold's very own Cheers, where everybody knows your name. She takes the orders, he cooks the food. They manage the menu together.

The couple never did end up giving birth. You can hear it in the man's acoustic lullabies played on Thursday Open Mics, and read it in the woman's quiet poetry splashed about her art. They are sad about their empty nest, but passionate that they themselves are living and breathing, that they themselves have each other. And they have their Molly Sees and all of the smiling, laughing children that come in each day with their gleeful Canadian families. In some way, they have given birth.

In true hippie tradition their diner, progressively so, was first to offer a light menu of alfalfa sprouts, whole grains, flax and vinaigrettes - nearly two decades before the mainstream did it - before McD's slated their vacuum packed alternatives for the 4000 calorie deal they normally boasted. And yet, where the irony lies in this tale, is that it is the hippie couple's reluctance to remove the "donut" from their menu, that has turned many Presbyterians in the town against them. The donut - which is culturally iconic of the religious overweight American - represented the devil to this small group of Thoroldians. They attended city council weekly to promote a "get fit - get healthy" citywide movement. It was after-all the 00's and fit lifestyle changes were the new black. The uprising happened after some special on Oprah about a 300 lb woman who wanted to sue Krispy Kreme for making her a monster. These protesting townspeople feared the same was happening to them. It’s funny how they targeted Molly Sees, which was potentially the healthiest menu in town. But the fact that, along with its sprouts, it continued to offer traditional diner specials - re: the donut, the donut hole (“timbits”, “munchkins”, “dew drops”, “country bits”) outraged the newly health obsessed townsfolk, and flagged Molly Sees a red zone. And it was all offered by American hippies, no less.

But the couple continued to resist. And the townspeople who expected the hippie-dippie granola crunchers to be all for the ban, were utterly confused as they were about most things that didn’t support or represent cliche.

See the couple themselves were not donut lovers... but they weren’t donut haters either. Removing the donut (BANNING the donut) represented a mentality they did not believe in... a mentality they did not “endorse”. They were inclusive human beings. The townspeople harassed them - calling them rebels. The couple had always been self-acclaimed peacekeepers; but in moments such as these, they were not rebels, but revolutionaries.

The donut was not the enemy; the couple truly believed this. The “individual” and their lack of control was the enemy. Half of those donut-hating wheelers, continued to pop in Molly Sees for an afternoon eclair, an old fashioned glaze, a tiger tail or evening cruller. So what defines a hypocrite anyways?

And so the couple continued to resist the pressures and the threats of being foreclosed had they not comply. They resisted to remove the donut and all donut-like products because they believed in balance. They believed that when something bad arises or something bad happens you do not run away from it, avoid it or ban it. You do not forget it or shun it and pretend it doesn’t exist. You do not remove the scar, or botox the wrinkle. Instead you turn and you look at it. You look at yourself and see if their is a personal change that can be made. And continue to live on - aware of the bad, embracing the good.

When the couple could not conceive a child they did not allow it to cause a rift in their relationship; they did not resent each other and part ways. They did not stop trying. They simply changed their way of life to allow themselves to heal. And even though there is no pain-alleviating cure...there is always love-making, there is always art, the outdoors, there is always vino and there is always marijuana

Eventually, after 16 weeks of donut drama, the “Molly Sees Donut Ban Proposition” was thrown out. The townsfolk were tired, and they were tried. They were also very... very hungry.

At this, the couple and their Molly Sees finally regained some peace and peace of mind. There are moments though... inevitable moments... where the man and the woman think to themselves whether they really did make a change, or whether they too were running away.

Stories in 15.

xoLo

Fact: Canadians consume the most doughnuts in the world, and Canada also has the most doughnut stores per capita.

What we see when we walk at night

I am obsessed with orange streetlamps. I love their colour and what they do to the landscape at night. I remember them most vividly, lighting a million 2 a.m. bike rides, a million 4 a.m. walks. I don't ever remember seeing them come on...I guess I wasn't that observant. It was as if they appeared suddenly the minute the sky turned bruise purple, glowing in that silken, all-embracing way that made you think of cream or baths or mosquitoe nets.

I'm trying to make an inventory of how my history has shaped my character so far. If it is even possible to be methodical about this kind of endeavour, then I think the orange streetlamps are a good place to start. I can't remember my birth and so much of my childhood is such a jumble. I kind of marvel when people recall their histories with such detail...which TV shows they used to watch as kids, their sixth birthday party, their fifth-grade science project. I mean, I have those things, but I don't really remember them...it's like all the meaningful events have been squeezed to more recent history, like squishing the toothpaste to the top of the tube. It could be that I was just an unusually unaware child, but I don't think sp. I like to think that melancholy people are generally more observant or, at least, more self-aware, and I was a pretty melancholy kid. At least, I think I was. Again, jumble. All of it.

