"Sabrina, you're a freak"

I've realized I can be overtly judgmental. Perhaps I've always been this way which is unfortunate. Is it wrong to have (at least in certain regards) high standards?

No. But I can't let "standards" in any way compromise what are otherwise human reflexes.

I've never read Lois Lowry's the Giver, the soft science fiction novel that won the Newbury Medal in '94. It's set in a peaceful utopian society where all elements that would induce any sort of chaos, any sort of uproar or unpleasantry are suppressed. Deeper surged into the story, it becomes increasingly evident that this quiet, calm, one world is actually quite dystopian. I wonder why.

"I tried to make Jonas's world seem familiar, comfortable, and safe, and I tried to seduce the reader. I seduced myself along the way. It did feel good, that world. I got rid of all the things I fear and dislike; all the violence, poverty, prejudice and injustice, and I even threw in good manners as a way of life because I liked the idea of it. One child has pointed out, in a letter, that the people in Jonas's world didn't even have to do dishes. It was very, very tempting to leave it at that."

Reminiscent of Brave New World's soma poppers, the people of Lowry's world take pills as a means of control.... pills to numb, to fight emotions. Any feelings that may cause conflict, discomfort... Anger, rage, disappointment, sexual and otherwise romantic notions. These pills prevent "stirrings" as Lowry so poetically puts it.

"Stirrings." I think I live for the "stirrings." My happiest moments are often my most enraged. Enraged in an enamored, passionate sense.

If there's anything else that I learned last night, other than the fact that I need to try and be less "critically" judgmental, it's that maybe I don't have to try at all. Maybe being judgmental isn't necessarily a "bad" thing. Maybe being upfront, and forward about one's thoughts and feelings - anger, rage, passion is a "good" thing. It's a human thing afterall. I don't believe in holding back those emotions that are boiling in one's heart, that are conquering one's brain preventing them from ever pushing said feelings to the back burner just to pretend to enjoy a night out. Who said that such protocol is rule - in order to have a good time? Discomfort is actually comforting for me. In an existential way, it reminds me that we're living and breathing and not just going through the motions of life. In a world where we must smile and be so very Stepford to mask what we're truly feeling out of worry that one might "ruin" an evening or in any case "damper" the mood, is no world I volunteer to be a part of. But unfortunately, we never really choose the world we live in... But we can exert tremendous influence over it. Look at Mr. White Rich man... he basically created the face of the current state of humanity today. Impressive, as it is so very sad.

"Inappropriate" be damned. However unfair it is - thankfully in our society - a society where we spend billions on war, even more on dieting, and a sensational amount on dramatised reality...nothing is inappropriate and that comforts me as sick as that sounds. On that note - fuck apologies.

In the same way I believe that any sort of utopia in contradiction must have bad, and violence and poverty and evil and conflict in order to achieve some sort of worldly equilibrium. In order for there to be balance. We can't all just wander the Earth in a sedated daze... with no passion, no desire. Because without passion and without FEELING there is no philosophy. There is no real knowledge. And knowledge is power. WIthout power we'd technically be undead. You can't orgasm when you're undead.

Lola

- Last night I had this outrageous urge to watch X-Men Origins: Wolverine. Delighted, I found it online. Fly your freak-flag folks. As Logan (Wolverine) so righteously displays, as dangerous as it is, it's rather liberating.

Post-Secret Sunday

I want to be a hipster girlfriend to a hipster boyfriend... who's talented... and as (if not more) successful than I. Hipster socialites... And when we walk down the street

Scott Mckenzie's "San Fransisco" will play in the background.

And we'll be pretty together.

Post-Secret Sundays

xoLola.

Tim.

"To transform the emptiness of loneliness, to the fullness of aloneness. Ah, that is the secret of life."

I stole this from BW's wall, originally quoted so brilliantly by Sunita Khosla, who I feel is some sort of spiritual... perhaps a Taoist. Regardless of the label, the message is insightful... and the phrasing so unfairly eloquent. I say unfair, because I wish I was so poetically profound. I can be, but potentially in my drunkest of moments.

