Mary

Dear Beth and Manly,

No one reads this anymore. I don't write here anymore. But since last night generally felt like the biggest digression of this past year, an example of a social situation I generally prefer to avoid, why not do something I used to do to deal in the old days? I don't do well with "reunions." I like unions while they're unions. And when they're over? Onward!
I only ever feel compelled to write about my feelings and complicated thought processes when I'm in the kinds of contemplative moods that I currently am in now.

Do you know exactly when you lost your innocence? I don't even want it back; but sometimes I find myself wondering what I'd be like if I lost it the way everyone else usually does. One of my friend's said to me everyone should get their heartbroken to know love. I've suffered from a broken heart (I arguably still do some days) but not in the same way she was referring to. Does it still count? Do I know this "love" she is referring to? Or do I know a different kind of love? A love that isn't transparent and clouded by the innate need and desperation to consummate.

A boy has never broke my heart. I'd like to know that pain. One day, no doubt. But not yet. And not today.I'm in no rush. This is not a race. Until then, I have Caleb Followill's voice to do for me at night, what I suppose your significant others do for you.

People in relationships can be hard to be around. I hate people feeling conflicted because they feel the need to entertain me while also stroking their significant other. Just let me be. I'm a big girl. I'm just fine on my own. Finer than you even.

December, no doubt, is always the hardest. Oh yearning, you are my most painful and yet most favourite feeling.

Love Always,
Lola Anarcha N.

It started and it will end with a film. Trust me.

October 23, 2010

I alienate people. It's one of my many talents.
I can't let others who feel hurt just because I don't fulfill the idea of me that they have created, affect how I feel. Because right now I feel like it's truly unfair and it's upsetting me. I wish I knew other dedicated writers. I wouldn't feel so alone. But all I know are hacks who chase boys for validation (as opposed to love.) Why do I feel alone? Because I have a sick attachment to my art. And I want to know that I'm not the only one with this sickness.

Fucked up and as happy as ever,
yours truly,
Lola Anarcha N.

Creamsoda and Illinois

I have a crush on this guy that works at this coffee shop I frequent. The kind of crush where I only know his name because of the label maker print on his name tag.

I haven't had a crush in years. The thing that is as equally exciting as it is infuriating is the very fact that crushes generally evolve from little to no interaction. Most of the time we don't even know the people we have these little emotional things for. The funny thing about this crush? After he served me 2 or 3 times in a very short timespan (of which one of these times I was with my sister and immensely hung over and looking like a rancid courtney love) I stopped seeing him. And it's important to mention that non of these interactions were particularly flirty. I didn't feel any sort of vibe from him, and as the Libra that i am, I'm pretty sure I acted surprisingly reserved (always consumed by copious amounts of scripts to read, or the need to absorb alcohol).

Once I caught him (or the idea of him) crossing my mind as I passed by this coffee shop as I so often do every now and again, I stopped seeing him in real life. He disappeared. He no longer served me my large blacks. It's as if he is no longer employed by said coffee shop. I don't think much would come of this unrequited "like" anyway if I ever do end up seeing him again because it's just difficult to connect with a stranger and progress that connection into a potential and eventual friendship. That, and I'm afraid of "the chase." It's intimidating and vulnerable. And as a self-proclaimed feminist the very thought of appearing vulnerable sounds weak and I'm anything but.

But if we were to ever meet again and maybe even become acquaintances, I think he would be a choice companion to see films with. At the Royal... the Bloor. Pretty together. If somebody were to ask me what I want on a "social" level - just someone I respect and actually like and find interesting to accompany me to interesting films, concerts. Someone to dance to MSTRKRFT with. And roadtrip with to Illinois if I wanted to.

It is quite rare when I actually attend movies with a "friend" and it's because several of these people in my social circles are people I find it challenging to connect with creatively and spiritually. There's a lack of spirit I can really get behind. That's why when I think I can see something good in someone, it's exciting.

I'm in a good place right now. And soon enough, by the new year, I'll be someplace even better. This I know. 2011 afterall was my family's Bonanza Video pin code. And that to me, means something.

You took me to see the Cleveland Indians and left ME at the stadium

I just found out some news about you. And I'm quite disturbed.
You better have acted out of intimidation.

And I segueway, as the queen of segueway that I am... If you've ever wanted to know anything about me... you can learn everything from The Little Giants. All quotes - MEMORABLE.

Junior Floyd: You wanna learn how to kiss?
Becky O'Shea: No. Why, do you?
Junior Floyd: No. Eeww I just got that vomit taste in my mouth.
Becky O'Shea: Come on, you gotta learn sometime. I mean if you wanna get a job and have kids and stuff.
Junior Floyd: You can have kids without kissing...
Becky O'Shea: Yeah, but you can't get a job. You know, for scientific reasons and stuff.
Junior Floyd: Well... become a teacher.


[receiving their uniforms]
Tad: Death shrouds
[flips one around]
Danny O'Shea: They've got your names on the back.
Jake Berman: So the guys at the morgue can identify the bodies.


Karen O'Shea: Kevin, this is pee-wee football. It's supposed to be fun.
Kevin O'Shea: Not fun anymore. See, all the fun is gone now. See now, It's WAR!


Priscilla: God bless family, friends, flowers, Nickelodeon, fuzzy little kittens, Pez, Mr. Lerenzo, the school janitor 'cause he's so hairy.
Kevin O'Shea: He's an unfortunate man Priscilla.


Spike: Look, you berzerko Barbie doll, when you mess with Spike, you mess with death.
Becky O'Shea: You can talk the talk but can you walk the walk?
Spike: Try me!
Becky O'Shea: I will!
Spike: Let's go!
Becky O'Shea: Right now!
Jake Berman: SOMEBODY CALL 911!



Becky O'Shea: What a hunk. Wait a minute? What am I saying? I'm the Icebox. Icebox doesn't like boys. Except for that one...

Fresh Skivvies and a Map of the Goddamned World

I either need to have sex or go to Europe. And seeing as though I can never make it past second base without suddenly becoming utterly repulsed by the gentlemen to whom with which I am "getting bad" - I'd say I'd have better luck in Prague.

Luck with what?

I don't know. Feeling alive. Feeling pain when I prick my finger, feeling numb at the sight of my own blood pearling up, tasting the salt and not liking it as much as I do now. I should recoil at the taste. And I should feel sadness when someone's relative dies other them complete lack of remorse. Other than "oh that's too bad, a million babies are starving in Africa." Feeling lust for something breathtaking instead of something mediocre we give way to much credit to. Feeling like there's a point to all this. There must be a point and I think I'm doing a prince of a job missing that point.

Match point.

Yes. Match point.

You like to win?

Love it.

And losing?

Not anymore.

How can you be so sure?

Trust me.

2 magic words and suddenly I'm sure? I believe you?

You can be as sure of me as you are of the world without God.

What?

Have I confused you?

Completely.

Well good, I wasn't born to make your life easy. I was born to do something grand.

Go to Europe or have sex?

Precisely so.

Hmmm.

Will you excuse me now, I must retire to my room and pack.

Bring plenty of fresh underwear.

I shall.