But the streetlamps. I see them again and again and I find that on the nights when I can't sleep, I am chasing them, wanting that peace back.


-I

Phonies

Last night I pretended that she didn’t exist, looking right through her and into the crowd. I saw the bar stool behind her and the friend standing next to her… but I chose not to see this person. Normally I’m better than this. I do not do this kind of thing. I rather be kind and casual, cool and collected. And say hello to a person who once was a friend. “Friend.”
Instead I pretend like you don’t exist, because if I didn’t I’d be faking a person that isn’t me. I did not want to say hello. So I did not. And clearly you got the hint when I deleted you from Facebook. How trivial we’ve become when the status of Facebook friendships effect a person’s outlook. Alas, I rather be real and have fun, then be, as Salinger so faultlessly put it, a phony.

We’ll miss you JD.
xoLola

ps. I must admit, once you have money, you like to spend it on nice things. I'm not yet a "brand whore" but one in training. And I've got the best showing me the way. This does not make me phony... it simply makes me human. And therefore "real." Syntax, syntax, syntax.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art

How often are relationships plagued by random untrue shit you say during their early conception period? It’s not even as if you’re intending to lie to the person. No, it’s more like you’re just too desperate to have something in common that you lose perspective of the truth. “’Don’t Forget Me?’ I love that RHCP song! It’s my favourite of theirs” and you think to yourself “No it isn’t. What the hell am I talking about?” But you have to go with it. Because admitting to a lie this early in a new relationship is suicide. And it’s not a bad song. Not in the least. So who cares?

It’s situations like these that make me really question how well I know myself. Kind of like when you have a really fucked up dream. That's YOUR brain right? But which part? Not one I’ve ever seen before...

So I tend to go along with these semi-untrue things when they come out, because they must be semi-true as well, correct? Otherwise, how could I have said or done them in such a Freudian manner?

But when these things are hard to keep up, really hard... then you have to consider that maybe you made a mistake. A fluke. You were pretty nervous after all. A pinch drunk too perhaps?

To unveil this a bit... I always want to start off new relationships with unwavering confidence. Because what’s hotter than that, right? I want to march right up, tell the person what I think, and where to meet me. But after they meet me, and give me their number... well then what? Text them when I'm ready... a year later? And if they miraculously reply to that post-dated text, and are still free for a beer.... WHAT THEN? What then?- When a year has gone by and you no longer feel that fluke of confidence you did when you were (for example)... thinner, with soft brunette hair, and dressed to the nines. Especially when back in those days you weren’t any of those things for their sake. It was for someone else. For the ghost. The elephant in every room.

Des

Doesn't need anyone to tell her she's insecure. Thanks.

Karaoke Machines and Gossip Queens

There's something quite telling about the lyricist of "I want you to want me."

Not once in this song does it simply say, "I want you."

The opening Cheap Trick riff came on during a Girltalk song as I was running on the treadmill. And while I was guiltlessly wishing the entire song would just play, the mash up continued on. Regardless I continued singing in my head, "shine up your old brown shoes... put on a brand new shirt...etc" And my mind wandered... naturally. Leading me to this short, but rather psychologically explorative observation.

Think about it.

xo Lo

ps. My last post had a beautiful title (re: "Children of the Corn"), but I sucked it up and deleted it anyways because it was malicious and I'm a guilty catholic. I'm going to stop talking about people (those that I love and those that I dislike). I avoided it for a long time then the nasty habit rubbed off on me. And for that I apologize. Oh, and I'm not placing the blame for my bad behaviour on the influence of others... I take full responsibility. That is all.

"I'm skeptical, but happy" (-via txt msg.)

I just went flying down the stairs.

I was wearing my leather boots with competent traction, I wasn't running or skipping, rather walking at a steady, yet efficient pace. Therefore, my falling was no fault of any of my actions, but more-or-less a fluke. But I don't really believe in flukes. Do you?

Any other person would have broken their collarbone... perhaps twisted their ankle... fractured their wrist, or at the very least broken a nail. But after a serious wind-knocking, I picked myself up, dusted myself off, fixed my bangs and proceeded to my pre-determined destination. For a woman who doesn't consume much dairy, I barely felt a thing. Am I unbreakable? Sometimes, it quite possibly seems that way.