It's going to be a lovely weekend. And although I am without a new episode of Friday Night Lights, I have my tunes, I've got my pencils and a little free time. And Tim Riggins, you lonesome put-upon soul, if it just so happens you're nearing fate is bound by the 4 enclosing barriers of a jail cell... well your return to "functioning" Texas society one to five years from now for the (in my opinion) undoubtable movie special will be so orgasmically satisfactory. (At least I'm praying for it. This is what I pray for.) And I'm not saying you'll find Jesus Christ, preach the holy word, but you'll be ready for your 25 acres, ready to be the real man we all believe you can be. The man I believe you can be! You'll marry Becks, and treat her right. You'll lay her down on that bear-skin rug (or maybe something you bought at Target) and perhaps give her, for the first time, the kind of sex that an equally as real of a woman deserves. And as for Lyla Garrity... she shall be but a distant memory. We all need distant memories. We all need a little heartache. It's what makes us so sexually appealing in the present. Do not regret anyone from your past, because they are an essential rung on a staircase leading to the one. "The one." That's pretty intense.

"Let's make some memories this weekend Six."

xo Lola.

Someone else's Patti Boyd

(Self-reflected fabricated truths.)


What am I thinking about? Diet cokes and drunk sxts.


I'm being a total girl. I'd like a little reciprocation. Have you already grown tired of my like "total bodaciousness"?
I want a pin-up shot. Something retro wearing a one-piece with batty lashes and big hair and big shoes, wide hips, lots of shoulder, chesteses, and a cigarette... dangling. Cherries and righteous sailor tattoos.
Pretty eyed, pirate smile.


You're not around this week are you? You're not into it are you? You're "gonna go for someone else now." Aren't you? The girl down the street? In the apartment over? My best girl? My roommate? We've already all kissed the same guys; nothing new to report there.
How incestuous friendship is. You'd think it'd make me want to vomit but it don't.


I wonder what the Scarecrow thinks. His opinion of me has likely diminished and his resentment of you exponential.


I'm not going to drunk text you tomorrow night.


***


"You wanted to be a writer right?"


Ummm. I still do? No, I still am.


Women. Triple-edged sword.


Casually, lovingly yours... Unless you look down upon that of course?
-El Oh.

In the state of Denmark

In my bleary eyed sleeplessness, sounds of tribal drums out my window beating to a homeless heartbeat and the one pounding in my chest. While I'm worried for my elders, penchant and desperate for a little more time - for their health, for my wholeness. Cut me a fucking break? Just one. I won't promise. Can't promise. I will give you nothing even if you think I'll give you the world (next time.) I won't do it. Can't do it.

Not for anything. Not for RC or JL or AA or any other smoked out membranes fronting as musicians. I miss my youth, but relieved to be a woman. Nearly so.

I am an artist. But not a seller of art. Not now. Not without magic. Lame? Sure is. But I rather be lame together. Then lame alone. Lame for fun. Lame because Lo's the only one with numbed feelings. No she's not the only one. So is I. Grindcore. So has Ms. Thrash. They get it. I get it. We're all in on it. The big secret. Together we stand. Pledge allegiance to my biggest fan. The dead.

Guns. We own guns. And gun wracks. And cracker jacks. No crack pipes, but maybe pipe dreams - old dusty fuckers.

When all I really want is a harmonica. And something to love. And then write about.

Scratch out my eyes, go nine rounds with my heart and my soul. Sticks and stones, and all of my two-hundred and six or so of my never broken bones.

Marcellus can you hear me, do you hear me? Is that your tree-house? I'll burn your tree-house. And drink your beer. The cheap, American dirty kind.

What am I singing for? What am I saying?

I am sensing it means something. I am sensing it means something to me. But not to you.

'Cause I am still sleepless while you likely have a roladex. And your gorgeous best friend and triangle love squad and desperate she-wolves. Kosher ones. A ROLADEXXXXXX.... But never, my friend, a rolex.

(Not that I want to own a rolex).

What do I want most in this world? To rest. Let me rest after a beautiful day. Let me dream beautiful dreams after living my dreams. Let me sleep 6 straight. Let me have a night of easy z's.

And so I wax desperate with imagination of a night - such will never be for a long time coming.

And I am so happy with that because that is who I am.

CArrrrrrrrrrrrLLLLlllllllLLLLllllllllllll.

poetry past midnight.

by lola.

