Saturday, September 26, 2009
Drawing, withdrawing, withdrawling, with you
My dad told my cousin that I was writing a book. I'm thinking 'What the fuck?'
I'm thinking 'Hmmm...'
I'm thinking 'Well, is it really that much of a stretch?'
I'm also thinking 'Gosh, when was the last time I really spoke to my dad?'
There are so many digital post-it notes on my desktop. Half of them are stoned stark-raving ravings. Some of them are mere blips of thoughts. One of them is a quote:
"You have your pen. You have your notebook. You have soft skin and you have your mind. That's all you need. Keep it. Don't let anyone take it away from you, because they will." (Vincent 77)
It's a little paranoid, sure. Who is 'they'? The tape, the parents, the friends, the advice, the French-Canadian psychotherapist who texts you as you ride through the prairies.
"How are you doing, Inari?"
Me: "I'm kind of sick. Back in Toronto soon. Are you available Friday?"
She took that as a bad sign.
This past week has been a trough of lows. Bad, bad, persistently bad moods. Then the weekend. Happy Birthday Lo! Great night, exactly what I needed. I still feel fractured, weird-feeling and hazy and kind of lost....a self-conscious self-consciousness to borrow a term I read in an article about a guy who ended up killing himself.
...
I told him I was going to be drug-free by January. I told him I was scared.
He said "I'm proud of you."
That made me very, very happy. Of course I've been smiling ever since. I'm such a dork.
-I
Good advice: Sun-dried tomatoes are awesome and healthy. Eat them with everything.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Kiss & Tell
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Excessive sorrow laughs. Excessive joy weeps.
Tony: Yeah I know, like it's all preparation.
Cynthia: Right. But what are we preparing ourselves for?
Mike: Death.
Tony: Life of the party.
Mike: It's true.
Cynthia: You know, but that's valid because if we are all gonna die anyway shouldn't we be enjoying ourselves now? You know, I'd like to quit thinking of the present, like right now, as some minor insignificant preamble to something else.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Swamp thing
If I were...
God Bless stagnance. God bless still. Fuck the motherfuckers who think moving forward is the only way to move. Your progress-only ideology has royally tainted my peace. You are the fleck of manure to my bucket of milk.
If I were a Marcus Yarrow, if I were a Marcus Flutie....why are so many fictional iconoclasts named Marcus?
Molly the Robot is the escape. Who is the girl?
Why can't the story just be about recovery? Can I let it sit? Can I trust it to breathe?
There's so much pressure. But from where? From YOU. Chill the eff out.
Marcus, Marcus...What Would Marcus Do?
WWMD?
What WMD? The kind that disturbs the shit.
-I
Friday, September 18, 2009
"It's not Ann-Margret"
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Sink your teeth right through my bones, baby
Friday, September 4, 2009
Dashboard Saints of America
What does it mean to be a dashboard saint in America?
A little piece of plastic Jesus bobbing it’s head back and forth
wafting in car fog.... coughing on the stench of 66 cigarettes snuffed out in an ashtray.
A clay little mold with the finger-print of a first-grader. Happy Birthday to the best father in the world. That you old man? Your boots at the bedside. Dirt on the floor. Spit in the sink. Cum on the couch cushions.
The ones I sit on. Rest on.
Eyes closed and dreaming.
Skip, skip, BANG. We hit a speed bump, and whiplash I’m up again.
Ain’t one thing’s changed except for the blood on the tires.
It’s still hot. Hot, hot.
Hot leather, like beans flaming in the pan, and onto my tongue. Kill my taste buds for the stretch of the I-35.
I wish I was high.
But I’m not.
And there’s sweat on my lip. Sweat on my chest. Sweat in all them private places, I don't like to sweat, but I do.
Feedback screeching from the radio, the AM. The dashboard doctrines of Sunday morning. I wonder what the preacher and his wife did last night. Or what he and the deacon did before comin’ on home to his wife’s casserole.
A little peach cobbler “a la mode.”
Here’s your wine spritzer Dear. Spike it with alkaline and make him choke. Oh.. OH OHHHHH
And Oh how the angels sing on high. Sweet pocket praises to the one and the holy, our heavenly father.
And so we pray.
Pray for the able and the Aryan. The moral and the monied.
For the status quo. And the dosey doe....
And for smiles.
The ones we make even when we don’t mean it.
Sun in my eyes and I squint.
Through the slits, I see the big plastic head bobbing back and forth. I see his painted on smile, his bleach-white teeth and a hellish yellow halo.
Probably made from that penny an hour, Taiwanese table paint.
The toxic kind.
xoLo
I'm stuck on a long drive, and it's true - everything's bigger in Texas.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The Kids Aren't Alright
I think most people nowadays are mistakes. Weak daughters raised by weak mothers who were themselves weak daughters raised by weak mothers. Weak fathers. Powerless and impotent and selfish and cowardly. Brutal, neglectful, uneducated, incompetent. Mama's boys and poor little rich girls fucking to spawn idiot, angry children so stupid their anger yields nothing but self-destruction, self-pity, self-mutilating selves. Fuck mistakes. Fuck people.
-I
If I could turn back time....I'd set it to zero.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
A beauty cold and austere
What I like best about autumn is that it's cold, it's colourful and when it is wet, it is a cinematic, lustful wet that stays well out of your peacoat but beckons you to explore more. Some people associate that kind of moisture with: spring. To hell with spring! Spring is for flower smellers and manure enthusiasts. Autumn is where its at. It's death. It's harvest. It's beautiful, explosive, festive, imbued with the kind of energy you feel when a storm approaches, when thunder claps: exciting, terrifying, up with your hackles but always wanting more. Take your flowers, I'd rather roll (or be rolled) in the dying bramble.
Can you tell I've been reading erotica?
Things that are getting me jazzed:
Men's fashion: Easy to overlook, but difficult to get just right. Few things look as good as a man in a good suit that fits him well. And unlike the ridiculousness that some women wear, men always (usually, often) look good so long as the fit is right.
Inglorious Basterds: The more I think about it, the more I like it. Too long, for sure, but then what kind of QT movie would it be if it didn't need some serious 86-ing? I dug. Makes me want to practice my dying French.
Oatmeal: Low GI, easy to prepare, cheap and plentiful, Scottish roots...what's not to love? Current obsession: bathing it in condensed milk and a splash of lactose-free. : )
The Bloor-Gladstone Library: Great public space. Finally, a library that makes me want to read on the spot.
Indonesian Horror: Like Basterds, the more I think about it, the more I like it. The Forbidden Door dir. by Joko Anwar. I'm not crazy about the ending, but damn, Gambir, it's messed up. And it doesn't look a thing like other Asian horror films.
San Fransisco: The cool of California without the heat of California. Being an indoor cat, I prefer year-round sweater weather to desert-and-sweat grossness. Ugh. I don't know how I'm Vietnamese.
Costumes: Because if I'm going to dress up, I'm going to do it like a slut. Or...not.
Computer Science: Because I don't know anything about it, but I want to.
Wikipedia: Because few things are as satisfying as free, kinda-accurate databases of information.
Yours,
I
If I were struggle, I would be...the war on apathy.