And a map.

Of course, the last thing I want is to get lost. ....Unless it's all on purpose that is. Than I'd really feel alive.

xo

forget that you know me

it's not that i don't want you to know me, because it's more that I don't really want to know you. but it's more than that; it's that i don't like when my old world and my new world collide and create another world in effect. in fact, go ahead and create a new world and i just won't be part of said new world's species. i'll live on another planet, preferably all alone. except i'd want their to be time... and smoothies. an innumerable, inexhaustible amount of smoothies. but not for you. or you either. but for me. all for me.

LO!!!!

iambic pentameter

Shakespeare, you are the man.



BIRON: How low soever the matter, I hope in God for high words.

LONGAVILLE: A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!

BIRON: To hear? or forbear laughing?

LONGAVILLE: To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately; or to
forbear both.

BIRON: Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to
climb in the merriness.


lo

to the Lions.

After a week of 9-7s dedicated to the beautiful insanity that is my daily grind, I will no longer sacrifice my 7 to midnight hour on aimless thought. Yes. Spare the Christians I declare; throw the aimless to the lions. Once again, I will slay the sleep that burdens me and burn the brain inside.

Wordily yours,
Lo

women, i've had enough

Women, I've had enough of how similar you all are. Of how cookie-cutter cliche your truest of true ambitions are. Suddenly you turn 30 and no longer are you competing on how hot you look, how nice your clothes and accessories may be, but on how many kids you have and how cute they look in baby polo. It makes me want to gag. It's not even that you let your dreams fall to the waist-side. It's that you never really cared to have dreams in the first place. It's all very disheartening and hard to take. I'm glad my happiness lies in the satisfaction of my obsessive compulsions and addictions as opposed to the fulfillment of standards typical of the modern woman (which, more often than not is hinged on the presence of a man.) No thank you.


LO
My ocd and I had a wonderful weekend, stereotype free.

if i was good to you

i was at the computer, reading lyrics from the screen. I was singing star spangled banner. I wouldn't say I'm much of a singing talent, but the american national anthem is my exception. You were in the kitchen - probably stirring sauce or cutting apples. These actions will forever be synonymous with you (the feeling of you nearby).

and you were listening. and you liked it. you hummed along. i did everything around you. you saw me do and say the most vulnerable things a person could imagine. the most embarrassing. it astonishes me how any of us function without you? you may have been losing since i was 8 years old, but you were the rock. you were our rock. oh captain, my fucking captain.

i had a thought that maybe i wouldn't. but i knew i would on this day, ask the questions that rape me continually. (probably voluntarily too.)
i had a thought that maybe i wouldn't. but i did anyway.
how many times did I yell at you? how many times did I grab you by the wrist and say, "fuck off and die"?
how did I do it? What's wrong with me?

i never meant it. not once.




http://www.poetry-online.org/whitman_o_captain_my_captain.htm

Columbine

In the past year I've deleted almost 150 "friends" from Facebook. And every time I log on, which is rare nowadays, I peg off a few more. And for various reasons. At first it was mostly because if I refer to you within quotation marks, you're not really my friend - nor do either of us care to make any effort. But now it quite simply could be because of an annoying post, an inexcusable use of an emoticon, your display picture with you and your boyfriend (by the way I'm glad you're no longer depressed) or especially this new trend of using only your first and middle name. These middle names are always so unbelievable too. Like "Kylie" or "Ryanne" - as if kids born in '87 have these new-age names? It's a little confusing, and a whole lot unsettling. And I'm into healthy digestion so I'm just going to avoid these 21st century trifles because I have the control to do so.

I haven't deleted it yet. But oh, I'm close. And each day each and everyone of you "cool people" push me closer to the edge.

A simple bang BANG. And it'll all be over. And I won't say goodbye to any of my facebook friends.

Lo
Final thoughts: Could Facebook have prevented or contributed to the shootings in Littleton?

Danny, the Irish Bar-Tender

So it goes like this.
Not to degrade this serious medical condition, but I suffer from some sort of acute bi-polarity. We all do to a certain extent – mine just seems to be more extreme and more at random than several others. It’s often difficult to explain my change in moods towards certain people and I’m forever apologetic. I don’t ever want to be the bitch, but sometimes you’re just born with bitch inside you and when it rears its ugly head (and it is ugly as you can see from previous posts) you get hot and bothered and jealous and again, you have no reasonable explanation as to why. It’s a chemical jealousy.

But I refuse to censor myself to myself – hence I will not take down or delete any incriminating, self-loathing, or “bitch-driven-against-those-i-love” posts because I’m a big supporter of the honesty-party (however contradictory that allusion may be).

That said, this week has been considerably wonderful regardless of the storm cloud above my head. And to be honest? I blame it shamelessly on PMS. It seems I have intense attitude every so often (like clock-work) when it’s a full-moon or there’s a high-tide or whatever you call it.

xoLola

I'm a fragile egomaniac.

Why do I do the things I do? Why do I help people?
Because helping people is good and I will forever try to make up for the bad child that I was. But what I need to learn is that often the "good things" I do are not good for me. Why would anyone in their right mind do things that work against them for the sake of making up for some void that is gone and will never return and that I'll never be able to help. Why do I help you? Because sometimes I like to.

Well I hope you have a good weekend. I really do. Cherish every God-for-saken moment. Because one day you might see her die. Lliterally. You'll be holding her hand and singing Day Dream Believer. And the smell. It'll be unbearable to say the least.

Things change. Thank you Eye Weekly for making me feel better after this week of being haunted by some skeletal fiend of neorosis who burns allllllllllll calories by 5 am and loves it. Absolutely loves it. Envy is a dangerous thing. It's like I'm envious of that ambition, but would never EVER want to trade places. Oh my God, never. GAG ME.


Libra (Sept 23-Oct 22)
What's this? You don't have to drag yourself out of bed and cry your way through your morning coffee? You actually smiled on your way to work? (Yup!) Energy levels are rising and so are your spirits — and those of everyone around you. It's like you finally figured out that you're the star of your life and that it's about time you started to act like it.

Happy Thursday!

xoLOla

Praying for some salvation, Cause she's just so bored

The internet is an infectious, evil device. It subjects us to an abundance of information we eventually believe that we need, because we have such infuriatingly easy access to it. The internet is a cornucopia of beautiful shit that says, "touch me." So we touch it and it feels good, and then we're left with poison ivy. Or worse yet, herpes of the melon.
If it's out there for us to see, hear, know, beat off to - what kind of lazy fucks are we if we don't capitalize on the freedom of such information and use it to satisfy some sort of hunger within ourselves?

You know what I really like? What really gets me going? That thrilling sensation of being teased by the idea of satisfaction... the possibility of opportunity dangling above my nose. I reach for it and it pulls away. Not yet... Not yet!

Just wait. Wait for it.

There will come a point where what I want could quite potentially happen. And I understand that in order for it to happen a lot of people's lives will have to change along the way. But then again, it's nothing that hasn't happened before.

I remember the days of having to buy postcards of my favourite band at the corner store in order to look at pictures of them. What!? What was that? We will never see those days again. My blackberry, after all, is synced to 3 different email addresses, all of which receive updates for various forms of fandom in which I so sheepishly engage.