Existentially yours.

ps

This is a warning that boys do not think with their brain. (singular - one for the mass of them.)

All in the family

I woke up yesterday well-rested and relieved. I never wake up well-rested. It's also nearly impossible for me to shut my eyes and not wake up until morning. It was a weird night, to say the least. But I was "on" the rest of the day. I felt healthy. Pro-active.

Again I woke up this morning with a feeling more rare than anything else. This sounds rather flakey and somewhat insane, but the only way to describe it is that I felt full of the Holy Spirit - and I mean this in the most secular non-crazy way possible. On Saturday I was making bold drunken statements like, "I believe in God the almighty, and Buddha and Vishnu! etc. etc." And I worry that I can come off as some sort of religious fanatic or Jesus Freak... but I'm actually extremely progressive and I just hold a massive reverence for the idea of God. The idea of a supremacy, and a larger than life force of nature... or divinity... who can save. And even destroy. It's all very marvelous. And without truly believing in the concept of the afterlife, I don't know how I'd personally make it through the day. After sickness and suffering and death there has to be some sort of paradise where her hair is long, and there are flowers everywhere. Stunning, healing flowers.

Like usual, I digress.

So I woke up with this feeling and for some reason I had established a certain belief. Like I didn't have to consider or question what I was feeling it just felt innate. And right. Yes there are certain people we should push away to improve the quality of our lives. But what if you realize you could be obliviously pushing away those that you should hold close? So I call my new belief "All in the family." Be aware of when you're pushing... because you should instead (not be pulling or possessing) but holding close. Holding dear. Supporting, encouraging. These are what families are made of. And family lasts. Family endures. Family is not feeble or fleeting. You don't choose your family. Family just happens.

And like I always, and will always say... everything happens for a reason.

-Lola.

Very Bad Things

I continue to surprise myself on a daily basis. What I think I can't - I actually can do and feel good about it after.

I like combat boots. And casual conversation. And pda, apparently.

I could go into more detail but I really don't want to. I could tell you about drinking copious amounts of whiskey with friends who write poetry, or Weezer dance parties in my bedroom, or a beloved traveler returning home after a journey afar. I could tell you about the Silver Dollar and kisses and streetcars. My blonde hair and his nearly black. But I won't. Details tend to eat people alive.

But above everything, I think I was really honest last night. Like I put the fucking slaughtered lamb on the table, for lack of a better image. Seriously, you just get what you want when you're sincere and you tell the truth, even if the truth is slightly twisted, a little tragic but nontheless quite the agent of arousal.

~Lo

My sister asked me how my night was and I said I did "very bad things" but I'm quickly correcting myself because they were actually very good things; well they made me feel good anyway. And essentially, who in God's name has the right to determine what is good and what is bad, if other than myself?

Also - I think AM was the most intoxicated last night. She's fantastic!

Maybe Waldo Has It

I wonder if anyone was ever as annoyed with me as my sister's younger sister, as I am with your younger sister.

Do you ever find yourself irritated by feelings most likely delineated from jealousy, all because of someone you don't even feel all that strongly for?

Why am I possessive of certain individuals I often find myself disgusted by when I think of them in morning light? I guess I like to pretend - which essentially is a huge gash toward anyone's longing to call me a "stand up gal." Honestly, as I strive for genuinity, I often go out to social engagements knowing well ahead of time I'll be acting for the evening - acting for the sheer desire of the satisfaction one has when having a ball. I'll have a pretend ball, you see.

On another note, when I'm lucky, I'll end up on the same streetcar as this bearded man with a knit toque, and I admire him from a distance. He reminds me of another of my potential love interests who busts tables at the Roxton - but this gent works in some mysterious unknown destination down an alley off Queen W. He's the perfect height, and he's brooding without seeming whiney or adolescent, or "suburban." I think I could love him. Or at least, pretend to love him for kicks have we ever reach the point of "going" out somewhere fly on a friday. Or a Tuesday after work.

As for Benny. He can have his girl. They deserve each other - they do. I can tell she actually likes him, and he actually likes her. Evn though I know he wished I was being true, and it was more than flirty glances and warming smiles, he knew I was a liar. He knew my heart was somewhere else. No... he knew it was lost.

Now only if I could find it.

Lola.