But the troubling part for me however, is not the ominous possibility that the outcome could have potentially been quite worse, but the very fact that it happened at all - that I fell. The act itself is frightening. It just goes to show that no matter how careful you are, no matter how much you work to prevent "bad" or "wrong" things from happening, they can happen anyways and they will. Maybe we even want them to.

I'm reading Chuck Klosterman's latest book of essays "Eating the Dinosaur" and as usual, his words flow through my mind, as if they were my own. I can't believe how similar our ways of thinking are... I even identify with the spills and the orders of the stream of consciousness of his digressing asides and footnotes. I guess guys named Chuck just get me. (Chuck K, Chuck Robertson, Charlie Brown etc. etc.)

I was actually pleased to discover Chuck (K) had finally married. I thought to myself, "Well I'll be, there's hope for someone as analytical and as married to their writing, as I am to find true meaningful, sparks flying love in the form of courtship afterall." See, Chuck isn't one to marry just any old broad. I believe that Love (and LIKE for that matter), like happiness or sadness is not something you decide or decide based on a need for fucking (like an overwhelming number of divorcees - not to judge or anything)... Love/Like is something you feel involuntarily. It can evolve, but generally, it just happens. It conducts internally. Chemically. It's not in the control of the mind, but of the blood pumping through the heart. And I've seen this. I've seen this in some family and friends who I know feel real love. It's unfolded before my eyes. It's nice.

In several moments in "Eating the Dinosaur" Chuck contemplates "why" we do things... why we say things. What's it all for if it's all generally purposeless? Why do we talk? Why do we flirt? Why do we make jokes? Etc. Which got me thinking about why I blog, especially since somepeople may read this and react like, "shut the fuck up." So I must explain something right now. Why do I blog? It's not like an overwhelming number of people read this thing? Well firstly I love writing, and I blog usually because something's spilling from my mind and it feels good to get it all out. So why not write in a journal? Purchase a personal diary? Why do I put it all out there on the web? The ether? Well I'm not wholly sure why I want my daily musings on the web, just in case people that "matter" are actually reading this. But if anything... it's fun because of that sheer possibility. You get me?

And I know I often have a tendency to be cryptic and use subtext and symbolism without actually saying what I mean... but I'm a film writer! And it's "funner" that way. If I came on here and just said what the deal is, and who it's about, well that's boring. I like the fact that saying "The tree is going crazy right now since I've avoided watering her" - I like the fact that some random could possibly stumble upon that line and boggle their mind trying to interpret it. I'm still trying to interpret it! What's life without interpretation!? It's fucking white walls and beige tile. It's 90 cal breakfast bars. It's ill-fitted dockers. It's women name "Star" and "Skye." It's lame.

As an aside - people usually don't water trees right? Usually it's a natural process, and mother earth gives rain to save the trees from their thirst. That adds a whole other layer of meaning to the line above. Just something to think about.

I'm going to be overtly and ridiculously cryptic for a moment. Indulge me. Some decisions are not that easy. Some decisions involve innumerable factors. They involve tiny little pills that some of us do and do not swallow. But regardless if we do or don't, we will still fall down the stairs. That possibility never goes away. And eventually I will fall. And it will hurt really bad. Well, MAYBE it'll hurt.

There's a sweater I find irresistible. I've probably said in the past that I dig this sweater. I'm looking forward to the possibility of wearing this sweater. Maybe even this week. But at the same time I'm not going to wear it. I know this.

What does it mean when someone says, "I'm skeptical, but happy?" I think it means they're starting to realize I'm not the ideal candidate at all, but still a nice person. As long as I'm still nice.

My laundry's ready!

- Lo.

(If I move a certain way... my collarbone actually throbs. But only a little. :)

Let's not and say we did

I wonder if some of us (or any of us for that matter) are capable of some sort of witchcraft?
No matter how many teen dramedies or pages from antique literature boast that old, rather unexciting adage, "be careful what you wish for" I can't help but wake up many a morning and think to myself - not how easy magical powers would make my everyday routine; I wouldn't want magical powers - but how having the ability to exercise some untapped personal potential for the sake of my own benefit, for the sake of getting my way, how intrinsic that would actually feel. I guess, in the sheer sense of it all it is magic… or witchcraft.

I watched the Eastwick pilot last night, a 2009 ABC adaptation of John Updike’s The Witches of Eastwick. It was surely nothing spectacular, but in its moments of sentiment and whimsy, my warming reactions reminded me just how special a reverence for an internal belief in magic truly is. It’s that jovial power that one-ups all those who’ve allowed their youthful soul (the part of them that is able to believe) slip through the cracks, like disposable particles of insignificant matter. I’d like to believe that if I hold onto this and nourish it, I could very well use it to my advantage – for the purposes of ambition. And yes, I am forewarned by the various media of storytelling that ambition can be a dangerous thing. I’ll keep it in check.