Goodnight.

xoLola.
Favourite tune of the moment: Hole's "Skinny Little Bitch"

Note to self: block out the moaning, but not entirely...

Lo, this is a list you should refer to every time you need to remind yourself of healthy positive habits to nurture and assist in your aspirations to develop a prolific, mindful routine. Your friends probably won't mind reading this either.

1) Take your time and don't feel guilty for taking your time. Something that's rushed and "done" is the result of a neophyte.
2) Write EVERYTHING. All your thoughts. Every moment, object, picture, scene, line, word, look in the eye. Keep a hundred lists all over the place in no specific order of ideas about the same thing... Eventually you'll have to sort through all of this ramble, but it's worth it for the value of one of those little gems you'll rediscover when you start to really focus on your story.
3) Don't be afraid to chuck ideas or even reuse ideas! Remember, it's cool to be green. Thank the hipsters.
4) Write characters you want to make love to, it'll make the writing experience a hell of a lot more exciting. Trust me. Sometimes I have to take a minute and compose myself. Dirty girl.
5) Determine whether you're a masochist or sadist. This will help immensely. And if you're conscious of this while writing... it really will enrich your work with identity.
6) Your ideas are not always your own. So make them your own.
7) If people in the apartment above you sound like they're having sex and/or masturbating to bad trib porn and you're trying to concentrate - put on a song with a tone you hope to embody in the scene/story/post you're working on and listen to it on repeat. It will not only mask the sex sounds, but will inspire your work.
8) If you have friends who are bitches (and I'm not talking about any of you AM, AF or GC so don't EVER think that) cut them out. And don't feel guilty for cutting them out.
9) Don't feel guilty.
10) Lastly, spill your guts and then get people to read it. And don't feel the need to preface their reading with any sort of warning/clarifications etc. If you wrote it feel good about the fact that something's written and is clearly good enough that you're getting people to read it.

xoxoLo

- I think, one day, I'll write a manual.

pseudo-haiku

Will you leave too soon?
The garden, the grass left behind
You'll see her, won't you?

Health is an 'f' 'u' 'n' letter word

I wouldn't trade healthy for a superficial beauty beyond my natural control. Substance is the enemy.

Lately, I've caught myself thinking regularly about a certain someone(s). Thinking and feeling the way I did in high school towards this(these) individual(s). Call it silly, call it a meaningless crush. But whatever the condescending label - know this - this thing, this feeling, adds an energy to tedious daily routine that otherwise wouldn't exist. The lone, fleeting thought bubble or incredibly bantam possibility that I could in fact fling with this guy(s) injects a rush of adrenaline through my arms and coats my emotion with I guess what is often described as "thrill."

He (they) thrills me. And above all else it feels fun. I feel fun.
I want to have fun.
And I won't apologize for my means of fun because in the long run, as I have learned before, this will not hurt anyone except myself. And hurt is all a part of the health. Or so I'm lead to believe.

xo
Lo

Gem & the Holograms

So many people lack originality it pinches me a million times and makes me want to upchuck.
I shouldn't waste my insides on the dry, the flat, the moor.
I should climb a mountain. Or at least continue to.

I hate plain and boring.
I hate that even over this annoying, accelerating volume I can hear your putrid voice and see that face that isn't yours.
I need a quiet space. And quiet time.
I need an oasis left of nowhere, full of somewhere.

I need prayer, however sacrilege my actions prove to be.

Where has all the unique gone?
Why are all the gems so far away?

xoLo

Hurt people hurt people

Every now and then I make it to a bathroom stall and curse to God not to cry.
I know I always say it hurts me most when I think I'm forgetting. (When I see it fading away.)
But, the truth is, it hurts me most when I remember.
My chest gets real heavy. I'm already hyperventilating on the inside. (I hide it well.)
And for a brief moment, fenced in by these makeshift seafome walls, I see it all like it was just days ago.
But that's not what really hurts.
What hurts is that suffocating feeling of being robbed without reason. Of knowing that what you once possessed for such a short short time (and it was a short time, we barely skimmed the fucking surface) will never return to me again. I can never not think that without feeling astounded. And angry.
I guess I'm still angry.
Or maybe I'm just now feeling angry.

However angry, however passionate, the (arguably) easier it's made being out for fucking number one.
Now I move on easy. Let go easy. Get bored easy.
I'll think you're stupid. Or superficial.
I won't call you back. Make promises I don't plan on keeping. I'll leave when I want to leave with no regard for your feelings.
I'll give short notice, and play favorites. I always play favorites.

It's often that I almost feel entitled to be a bitch when I want to.
And you don't have to call me out on it, because I'm well aware. I'll tattoo it on my fucking shoulder to remind you that I'm well aware. I never use this hurt as an excuse and I haven't to get me anywhere or sympathy or anything. Because a lot of people have their own business. Their own lives to notice. And that's ok.
It's ok that no one knows. No one knows the bad, and no one knows the good.
And again my self-righteousness faults me.

"Hurt people hurt people."

It's true.
And,
I'm sorry.
I am.
But, really,
when it comes down to it all...
no one's really that important.
Not anymore.

Call it punishment.
Call it regret.

But don't call me anything.

Lo

Jimmy Ruffin and the pursuit

And it happened yet again. The slow-motion moment in the midst of chaos.
I'm at Ultra on Friday night dancing like a psycho in celebration of, I don't know - life, when some guy and his slightly less attractive but equally coiffed campus-sheik, wingman approach.
It is clear these lads are not just passing by, but have stopped with purpose - a motivation as to why they choose to stand right there, where I in front of them am flailing so carelessly.
They lean in. My dancing tames however briefly, and I perk an ear. The boy starts, "How's your mother?"
And just as Kanye breaks it down, and the Brazillian dancers sh-shakin' it on the risers hollar a "hells ya", I get sucked back into the dance floor, with nothing more than a suspicion and a hope that I heard him wrong.

Later... in the haze, I consider to myself if this vagrant interaction actually occurred. And although only moments had passed, the booze and exertion distorts my internal clock. It could have been five minutes, it could have been fifty. Or even fifty-two. And as if I imagined it all, the two guys appear yet again, and just as I remembered them. Short and Abercrombie.
I close my eyes for a second, I need to concentrate on the question.
I look at his face, it focuses in and out. His lips are moving but I don't hear what he's saying. In fact, they're moving too slow for reality. It's stalled. A time-lapse. And that Kid Cudi song featuring MGMT starts playing, not in the club, but in a bull-pen circumferencing my head. Thick and stretchy, a theoretical mass that keeps me a foot and a half distant at all times. A foot and a half is a large space between my heart and the world. A terrible flaw.
"How's your mother?"
I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood the question, "What?"
He repeats himself, "How is your mother?"
My face falls. After I unapologetically answer with the simplest, although some would argue morbid statement, there are no other words to describe their reaction than bumbling. Fumbling. Morons. Full of sorries, inching away from the black hole that surrounds me, swallowed yet again into the crowd. Their faces barely making an impression in my mind.
I only remember the idea, not the face. Isn't that sad?
Even after the moment it happened. Isn't that sad?
And then I realize, Kid Cudi's become Jimmy Ruffin. Out of sync with the bumpers and grinders all around, but a perfect melody in my head. "Yes, Jimmy," I think to myself. "What does become of the broken-hearted?"
I stand there, as we slowly zoom out to a wide shot.