Good Morning Libra!

After last night and last night's rather dramatic but no-less sincere post, I felt sensational waking up to the Globe and Mail's reading of my stars:

LIBRA (Sept. 24 - Oct. 23):
You are who you are and there is no point trying to be someone different. Each sign has its good points and its bad points and both have a role to play in making you a unique individual. Don’t try to be like others – they want to be like you.


Nice, right?

-Lola.

Botticelli says he's never seen an ocean like mine

I actively avoid measuring up other women because I firmly believe comparing one's own physical exterior with others, those I know and those who are strangers, connotes the most devastating of evils.

Regardless, life is not fair and I fall to the greatest of faults and I commit the one crime I try so hard to avoid. Moments when I've felt absolutely beautiful as if I could compare with the best of them, were fleeting... few and far between. Flash in the pan, fifteen minutes of fame.

Makeup and hair don't even hide the fact anymore that I am not a leading lady.

I am aware a lot of females I know believe that their major challenge in life is that they are seen as "just a pretty face" or "just a piece of ass" which I'm sure is at its worst a tad irritating. But at least they're being noticed in some way. And I take this moment to remind myself that this is not the way I should long to be noticed. However, I am but human. A hungry, hormonal human.

I snapped at a friend of mine the other night. I just hate it when my naturally thin friends act as if we're both on the same page - both the same size, struggling with the same issue. It's one thing that hurts me the most. I hate it when people play dumb to spare my feelings. I dragged her in my bedroom and showed her a painting hanging on my wall - "The Birth of Venus." I recently purchased two versions of the print - one of the original, the other a Warhol of just Venus' face in black and orange. And although I absolutely love both works, I favour Botticelli's tempura on canvas from the 1480s. It depicts the goddess Venus ascending from the sea as a full-grown woman. She's naked and her body shape is traditional of the curvy women portrayed in the arts of the 15th and 16th centuries. I hang it over my bed and I look at it to remind myself that great and powerful artists (those fucked by divinity) believed that this was beautiful... even if it was centuries ago. And I told her, "this is not what you look like." But when I undress, this is exactly what I look like.

lola.

- When I write, I almost always feel very strongly and positively about the quality flowing through my fingers and onto the blank page. I have tried many arts, but story and ideas feel most innate. When I write I feel honest and emotional and I do not look to any others to craft the way I compose because it's guided by something internal, spiritual. And in these moments I forget that I am conventionally ugly, because this talent... this attribute is most beautiful when it's no makeup, no hair, no clothes, just fucked right and natural.

Lowest saturation points

A couple of months ago I went off my antidepressants. Anyone who has been on any kind of medication that messes with your body chemistry (i.e. all of them) knows that the weeks after you go on and the weeks after you go off are hurly-wurly fuckin' shit storms of moods and flashes and discomfort in your own skin, which is the worst kind of discomfort. I got a lot of headaches. And moods. And piss-poor body image. And consequently a lot of people got hit with the bitch end of the Inari stick. Did they deserve it? For the most part, I think so (sort of). I won't pretend to apologize for the content because, lack-of-drug-addled as I was, what I felt was what I felt and I think I've progressed pass the point of apologizing for honest-to-goodness feelings.

Having said that, should I have swung as hard, harshly, indiscriminately as I did? No. To a couple of people, I felt I was unmerciful in my approach, displaying the kind of selfish brat behaviour I abhorr in other people. A lot of my negativity, I imagine, left residual damage. I went off on more than a few rampages to Lo about my sheer hatred for hipster culture and on people that we knew, when really what I should've done was narrow the range of my bombs and go off on inauthenticity, insincerity and the general lack of understanding and belonging I felt towards most things at the time. Hating yourself makes you look at the world through shit-tinted glasses so many of the judgments flying out of my mouth were reductionist at best, totally unfair and untrue at worst.

So why am I saying all of this right now, so long after the fact? Because, honestly, I didn't want to earlier. I'm not in the habit of being articulate and super emotional at the same time and sometimes I just don't know how I feel. But I look back on journal entries and blog posts and old conversations on MSN and I realize now that, for a long time, I was super reactionary and very unhappy and now, I think, is a good time to go back and give all of that some context.