I found out recently that there is a woman in my hometown who believes my mother is communicating to her through a painting. It sounds outrageous, sure, but if this is what she needs to believe in to feel what she needs to feel, then I believe in it too. I told my dad and his response was a plain and simple, “really?” But I could tell by the tone in his voice that he was grasping onto some sort of belief too.

And again, I digress. One subject morphs into the next. It’s just the way I am.



- Lo
Honesty circle: Sometimes I find Paul Gross oddly sexy.

"I saw a fox this morning. And I had to tell you"

Think about old friends. Not lifelong old... but old. Toronto old.

I'm starting to realize maybe who I thought I knew, who I thought I trusted isn't who I really know... and who I really trust.

I have a friend... I used to give her a hard time because I didn't feel like we meshed very well, like we'd be friends beyond our circumstance. But every time I see her now she's like... sunshine. Yes, sunshine! She's like really real. And she likes what she likes, and she is the way she is because that's the way she is and she doesn't hide it. And we're all balls of insecurity but she really isn't as insecure as everyone makes her out to be. I actually think she's a lot stronger then most of my female friends. And she's hilarious and precious. And I love knowing she's close by. I love sharing my day with her. I love how she doesn't judge me and my weird quirks and disorders. And if she does I love how she doesn't show it. I love it.

And then there are my new friends. New friends that feel like old friends. That say things like, "OH! I remembered what I had to tell you! I saw a fox this morning." It's bizarre how you can know a person for such a short period of time and they feel like your family. They get you and it's just comfortable to eat lunch with them and muse about every babe and every bitch and every bad thing. It's honest. I love how I can meet a person and within an hour of knowing them I can share my saddest secrets and I trust them to value them - and vice versa.

I've also realized that I don't have one male friend (besides mon père et mon frères) who's as honest or as true as any of these ladies. In fact, it's probably my fault as I don't take any of my male friendships seriously. Does this make me a bad person?

Perhaps it's a complex, as I do not sincerely trust any of my male "friends." This has likely been and will be the challenge of any and all of my romantic encounters. I shun commitment to any male-female bond, whether platonic or sexual. There's too many politics involved, and maybe I'm the one creating half of the spiderwebs, and for that I am the one perpetuating these politics clearlymaking me an incompetent politician. It's hypocritical of me to say I hate flirty guys because "tease" is basically tattooed on my ass, but I don't like flirty guys... and yet I don't like it if they won't respond to my flirting. Perhaps further, my problem is the fact that I am slating all guys - guy friends and guy randoms - all under the "they" category. And who's ever really a fan of "they" anyways?

I realize this post is rather bland and unimaginative. It's more of a cluster-fuck of miscellaneous thought probed by the sentimental tunes I am listening to, and the conversations I've had with good friends as of late... but I just needed some written catharsis before I fall asleep to the passing cars outside my window and the poems of Robert Burns.

Sleep tight y'all.

L. Anarcha. N.

One block, two block, red block, blue block

The sky says it's magic hour. The suburban street is quiet; no kids playing in the front-yard, no fathers mowing the lawn. The rubber wheels of an old bike make a grip skip sound as they roll across the pavement. Shallow puddles from yesterday's rain in patches on the road, splash up, almost elegantly.

PF Flyers don the feet that engine the pedaling of the bike. Size 9s. The wheels turn at an even pace, the rusty spokes spin like the beams of a ferris wheel - smooth, steady. On time.

They turn and turn, and turn onto a patch of street blocked off by construction signs - road work seized until Monday morning. A piece of rubble, ashphault debris flings up from underneath the rubber, and the wheel swerves sharp. No longer is its roll in sync over the pavement, but completely helter skelter. And the entire bicycle falls diagonally. Gracefully and in slow motion. The metal masterpiece clanks sideways to the ground.

Henry Lincoln lies on the road, his legs tangled in the bike. Blood trickles from his eyebrow, dirt buff on his cheeks and palms. After a moment he opens his eyes. Black and neon dots of light sprinkle the darkening sky. He blinks them away. He doesn't groan, but it looks like he's trying to - desperate to release the pain of what will be a mass of bruise and scrapes on his outer thigh.