Indeed, one soul too heavy for a Hot Mess.
But nearly so.

Lo

(this is parade music) (good grade music) (party like you just got paid or got laid music)

I'm on fire.
I'm listening to hip hop and pop punk, and look at my face... does it look like I care that you act like you're "better" than me?
I'm dancing, at 11:11 am, I'm dancing in my goddam bedroom, swinging my blonde whore hair like nobody's watching because nobody's watching. And it's freeing. And it's cathartic. And I worked so hard.
I love my job. And opportunity. And friendship so genuine you feel like family, thick, thicker, thickest. Blood. Not water. And finally I'm out of the hell hole - almost out - almost there. And I can breathe. FInally breathing. Finally waking up and moving on, and dancing late.
Like old times.
After she'd call. Remembering when I'd hold the phone to the speaker so she could hear the music. Hear them singing to muffle out that fucking drip.
Drip.
d - R I P.

I just want to party and have fun. So I'm going to party and dance and have fun.
I don't have my words tonight. Not tonight. THey're not here.
And I'm thinking, I still have work to do... get the fuck off itunes.
If you never noticed before - it's a pattern - my best pieces of writing are during awfully stagnant periods. But not now. Not when the fire's raging and I'm neck deep in projects, then the words are on the back burner, until another one of those sad and lonely afternoons... then again, the words will find me, and help me be.
I don't need my words right now.
Get the FUCK off itunes.

Oh music. OHhhhh sweet music. For without you I would not be me. Writing would be my meat, but without music it'd be dry.
What's a piece of meat if it ain't wet?

At least I still got sexual innuendo.

"Easy on the booze," Daddy says. "Easy on the booze."
I'm not even drinkkkkkkking!

xo
Sober Lo

Fast Potato

The speed of light is 299,792 km per second. Raging fast. So fast it's indescribable, and any effort to's a waste.

I was on a greyhound to Montreal last night when a wild turkey smacked against the windshield and shattered the entire right frame leaving a spheric shaped dent the size of a watermelon in the glass. I thought it was a gunshot. Yup. In the middle of Cassleman, giant crucifixes erected in endless pastures, and I was dead sure it was a bullet.

I don't suppose you feel like writing? Perhaps you can, and I'll dictate while I think these words and breathe these final breathes before i give in to these eyelids, extra heavy. I'm thinking about radios and televisions. About couches and long walks. About conversation and close talk. About my blood and your blood, and blood that is the same. About nothing at all, and everything.

Why do I find myself in these situations over and over again? In an instant - a pull the trigger, drop the gloves, set the razor to the skin instant - it begins. My love for the stranger. Not so much a complete stranger, but an amalgamation of character traits I've already thought up and assigned.

I wonder if I'll ever see #12 again? Grade 5 probability says it's likely.

The speed of light is not that fast.

players light and plastic pails

We have this home video on VHS circa 1990.
We're in some subpar hotel in South Carolina, a real classy joint with one of those beds that comes down from the wall.
And I'm screaming - the cutest fucking meatball of a kid you've ever fucking seen.
I wasn't one of those weirdo kids, I was one of those shoulda been a child star kind of brats.
So I'm screaming but singing and I'm obsessed with collecting shells.
And my pops comes by in a yellow LA lakers sweatshirt cut off at the shoulders with a sixer of Coors Light. God bless Americana,
Anyhow I'm screaming and bouncing off the walls like any little runt hopped up on Coca-cola and pepperettes. And I'm screaming to my daddy. "Daddy how old are you? DAddddddyyyyyyy."

Finally he states, "Twenty-Five." Announcing it real big, real matter-of-facto ya know?
And I believe him. I don't even think twice. I just turn around and repeat, "Daddy's twenty-five" like a fact is a fact ya know? I carry on and ask my mom how old she is. Clearly, my dad is not twenty-five since I was conceived when he was thirty-six. And I'm screaming.
WOoooooooooYyYYYAYayyyaaaaa.
Like the cutest fucking munchkin you've ever fucking seen.

CUT TO: My sister sprawled out on the mattress (the one in the wall), and her nightgown's riding her waist, and her fruit of the looms are all over the camera.
Mom why are you filming this?

I love home videos.

Lola.

I really like your face(s)

Yearning is one of my favourite words in the English language.

yearn·ing   [yur-ning]
–noun
1. deep longing, esp. when accompanied by tenderness or sadness: a widower's yearning for his wife.
2. an instance of such longing



[thoughts around midnight, kite]
Lola

Paranoia in B-Flat Major

Quote me.
There are forces of nature at work.
Changes on the horizon. The boat set to sea, is trapped in the eye of the storm BUT the red-headed weatherman says clear skies are coming. And COMING... until we reach some point of satisfaction. Of fulfillment for the time being*.
The FREAKS of nature will calm. They'll find a way to free their freak.
Not today. And not tomorrow.
But soon.
Quote me.
There are changes on the horizon.

Trust me.
Not just for me. But for us all trapped in the eye of the storm that is twenty-two... twenty-something.

Lola.

Mes Amies

Often I am unable to operate in a thick of noise.

I suddenly see a thought bubble from last night. I'm in the center of a dance floor, a commotion of hot mess and hip hop. And I'm dancing - working that pink feathered boa knowing in my right mind that it's ridiculous; wearing this boa in a public venue such as this fails to collect any sort of kosher attention. But because I'm aware of said faux pas, I'm saved by the irony.
I see myself dancing but I'm also thinking. I'm analyzing my surroundings and how I feel about everyone and who I'm with and how I feel.

In this thick of noise my mind operates. It surges through a sea of realization - truths about identity that I feel strongly for. It's funny, isn't it? That some of my most profound actualizations spawn during moments such as this. Clouds of thought floating over chaotic, bawdiful waves of mindless vertical fucking and looping auto-tune.

In this moment I saw myself having fun with my friend with barely any alcohol, zero attraction to any member of either sex, nor the satisfaction of onlookers sending invitations of dishonorable intentions with their eyes. I was having fun because of the friendship. The laughing. The ass-shaking. The sexless debauchery of the feather boa.
And in the thick of it I remembered how fruitful "carefree" can prove to be. The opinions of those potential onlookers do not matter in any way - as much as we think they do. I do not need to waste my time improving myself for others. I must return to improving myself for me. I recall phases where my love for myself was inherent - sent like a chemical signal others picked up upon. I can't fight to get that back, but I can earn it.
And there it is, self-love is fun-love. Self-love is real-love.
How easy it all becomes when you return your focus to yourself.
How easy it is to breathe and to be, when loving yourself returns to the front-lines. And I mean front-lines, because all battles are for freedom.

In time, suddenly, you're free.
And once you're free (again) everything you always longed for - the stuff you ailed for - will simply come to you. And when it comes, it'll come as what the french call a "Tour de force."