The last thing I want to tell people that they have to change who they are. If there is anything I'm allowed to judge, it is actions alone and, in some of the cases, the people I've railed against didn't do anything that I wouldn't have understood had I been practicing the empathy that I like to preach. That doesn't mean that when someone hurts me, I turn the other cheek. I ain't Jesus Christ and you aren't lambs to the slaughter. Like I said before, this isn't an apology for the ends, just one for the means.

-I


Confused? Me too.

Guadalajara and my ceramic prayers.

When you Google image 'ceramic Elvis' among the search results of innumerable Elvis paraphernalia, trinkets and memorabilia of varying degrees of tack... there is an image of a Virgin Mary statuette. I find this rather interesting. But instead of clicking on the image to see just why it pops up for the search noted above, I instead decided that even though the two entities appear remotely different, Elvis and the Virgin are actually related in more ways than one. And I'm positive I'm right about this.

He is after all the King of sexy... and she the Queen.

Lo

Epilogue:

(...please note...my search became a success when I Googled 'Elvis Bust.' Then I founds what Is was lookin' for. Apparently they sell them at Honest Eds. For some ungodly reason, when I look at the image above I imagine the most perfect moment with me and someone I truly love. We're eating toast with jam. I can't ever really see his face, because for the life of me I don't fully believe I'm capable of romantic love... but... I feel an idea... and it looks vaguely like Shia Labeouf.)

Oh, to know "Normal" Social Integration

Your reaction: "Well, who wants to be 'normal' anyways. I don't."
Well neither do I. However, one can argue that desperation for acceptance and perfection technically is "normal." Note, there is a fundamental difference between being normal and being normal from a societally functional standpoint. I really enjoyed grade 11 soc. It was one of the most beneficial and informative of all of my high school classes. That, and growing up learning to function in a massive family has prepared me amply for the real world. It will no doubt continue to help me navigate, cope, adjust and proceed forth in the workplace, with friends and any other community of people I am surrounded by, through any such difficult, and possibly questionable terrain.


I'm just musing here... so bear with me. I think when the person you hate to love tells you something about yourself that's really offensive... I think it's probably the truth. The kind of truth that really rips apart one's character, one's humanity. The kind of truth that (hopefully) makes you question oneself and what one does (or don't even think to do). And consider if in fact what this person says about you (even though they are essentially the devil in the end and you shouldn't listen to them EVER for the sake of your insanity as a woman), consider what you are, how you are... consider if it's true. But what's worse is one who is so stuck in their own deluded vortex that they wouldn't even think to look inward. "Why?" I ask myself sometimes. "Why?" Maybe what I think is sensible, isn't sensible?

Luckily I don't hate to love anyone, so I'm usually just making these speculations about others.

I love waking up in the morning. And I love going to bed each night looking forward to waking up in the morning. I feel like finally I'm getting back on the productive, all around, track I was always meant to be escalating along. I hiccup here and there, but it's only "normal." Understandably so.

Having decided to sleep in an hour extra, and still manage to get completely ready in half the time (!!!) and still get to work with time to spare, I was feeling so excellent this morning. And then something stupid really set me off. And when I allowed it to resurface at the end of the night (and with one, comes all - remember every little thing) I just breathed in and breathed out and reminded myself that one of my greatest strengths is to block out the negative... I used to go a day without even thinking about one negative thought. I hope to reach that point again. Please let me reach that point again. Will. I want will.

I warn you. We are living in a masquerade. We rarely see what is real, but just a change of masks.

Think about someone who annoys you or has annoyed you in the recent past. Don't ever tell them they're annoying or that they've annoyed you because annoyance is not the fault of one person - it involves two parties - the annoyer essentially, and the (often radical) standards of the annoyee as well. I know this, because my own standards are often ridiculous to the point of radical. (I blame my insane Italian roots). Back to my point. Being told you are annoying is hurtful.

Another personal goal - I just want to be aware of those that are helpful and supportive and let them know they are wonderful people. I don't do this enough. That's it, I'm calling my sister right now. Fucking wonder woman.

Lo

And to all other women - whether wonders or wallowers - let's try and keep our panties untied shall we? If not for your own sanity and self respect, for the sheer benefit that after I wake up feeling great.... you don't dampen it with rain via txt msg. Thanks.