Water builds up in the corner of his eyes. He manages to lift his arm, reaching over his right shoulder grabbing at the black strap that fastened his guitar case to his back. The strap falls loose from his grip, frayed at the edge - snapped off from the body of the case. He closes his eyes.

***

It's dark now and the porch-light of nine seven J.M. Barrie Lane goes on, a glow already filtering out from the front bay-window of the two-story. It's warm inside.

Henry Lincoln stands alone in the garage, unzipping the black case. He pulls out his Gibson acoustic by the neck which is no longer attached to the body of the instrument. He touches one of the broken strings. There's two that snapped - B and E.

"Twang." He plucks at it and the sound physically hurts him.

Moments later he's inside, standing in the doorway of the dining room. The house is neat, breakable, but not ivory tower. There's a meal set out on the table, untouched. "Pasadena Pantry Bistro" printed sans serif on the serviettes.

Henry creeps into the living room, and sees his twelve year old sister Kelsey lying on her stomach in front of the tv, her face planted in a geography text. He watches as she covers the page of the book with a paper and begins to recite the inscription on the page from memory.

"Plate tectonics is a theory which describes the large scale motions of Earth's lithosphere. It is vital for the existence of life on earth because of the role that it plays in the global cycle that maintains the balance of carbon between the biosphere, pedosphere, geosphere, hydrosphere, and atmosphere...'

Henry shifts his weight and Kelsey looks behind, noticing him lurking.

"It's cold. And there's meat in everything." She turns back to her book, rather bland.

"...A similar process likely takes place on other celestial objects when they are sufficiently similar to Earth. The theory builds on the older concepts of continental drift, developed during..."

***

A beautifully made up women in her mid-forties, business casual, begins packing up the dining table. Henry walks back into the dining room and sees her. She's uptight, kurt. He always finds himself staring at her haircut, her Kate Gosselin hair cut. And her ass.

She's nearly his step mother by common-law. He can't stand her, but still jerks off thinking of her. He really CAN'T. Stand Her.

She sees him and pauses for a second. Her face displeased. Her clenched forehead saying, "glad you finally decided to show up."

He looks away uncomfortably, trying to wipe his thoughts from his mind, and then back at her without much success.

She sees he looks like shit, but continues packing up the table - which by definition involves an open garbage bag and her tossing everything inside. Without care.

Henry flinches. Now he can't stop wondering why she orders so much meat, when she's such a calorie-counting freak. Meat. She likes his meat.

"Where's your brother?" she asks. And POP goes his thought bubble.

Henry shrugs... "And dad?"

"Away," she says.

Silence. "How was yer--"

"Take this out." She shoves the garbage bag into Henry's arms and walks out. Boy, does she leave a chill.

He stands there disheveled. What a bitch.

***

In the middle of the night, lights out, Henry's under the covers in his bedroom beating off to the thought of his near-step mother's Kate Gosslin haircut.

The knob of his bedroom door turns and he stops abruptly. Hard as fuck.

A dark shadow stumbles in, drops a knapsack at the bedside and collapses onto the twin bed across the room. His brother's home and he's wasted.

Henry turns onto his side, stares out the window, then closes his eyes praying to sleep easy. The thought of his broken guitar enters his mind... his broken bike left at the construction site. His brainwashed little sister. His where-in-the-world old man. His deadbeat brother, and his cunt near-step mother.

Nope. Sleep won't come easy tonight.

Lola

and these random little stories.

Étienne says, "Être is to be"

I went for a long walk this morning to the market, a daily routine. It was 8 am and overcast and I was listening to the Beatles. It's going to be a Beatles kind of weekend, I can tell.

So "Don't Let Me Down" comes on and I'm already feeling rather introspective. I'm thinking about the moment I learned how to spell the word "earth"; it was on a Speak n' Spell and I was at my cousin's house on my cousin's couch. And my eyes are wandering at the muddied leaves flattened to the ground, and the romance of the park benches... chipped and wooden with rusty fasteners. I'm not wearing any makeup, just a touch of mascara and I feel like one of those hipster girls who are fresh-faced, with chunky glasses - ironically beautiful 'cause they're ugly (...in that conventional sense).

Suddenly I see something bright, a dulled shine within the leaves. The rhythm of my internal beat is muted by an inner monologue. I no longer hear the Beatles, but the rant of my perpetual conflict with humanity and morality. This always happens when I see discarded condoms on the ground. In this case, a discarded condom wrapper. "People fuck in parks," I think. "What kind of a person fucks in a park?" And I ask this with genuine curiosity - in no way is it tinged with judgement... Just confusion and wonder.