Private Lo

If he isn't good enough for me, how can he be good enough for you?

This just happens to be my rambling morning musing as I sip my cup of joe (black) and nibble on my brioche (blueberry).
I do recall singing his praises; it's because he's a "nice" guy with a touch of edge in his style.. not so much the flake you'd consider those creative types, and once upon a time he was prolific when the man wasn't strapped to his back and working his knuckles to the bone.

Excuses. Excuses. When you've got someone in your grasp as good as you... you take your lady out... To a nice dinner, at a reasonable hour. It doesn't have to be every week... but do not say the words, "I love you, I'm so afraid to lose you, you are my girlfriend" if you do not want to share your time, if you just wish to "squeeze" her in.

I'm starting to wonder whether you're truly happy? I know you wouldn't want to be back in high school, so why are you running to class at the ring of the bell?
I'm starting to wonder... when he says "I miss you..." is he really saying "I miss the warm inviting crevice that is your va-jay-jay" ?

These are my thoughts and I likely have no right to have an opinion on the matter. However they are thoughts of concern. They are thoughts in the best interest.
And I'm starting to wonder, "are these thoughts your thoughts too?"

xoLola
goes Beatnik.

Post-Secret Wednesday

I rather have love than make more money.
And I rather have my work than ever find love at all.
But if I can swing it, I want it all and then some.

This is what your voice feels like

I'm peeling the rind. I'm doing it fast - I just hate to waste a minute... a moment.
And there it goes, the blade of a steak knife sears right from the flesh of the fruit to the pink of my thumb and it's beading up now, pearls of lovely heartbeat red. The citrus stings the wound, the blood salty as I kiss my own hand clean. But it looks like your hand. Dry and cracked and desperate for intensive care.

And I take a second to regroup. Regardless how deep, these nicks and scrapes can take my wind. I stop flying. I start falling.
My hands are your hands. My hands are cut all over.

I listen to November Blue on repeat and I cry because it feels so unbelievably good to cry and to feel and to hear your voice. Things you said yesterday ten years ago.

I close my eyes and I feel the skin of your hand. The way my head felt against your chest.

And everything that happens for me is because of you. I swear it.

Fuck my nose won't stop running.

What's that prayer you used to say? I wish I knew the words.
Remember those books we used to read before bed? Mercer Mayer.

~Lo

Terracotta Army

The literal translation of "terra" - "cotta" is baked earth in Italian. I had a dream last night where my sister, father and I were outside a suburban home standing at the side of the road on our bicycles. It was bright and sunny. We weren't there to see the home, just stopped at that spot for some reason unbeknownst to any of us, and not once revealed in said dream.

The house was more of a luxury to be honest. One of those Spanish California ranch-styles. A "modest" mansion. There were folks on the roof fixing up some tiles. The terracotta kind - the color of rusty reddish Earth.

I looked up at the house and saw that it was actor Scott Patterson wearing a backwards ball cap and a button down, up there doing work on his own crib. Genuinely enjoying the labor.

"Hey, it's you!" I shouted. He looked down at me and smiled as I brought the unlikely encounter to my sister and father's attention. Clearly, without even knowing me, he can see I've got Gilmore Girls written all over my face and being. We chatted briefly. It was lovely - the kind of pleasant you have with a stranger when you're not being polite for the sake of it, but you realize almost immediately you could actually be friends... You relate...

It was at that moment a mail carrier, who I believe was my older brother, or at least knew and/or looked like my brother, delivered the mail. Something was for me... A check? For $40 000?

What? Why?

"It's yours. I thought you knew?" My sister said without a tinge of jealousy or envy... (Yup, this was a dream...)

So I looked at it. It was indeed for me. My first thought was, "I don't need this at all right now. I only support myself." But it was mine. So I held it... I'm still trying to figure out what this gift from my subconscious world could mean?

In any case - the image of that elaborate roof being maintained, taken care of by this rugged, semi-successful man was the image that really stuck with me. This beautifully ornate roof, yet made from ingredients purely of the Earth... That was what was important in this dream. That's what I had my eyes on...

I consulted a dream dictionary. There are signs everywhere after all.

It states, "To see a roof in your dream, symbolizes a barrier between two states of consciousness. It represents a protection of your consciousness, mentality, and beliefs. The dream is an overview of how you see yourself and who you think you are."

It was terracotta. Rooves adorning Hollywood homes, yet originating from homegrown, warm, European hands. Hands are the most beautiful part of the body. They are the hands that build and create and nurse and touch. And when your face and body changes, your hands generally stay the same. Same lines, nicks, same palms...

To the lovely messages from our subconscious world,
-Lola.

I really appreciate the song playing as I write this - muffled through the walls from some adjoined apartment -
It sounds like Coldplay..."The Scientist." And although I'm not a fan of this band, or really know much about them other than the fact the lead singer was a virgin until he was like 26 or 30 or something that "society" deems outrageous, but I deem "normal"... the song is actually quite fitting for my mood... and the composition of this piece.

Antenna

We're standing there, Joe and I, like idiots with a radio. I don't know why he brought a radio but he did. He does stuff like that. Goddamn! It even has an antenna - I just noticed it. If he pulls it up and turns it on I'll freak. I'll freak! I'll freak out so bad he'll have to tie my arms behind my back, gag me with a pillow sheet, and force me to the ground. ...Or a tree.

He pulls the antenna up. I don't snap. I just swallow, turn and stock off before he even gets a chance to touch the dial.

And then I hear it. The shameless voice of a boy scout calling after me. And when his voice cracks I feel even more like lying on the train-tracks, than I already do. He's shouting my name. When he says it it sounds like something classic and perfect like "Sarah!"
"....Sarah!"
And as much as I wish it was, it's not.

I try to block it out but he catches up to me... Touches my shoulder so that I face him, but not in any way threatening. He'd risk it all to rescue a pigeon from a rat trap after all.

I glare at him and roll my eyes. He's looking at me. But not staring. So kind and perfect - and so annoyingly oblivious to that. He's an innocent.

Again he says my name. I hear "Sarah." He need say nothing more, the inflection alone asks, "what's wrong?" "Sarah what's wrong? What can I do Sarah?"

I shake my head.

He nods... starting to get it... probably thinking I want nothing to do with him. Ok. He gets it. He'll accept it. He'll turn and he'll leave and he'll just let me alone.

...

But he doesn't leave. He's stopped looking at me too. Now he's looking at the trees. He doesn't get it. He doesn't get me.

"You think no one gets you," he says. His voice sounding so guilty, as if he just said something inappropriate. I can tell from his face, he's worried.

And then it just fell out of me... "You wanna know what my theory is? About all this? About everything? The secrets of the universe?"
I continue.
"You wanna know what we all do?
...We talk.
We talk.. And, we walk.
We sing and dance.
Kiss and fuck.
Build and break.
No more.
But certainly no less.
Everything else? It's all just variations of the same.
...And as complex as you think this is? THink I am?
It's actually quite simple."

He's looking at me, but not in my eyes. "You think so?"

I nod.

"So now what?"

"Leave."

"No."

It's the first time I've ever heard him say the word.
It's my turn to talk.