There it goes, my mind spinning out of control about sex and what it is and what it means and where it happens. "And we're all just a bunch of Neanderthals. Cave men. Our bodies control our minds. We want it. We need it. We thirst and we hunger. But it's not a bad thing. It's just an eternal truth. Robotics will not numb our desire for orgasm... it will only assist it by artificial means. Perhaps in time, make it last longer... And then maybe I'll understand the fuss more thoroughly.

I just wish we weren't so obsessed and preoccupied by it. No. I don't wish that. And I don't wish that for you. Go ahead... be a rabbit. Meet up at midnight, do it on your lunch break. Kiss and peck and say goodbye, until you punch in and punch out and can do it all again. Meaningful or meaningless. At the end of it all, I should worry only about me. Worrying about the sex-obsessions and hormones of others is not my desire, my passion, nor is it my duty or calling. My calling is my work and my work just happens to be associated with the Idiot Box. The silver screen. These devices that use light and sound to convey image, slung together only to form story and teleport these sex-obsessed to other worlds. And when you strip it down to its barest of bones... my purpose is to make people get off by these mirages of light, sound and this 21st century zoetrope formation of story. I'm not referring to pornos... I'm referring simply to the mainstream and the indie. Everything is for the purpose of getting off... not directly in a clitoral or penile way, but simply to feel good. No - to feel something."

As I come to the end of this rant inside my head, I near closer to the condom rapper... And naturally I look down at it to check the brand, for obsessive compulsive curious purposes... And when I do I see that it says "Twinnings."

Well look at that. I lost my shit over the wrapper of an English Breakfast tea-bag.

"Oh," I think to myself.

And within a few moments of dead-air, my mind's on fire again. This time about the irony that I just assumed the wrapper was from a condom, because apparently, like the rest of the world, I am so sex obsessed.

I turn up the volume on my ipod touch, and hope that John and Paul can silence the violence in my mind.

xo Lola

goes jambay.

Daughter Earth

It’s simple see, on simple seas.
Simple trees and simple breeze.
But simple she, can’t simply be
From simple she to simple we.

Cuz simple she, is only free
If simple he’s across the sea.
Cuz simple he plus simple she
is tearful, choking, black and bleed.

So simple she, lives simply be
With wind and sand,
And birds and sea.

And she does love
But simply see,
Inner demons
deaf her plea.

There she lies
by simple sea.
Alone with Mother Earth she be.

xo
Lo
goes acoutic.

When life gives you lemons

When life gives you lemons, don't make lemonade
make lemon waves
and ride the top of the crest until you see
how moonlit the terrain can be
how bright and star-dust smooth the dunes are
how even though I may think it is all your fault
it isn't.


Yours,

I

He brings his hammer, he brings his nail.

Everyone's always talking about the weather. And if there's one thing that depresses me it's such talk. Have we nothing deeper to speak of? Are we that afraid of sharing our actual feelings about the day, about our current state of mind, that we concern so much of our human interaction with calculable musings of the dropping temperature, possible precipitation, and unseasonable flurries. That with each morning we greet - "weather" is our go-to topic of choice... almost programmed to sound from our flapping jaw at 9:07am. Stranger-friendly and fire-safe.

Yes, it is cold this time of year. I am fully aware, I was just outside. I know it's cold. Can't you see the blood running from the break in the pink of my lip? The black pond forming at the corner of my eyes. I'm black and red and cold all over. Can't you see it? My cheeks are not a natural shade of rose.

He brings her flowers now.

Twenty-five Augusts past, and he brings cut stems, tied in a bunch with string.
Set on six-feet of frozen mulch.
Hard as nails, spading in the vase.
What a sight. Perfect white on bricks of dirt. Snow bleeding over wheat-colored blades of grass... survivors from the fall.

Ordinarily, worms and insects say disgust - but the thought of a winter bug, winter life scurrying down above her is actually quite comforting. An unlikely comfort. But I grasp onto it.

He brings her flowers now.
Now that's it's cold and buried deep and down and underground.
This isn't a plea for lovers to seize the day, to throw rose petals at every step.
Nor should you rethink any mention of the chill out the door, or the frost on the windowsill.

See he brings her flowers now,
but he planted them with her then.

And the cold will always be cold. And when it's cold we will always say it's cold.
We'll think it to ourselves, and we'll say it to each other. And it will help make things comfortable.
And although it will make our morning interaction easy - warming us into the swing of the routine of our days - know that I will feel a slight discomfort. But only for a moment. A flash of every other memory in a blink of an eye.
Cause I will think of those memories where it is always cold. Where seeds cannot be planted, where flowers cannot sprout up and out, and see the sun.
Where there are no bugs in winter. But, oh how I hope there are.


xo
el oh el eh
Moment of the day - While assembling Ikea furniture, morning shots with Pa.