"I don't wanna talk," I say.

"Ok. What do you want to do?" He says my name at the end of his question... but this time I try not to hear Sarah... but my real name.

I take a deep breath. "I wanna do what people do when they don't talk."

After a moment we turn and walk, but this time together, leaves crunching under our feet.
He turns on the radio and it plays an annoyingly perfect tune, like it's the end of a scene in a movie. As lame as I know he knows I think that is, I really like the song.
And how clammy his hand is.

***
Lola
- I wrote this on my ipod while walking home from No Frills. Man, so much of my writing is inspired by walks home from No Frills...

he makes me cry

"We can't all be the same," he says. "If we all looked the same this world would be a terrible place."

I say ok. But it comes out in a whisper - a weak one - my voice caught in my throat.

"Don't worry about it. You're fine. Don't be sad. You're fine ok... ...Are you there? Hey?"

...I'm there. "I'm here."

"Ok. You're fine. Eh? We'll talk tomorrow. Good night."

Ok.


***

Lola.
i'm a telephone crier.

Talk of indolence, a conversation story

B: "It's funny," I say to Marie on the balcony, "you're problem is very much like my problem. Wait. No. Scratch that. You nor I have the problems in these situations... THEY have the problems. They're like fungal growth. It gets worse with age, and serves no purpose but to irritate with insidiousness. It's appalling."

M: "Yeah. You're right."

B: "And they don't even know it."

M: "And they choose to ignore it!"

B: "I believe in communication. I've tried it."

M: "Ya, me too. But sometimes I don't even want to talk."

B: "Oh I NEVER want to talk. Sometimes I open up and play nice... but I have to be in an exceptional mood. I'm often in a good mood, but when I avoid conversation it's not that I'm not in a good mood, it's that I don't want to get in a bad mood. It's a preventative measure."

M: "Talk contraception."

B: "Purple prophylactics."

M: "Candy-flavored condoms!"

B: "Bitchin'."

M: "Indeed...(Beat)
...Her laziness annoys me. Like pick up your crap. It's eating the living room. This isn't your personal hole."

B: " 'And like stop showing your fucking mid-drift', is what I should have said to her. Do you know how tacky that is? ...And it's like tooting your own horn... You know how much she toots her own horn? It's like toot, toot, TOOT every second I see her. Just leave me alone. I'm thinking about things. Important things."

M: "Well Megan's the same way. Except she's just in love with her mother. Every two seconds she needs to see what Mommy thinks... It's embarrassing. Em-bare-assing. Like, I'd like to fuck my boyfriend in peace thank you."

B: "Inconvenient."

M: "When I want it... YES!"

B: "....I bet her Mom tucks her in at night too. Lucky cake."

M: "OMG she's SUCH a cake."

B: "I can't stand cakes."

M: "Oh they're cakes. They're having lunch right and the worst part - they brought provolone cheese and mortadella and olives.... Listen. Don't try to be Italian. You will never be Italian, you rude fuckin' Wonder bread eating manga cakes."

B: "Man alive, that's hilarious. Sounds like dialogue."

M: "Why thank you! I fancy myself a writer don'chya know."

B: "Hey, maybe the mid-drift things a cake thing?"

M: "Or an, 'i'm a 14 year old hick, and shop at Claires' thing. It's tragic."

B: "Obliviously tragic."

M: "The worst kind of tragic... A sin."

B: "Yeah."

M: "Yeah." (Beat).
"Wanna cigarette?"


I wave it off; she knows i don't smoke. But she does when she drinks, so she lights that bitch and sucks it back. She is the epitome of cool and I love her. I make sure to take the moment and admire her, then I carry on with one last thought...

B: "Well, who am I to forgive? But I'll do it anyway - to my cake, to yours. They can't help it, they were born that way... Like we, were born like this."

M: "Holier than thou?"

B: "Your words sister, not mine..."


She holds up her cigarette as if to cheers. I hold up my highball. We clink and ash sprinkles down like paper snow.

She turns to me and says, "So we fucked without a rubber last night."

B: "Oh ya? ... What's that like?"


***

xoLola

Flies, a short story

[Author's Note: When I write creatively the voice in my head sounds like a Southern accent. Read the following passage with one if you can manage.]

Part I

It’s a Sunday and there’s a fly on my potato salad. And not one of those little ones either, but the egg-shaped ones with hairs as long as those in an old man’s nose. My uncle’s name is Beagle. He was named after an old Navy sloop that carried Charles Darwin on a historic journey around the Americas, and the world too. Charles Darwin was a scientist of sorts in case you didn’t know.The kind of science that isn't really real but pondered. There's a word for it, but I can't pin the tail on the donkey with this one.

The HMS Beagle seized operation in 1870. There she went, fifty years after her first launch to sea, she was stripped to the bone and sold for scrap. And like that big old sloop I wouldn’t be surprised if my dear Uncle Beagle sees the same darned fate.
I call him dear, but his friends call him bastard.

It was early June when my parents left for the Key Largo Florida. I was only six years old and it was the last I ever seen of them. My mama was beautiufl, had hair the color of sunflowers, roots the color of their seeds. My father was a bowler, ran with a team called the Yesterday Sandy's. They were headed down to the Keys for a big tournament. "A big one," they cheered as they patted my head and loaded their bags in that Ford pick-up they took from my Gran, almost the instant after my pop's daddy died. They even promised to bring me back authentic Floridian salt-water taffy, straight from the Zeno's factory! The stuff of dreams. Oh boy, I thought. Oh boy.

The funny part of it all - well there was a mountain of luggage stacked in the back of that truck - so high I was worried it'd block the rearview from reflecting the road behind. Worried for their safety, naturally. You should have seen it - their bedroom was nearly empty - drawers almost bare. Looked like a cyclone past through the house too. And yet as I listened to that Ford speed out of the driveway and onto the open road, I sit wondering why my father's lucky bowling ball sit at the bottom of their closet - with his initials engraved 'B' and 'J' all shiney on the front. And I sit wondering, didn't he believe in luck no more?

After a month of living with Gran and her barely saying a word, I started to realize I wasn't getting any Zeno's taffy anytime soon. And when the years started passing, I stopped dreaming of it all together.

My gran just turned 80 at the time, but she looked just about a hundred and twleve. For an old person she sure did smell good, like donut shop coffee and old fashioned glaze. I didn't have to move, 'cause we already lived in her house, off her dime and her cans of Campbells soup. "Mmm mmm good," she'd repeat over and over again. Without much talk or conversation, we established our own little routine, our own way of co-existing in a weird kind of peace. We got along her and I, and I guess it was because my ma and old man didn't just leave behind that special bowling ball, but they left her behind too.

Last Tuesday I was out in the yard and heard the "ding aling aling" of the Dickie Dee ice cream man and boy did I want a Rocket. I caught a glimpse of him - he was breakng on a sharp turn down Everly St. I ran so fast and yelled after him. I nearly tripped and chipped a tooth - surely worth the sacrfice .I caught up with him a moment later, wheezing and out and breath.