Bare your teeth, show your bones

It is dangerous to live a life ruled by subtext.

For one thing, you spend an inordinate amount of time thinking "Fuck, is she talking about ME?"

Call it occupational hazard or character quirk or paranoia, what have you, but do not call it benign. It's like living in a medieval Japanese royal court: a knot twisted means devotion, a knot tied means distrust, violet for the virginal and deep plum for the shamed. What do you say? What do you hear? You ask me why we don't speak the same language when we do, the symbols and meanings amuck in a crossword unsolveable. Nothing correlates but for the deepest wavelengths and who has the time de-riddle that riddle?

New Year's Resoltuion #9384985: speak plain, write poetry, breathe somewhere between the lines.

Yours,

I

Oil Can goes "Squeak, squeak, squeak."

"Beauty marks?"

"A couple... in quiet places."

"I never look at myself like that. It scares me"

"I like knowing where my freckles are. But knowing what you look like is only half the battle."

"Wise."

"I pose a question. How can somebody that knows themself so well, so sickeningly well, not have the faintest suspicion of who they'll be with? ...That is to say that they'll ever be with anybody. I can't see him, for the life of me, I cannot see his face."

"He's probably just around the corner. Up the block. Parking his bike. Getting FunDip at the Avondale.
I knew this girl once and she had her first kiss in grade 11, and the dude that kissed her became her first boyfriend, her first fuck. And it was all within the same week. That's seven days in grade 11. So, here's to clarity."

"I lack.
Sometimes i have completely different perspectives on the same issue, given the hour of the day it is. Does that make me crazy? There's this guy - Cadence, and when it's the light of day my head thinks clearly. I know we're only friends and as much as I do find him attractive in that wounded, pouty, I write songs and draw ppictures and have these orgasmic calluses - we don't fit. He's not for me. I'm definitely not the girl for him. ...But when the night rolls around, all of my clarity, all of that assurance flies from my brain, and all I'm thinking is 'why not?' Why not indulge if my body wants his?

And I know the me during the day is the one I believe, the one that's telling the truth. The one at night is just lonely. And that's not to say my night-time me would have anyone... cuz she wouldn't at all. Cadence is special. But he's not mine to be special with. It's not real romance... it's the desire for real romance. You don't actually like me... it's your desire to like someone... In another life, we could have melted from pages of poetry. But not this one. And maybe, even still, I will contradict myself. I will be a hypocrite... and betray me - morning me... day me... afternoon and evening me. And I will fall into you. But know this, I am trying not to."

"Because?"

"Because of the way it'll make me feel. During. Afterwards. Later on. When I see him. When I see everyone. When I see Jack."

"I wish I had some advice to give."

"I don't need advice, I need will power. I need to control what inhibits me. I need to run for the hills when I feel my loins burning for Cadence."

"If they're burning, it means something."

"Yeah. I'm 22 and healthy."

"They burn."

"Falsely. It's the same battle, different day. Distraction. Something to do before sleep, after a movie. Not in the light of day."

"You wank about him?"

"Yes"

"I knew it."

" ...Did you know I used to feel guilt about the very act of self-pleasure. I seriously felt my heart ache with painful regret. Catholic self-punishment. It's inescapable. I was near tears. I'd pray. ...But I digress."

"So if he gets you hot, why not?"

"Why not? ...Why not? The ever-conflicting, never-ever-ending question.
At first, my answer would have been, "his yuppie ex girlfriend, the girl upstairs, and the girl down the hall who's deeply, madly in love with him and will never be happy without his love, but will never admit it and keeps repressing it... and maybe he knows it, and she'd hate me for it. And spit at me for it. And so be it.

But the reasom is not any of these girls. And they are merely girls regardless of their experiences."

"Him, then?"

"Me.

...I feel like I'm flattering him by having this conversation with you about him. And that pisses me off. Because as much as I mention him, it has nothing to do with him. It's me.

Patience. I must remind myself of patience."

"So you're holding out?"

"It's not 'holding out' if you don't want to.
I'm not saying it right. I'm not saying what I mean. I mean,
it's not that I don't want to... or that I'm holding out... but there's circumstance involved. If I did it in grade 11 like your friend from that brilliant story you shared with me earlier, it wouldn't matter as much. But it's different now. And I don't care if you don't see the difference. Or you choose not to see it. I feel the difference. ANd you must know what it's like to feel different.
I just want to stay this way. I want to stay this way until my heart flutters.

Don't laugh.

It's not funny.

I'm not telling a joke.

I'm being serious. A hundred percent serious. Cause anytime I've ever kissed someone I think, 'but why can't I feel anything in my heart?'

You know what that feels like?

Empty.

Like fucking tin-empty. Like a tin man without his oil. Premium oil to squeak squeak squeak and set me free from the imprisonment of these rusted, aching, unmoving walls.
...Maybe Jack's got the oil? Maybe Jack is the one?"

"You think so?"

"I don't know. It's not like I can see him... Or picture us together.. But if it is Jack... I wouldn't be surprised."

"Maybe 2010 will bring some answers."

"Maybe. But I'd probably benefit from knowing the questions first."


***
A conversation by Lo, in 15.
Inspired by: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_fGxeUVhfY
***

A quote by Shel Silverstein:

"When I was a kid — 12, 14, around there — I would much rather have been a good baseball player or a hit with the girls. But I couldn't play ball, I couldn't dance. So I started to draw and to write. I was also lucky that I didn't have anybody to copy, be impressed by. I had developed my own style; I was creating before I knew there was a Thurber, a Benchley, a Price, and a Steinberg. I never saw their work till I was around 30. By the time I got to where I was attracting girls, I was already into work, and it was more important to me. Not that I wouldn't rather make love, but the work has become a habit."

At least I know someone in the world feels what I'm feeling.

Tennessee Williams

"They're like mosquitoes," he says of his parents, "they suck your blood and then they die... And you're left with this irritating swelling; inevitably the residual effect of everything they did and said to you, good and bad, that results in all that is fucked and twisted and sick as shit about how you think... No - How you feel."

He pauses. Ashes out his Dunhill, and rips the seal of his juice drink. Always Presidents Choice.
He continues.

"See, I don't believe that we think. I believe there is no such thing as thinking. We only feel and then act in accordance to those feelings. It's all semantics. Cuz thinking is merely a synonym for feeling. Even facts. We don't think of facts, we just repeat them after we learn them. And learning's just hearing.
Anyways, words mean nothing. They're make believe."

The wind howls. The flurries of snow no longer doddle around us, now sweeping against my cheek in little bites.

"But, that's another lesson in life's little scheme." He coughs. His throat, horse.

I'm not really looking at his face, but I can see his expression in the way his voice sounds. I look at the snow on the roots of the tree below us and wonder if it'll stay packy like that, clinging to the naked oak. "That's not real juice. I mean, there's no nutritional content, " I say.

"Hair of the dog my friend." He stares me down. "Listen. She's not worth it, trust me. Her name's fucking Kaylee. Hold her hand, and she'll snap like a twig with a weak name like that. What does she believe in? Chupa Chups and acetone?
Your parents rather you date Wonderbread? Fine. I get that. We're all a bunch of fucking redneck homosexual incestuous bigots. But at least date a girl- Someone with strength. With will."

There's a long pause. My nose is running onto my lip and it tastes salty.

"I like her."

He shakes his head. He doesn't believe me one bit.

"She's okay, really." I repeat myself.

"Don't just do it cuz you think you have to. You can't fuck yourself cool Tom."

I finally look up at him. Glare at him.

"Don't look at me like that," he barks, "I don't look for it - that Malcom X 'cool pose.' I don't check my swagger in the mirror, or whatever they're calling it.'"

At that, all I'm thinking is how he's right. He's cool by nature. That's probably why he's cool. My head jumps thoughts and I flinch, "You just said words are meaningless And now you're judging the girl's name. Something that was put on her."

"That's different."

My eyes say, "how?"

"Names aren't words."

The shake of my head says, "explain."

Begrudgingly he begins,"Names are a person's soul in sound. In calling. Names say something, whether a person acts like or unlike what it evokes. Names tell something about a person, about who they're fucking father is. Names like Samuel, Jubilee, Max, Marcus. Tennessee fucking Williams - now that's a name!
...You don't want a breaking twig Tommy. You want 50 years in 16. You want a tree."

"A tree?"

"A force of nature."

I nod. He smiles big and I can't help but feel warm in this negative 15. It is, afterall, something I don't see often.
I came to the right buddy for advice. And I think he likes that, the way it makes him feel. And the thing is, I didn't even have to ask. He just knew.
And I think to myself: 'he's my friend, but he feels more like my brother.'




***




*Stories in fifteen minutes by
xo Lo*

If I could name apartment #9 anything? Tennessee Parton.