I licked that rocket so fast it was almost done by time I reached the front step of my house, my tonge purple from the red and blue fruit flavors, my chin sticky with tears of juices. If Gran saw my face, she wouldnt be pleased. I'd know it from that huff she always made anytime I was impolite or acting like what she called a "neandrathal." That always scared me straight 'cause that's what she called my daddy and I don't think she liked him very much. He never opened the door for her or picked up a quart or nothing. A neandrathal.

I stepped onto the porch and just as I reached for the screen door, there she was lying on the lineoleom kitchen floor, face planted into the ground, Campbells cream of mushroom splattered like an all-you-can-eat chalk outline. And it hit me, it seemed like everyone around me dropped like flies. Was I bug repellent? I wondered.

Sad as it was, that's how I ended up bunking with Uncle Beagle, the Zoologist. He was my only other living relative, but a relative I'd never met only overheard of in passing. Gran's house was repossessed, seems like she had no money, a beehive of credit, and a rather large outstanding dept. The authorities came to collect me and delivered me to the Park Street Zoo. And there he was Beagle James in a navy blue jumper, his name embroidered on his breast and a look of utter confusion on his fully bearded face. He looked like Jesus Christ I thought, the way he looks in the painting that hung above Gran's canopy.

No, Uncle Beagle the janitor (not a zoologist), wasn't expecting me at all. Even more, he wasn't expecting what would come of our life together...

***

xoLola

North Carolina

I love blaring ridiculously good new-age bluegrass while working on arts and crafts. A fine activity for a rainy Saturday afternoon. Surrounded by exposed brick and wood trim. Wearing my navy wellies - "Shining Time Station cool." My fingertips sticky with glue, my skin cut from paper - my heart overflowing with pure joy and my lips singing along to this sweet sweet music.

Fan. I am a fan. And by fan I mean when I honestly like a band... I LOVE them and I really don't care what people think even if they may not be cool enough for top 40, or pretentious enough for music snobs. I enjoy them because they make me enjoy myself. I think about them, I feel anxious to listen to them and when that moment comes where I discover they'll be drivin' their big tour bus down some big ol highway to my little town to bang their drums and scream their lungs dry... and all for me (at least that's what I dream true) I literally feel more alive with hyper fucking love and joy than I do on my birthday. It's the same kind of feeling I get when serendipitous poetry falls from my mind onto the page when I'm neck suffocating deep in a screenplay or story. Oh God.

Joy. Joy is hard to come by... but as of late... there is so much to be joyful about.

Birthdays. I'm going to Tattoo Rock Parlor tonight for the first time for my friend G's boyfriend's birthday. So I made him a card out of a Cheerios box and Now classifieds. That card in the pic, see? It's supposed to be Moby Dick. Remember how thrilling it was when it finally was Art period in elementary school? Fucking pine cones and egg cartons and pipe cleaner dreams. Getting high off the glue and talking about boys. That's how I felt last night while making that card. Bliss.

I've been thinking a lot about birthdays lately. About AM's in particular. And the fact that, come June, her and I will be experiencing one of my favourite bands live together in celebration of her twenty fourth year... well I can't think of anything more blissful.

We'll be there... in our denim fucking dressings, moccasins and beaded necklaces singing our fucking souls out. Sounds beautiful, right? It's because it is.

xo

Lola.

"You're not a girl, you're a car, you're a red Trans Ammmmmmmm"

What light there is slips through

My favourite Greek myths are the ones that involve a detour into the Underworld. I think those are the most emotionally accurate precursors to the modern coming-of-age story, because they tell us what we all already know but often forget : that fear cannot be conquered until it is looked in the eye and feared properly, and that growth does not include bypassing the tough stuff.

Having said that, suffering for suffering's sake brings us nowhere. The courage to face difficulty is a two-pronged cure that will take us out of it. If Psyche had walked into the Land of the Dead without knowing what she was facing, she'd still be down there, wailing with the rest of the souls. But she walked out and, in the deepest corners of my faith, I know I will too.

I am beginning to view my life as my own personal myth, with its own gods and demons and trials in the Underworld. I firmly believe that this is what life really is and that everyone, everywhere, is writing their own myths as they breathe. Like any anthology, some myths are more ambitious than others and some small acts of heroism can get lost in the shuffle, but there are no minor myths, no lesser heroes, just smaller or quieter ones. The only stories that don't finish are the ones that don't begin and to begin, you need to leave the familiar and accept the quest. So first let us accept, then let us begin.


Yours,

Inari Grindcore


This is my last post on Sexless. I'm not a fan of stagnancy, so change it, move it, shake it, rip it up...it's all good with me.

thick, thicker, thickest

I don't like it when you criticize other girls and you say things like, "uh, her body is nothing special at all." Well, if her body is nothing special, and in my opinion it's "better" than mine, then what the hell do you think of my body? And it's not that you're opinion on the matter should matter, but it does. It matters. Your eye represents the heterosexist, North American public. The public I just so happen to be a part of.

... I've had a thought. The world is enormous. That should mean something. And I know what it means about romance - about the world of possibility beyond our own fenced off GTA. It wouldn't make sense for all of our "ones" to be so close already?

But I hate to talk about romance in such close proximity to my self-analysis of my sometimes negative body image because it would suggest that the two are in some way related.

And to think I was actually feeling pretty positive until you said that thing about TY from high school. Fuck TY.

We may be blood, but that doesn't magically make you see me through rose colored glasses. Please see what everyone else sees and judge accordingly.

I'm also a little perturbed that the JOAN Barbie doll isn't an accurate representation of the actual character.

This was just a five minute spell of trouble. On all other fronts - it's sunshine, mild and clear skies... and it only gets better from here.

xoLo

Sell a couple bottles of Dr. Good

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TOSZwEwl_1Q

Dear Anne,

I'm thinking of taking over the house blog as my own without officially telling anyone or its "co-owners". I'll keep all of its history and posts - not only mine but Inari's and Des' as well. I'd never EVER want to lose any of them. But...you see... it houses so many of my stories and thoughts that I feel abnormally close to it... as if I've already reinvented it as all my own. I love the URL but absolutely loathe the name. I really want to change it to something that speaks specifically to who I am... something that compares to the creative spunk of other such titles that I'm proud of from my own cognatic collection. I could probably come up with an inifinite amount a hell of a lot better than "Sexless." Even though I'm sure I annoyingly coined it to begin with - unknowing of it's existing exponent - parodic popularity.

What I'm really concerned with Anne is my desire just to take something that is not wholly mine without consulting anyone first. It's not that consulting with the others would be any sort of thorn in my side... I just don't feel like I have to. But maybe I do, or why else would I be sussing this out? I'm usually not a wimp like this. Meh... I think I was just looking for an excuse to quote Cher in a blog post... and applied it to the most relevant of passing thoughts I was having.

What do you think Anne? Think i'd be stealing?

Signed,

A Thief on a Thursday night.

Girl, I like your biznessss

There's a lace curtain over my bedroom window, more like a veil really - and it's the kind of goldish tan as if aged with time. The blinds part slightly and I see the fuzzy incandescents like urban stars against the morning sky. Sad grey eyes with that hint of orange treasure and sunshine pink. I'm ready to watch the sunrise essentially which should happen any moment. Well, is happening at the moment.

I usually right lengthy fabricated stories based loosely on the things that more than often outrage or conflict or haunt me time and time again. Usually long and rather columnish essays if you will. Lately, however, I've been reflecting on those subtle inspirations that I encounter daily... observations that I make that (for lack of a less bible-finatic sounding phrase) - that I'm "thankful for."

I could not have asked for more of a lovely evening last night with G. I like our time together. It's comfortable, cathartic. Her face and/or voice does not fucking annoy me. I genuinely enjoy her company and volunteer to be around her because she's the kind of human being I admire. This is completely self serving BUT I actually feel better when I'm around her - like I'm not digressing but "BETTERING MYSELF.'' I don't like not using my time to do that. Double negative I know but I must for dramatic affect in order to stress the importance of what said double negative implies.

K it's 6:17 am. Time to get my ass out of bed and ready for the salt mines.

xo Lola.

I've nicknamed it already - "white heat." That's good. That's really REALLY good.

Peter Krause, you're a fox.

There are these moments - few and far between - where I stumble upon a brand new show and it speaks directly to me, every part of me. My mind, my nostalgia, my heart and my hormones, the whole lot. It's the most satisfying and fulfilling feeling to discover a show that feels like it was made just for you. There's something special about tv, especially tv like this. You can count on it every week to be there. And just be there to make you happy, even if it does sometimes make you sad. Some of the best and most successful new television triggers memories. How can something new and unfamiliar and dramatized, essentially, trigger a memory? Something that's happened in the past? The same way I explain the transmission of television light and sound out of that awkward box we all stare at. It's not a result of electrical power or any sort of logistical science. I don't believe in science. I believe in ethereal power. Some godly force. Some meant to be, magical lucky charms kinda junk that drives it all and home.

It goes back to birth and Laura Ingalls. Or the black out power outage, and yet the Goonies was playing on tv. The Price is Right at Nanni's, or Cheers when scary Nonna babysat. Throwing tantrums during Young and the Restless. Learning what drugs were during 90210. "But he has a baby picture on his mantel, why is David Silver doing drugs?" Or hitting puberty during an episode of the Cosby show. Or doing my grade 5 speech on Friends... the list goes on and on and on...

TV may not "feed my family" but I want it to.

xoLo

7:14 am itunes binge and the grand ole oprey

Erase and sync.

That's like five years of adolescent music history gone.

Half a decade defined by illegally ripped tunes and innumerable compact discs (aka c.d's.)

A feeling only an emoticon can sufficiently express.

:/

I bit the bullet. Ripped the band aid. Held my breath and hit that ever foreboding delete.

Now starting from goddamn scratch.

...And I suppose that's what this entire year has felt like.

A rebirth from that mousy haired, sad little anorexic heart. Luckily that sad sack is no more.

Now I'm blonde, and bodacious... and obsessed with country music. (Ahem... real country music).

It's not a bad thing to love yourself. It's a very VERY good thing.

Think of what is absolutely rad about you... (about those you love!) And there... you love yourself.

Celebrate you.

xo

Lola.

Bonham, Jones, Page & Plant

I'm a broken record I know. But MAN do things ever happen for a reason.

I'm often on the cusp of committing down right stupid fucking things and it's as if some unearthly element, some stairway to heaven/whole lotta love kinda shit that's just way beyond bizarre - dives for home and saves me from myself. From what coulda been. Disastrous.

Well not disastrous. Just so incredibly fake. He's a flake!

Well what coulda been is not my fate. Please refrain and stay 10 ft away from me at all times. And whatever I said, I didn't mean. And whatever I do? I rather I don't.

Go back to sleep. Go back to never waking up. Go back to the throws of young degenerate folk singer love. And leave me out of it. I'm nobody's second.

...Or third.

"Just do what you want," he says. "Just do what feels right."

As if that's helping.

Yet still,

I concur,

And,

I'll go back to how it used to be.

I'll go back to waiting for when it's right.

Yup. That's my decision.

Afterall, the stars they say, "sometimes it is better to sit back and let fate take its course rather than try too hard. This is one of those times. Life will come to you. You don’t have to chase it."

Mr. Plant? Mr. Page? Will you play me out?

xoLola.

"There's a sign on the wall

But she wants to be sure
'Cause you know sometimes words have
Two meanings

In a tree by the brook
There's a songbird who sings
Sometimes all of our thoughts are
Misgiven

Ooh, it makes me wonder

Ooh, it makes me wonder..."

polytechnique

I've been watching a lot of contemporary Canadian film lately.

Wow, there's so much quality out there, I can't believe I only make the effort around Genie time.

Jacque Davidts' Polytechnique was beautiful. Again, quiet, subtle yet brimming with emotion the way tears flutter from your lids when you try so desperately to hold them back. To conceal them from whom ever's watching. From whom ever is near.

My God. I was shaken. I felt like I hadn't a clue about the Montreal Massacre. "Why are you not more informed?" I scolded myself and immediately tuned into an hour worth of CBC archival footage... which turns out was twice as traumatizing as the film. And the film was mighty powerful. Powerful in its minimalism.

Minimalism. Is. Beautiful.

As was Sebastien Huberdeau's J-F....

There's a moment at the end of the film in one of the survivor (Valérie's) final reveries. She's addressing the Killer's mother in a letter. She says he - that day - scarred her for life. And even though in her present state she appears content, productive, and in a loving relationship, she is still scarred. And even without this exposition, you know this about her.

It got me thinking. One, really can be scarred for life. Yeah, I suppose scars fade and some even argue they're physically able to disappear completely. But I'm actually highly skeptical of that claim. And although some are closer to the surface than others, and some deeper to the bone, they're there and they're never, ever going away.

goodnight,

Lo

next on my list: Victoria Day

Nurse. Fighter. Boy.

I don't trust people who are uncomfortable with silence.

For those who have a difficult time understanding that, just recognize (for the nine millionth time) that my mind is always elsewhere. Always thinking about other things. So if I seem distracted, I'm not, I'm really just focused on something I consider far more a matter at hand.

Nurse. Fighter. Boy.

Nurse. Fighter. Boy is such a lovely film. It could not have been a more perfect film choice for this evening to massage my solitary silence after a hard days work. And not just because it was inspiring (so simple, so quiet, yet so layered and emotional = every way I wish to write) but also because there's this scene between the mother and son that resonated so much it was as if it was pulled directly from my childhood.

If you get the opportunity to watch this film - please do. It's urban, contemporary - and if you dig classic "indie" with a small unflashy dose of Canadiana you're already sure to respect it without even having viewed it. But it's the lovely written, directed and acted relationships that really pulled my heartstrings in. That really made me believe in the film - however "formulaic"the critics accost it to be.

xo goodnight all,

Lola.

The Equalizer

12:45pm.
Maybe it was my midmorning snack of two black coffees and a diet coke, but I have this nervous pit in my stomach and a bad case of the jitters. As if I've done something. As if something's going to happen. Or maybe something already has.

I've been more paranoid than usual. It could be that I grew up middle class, and I am so not in that environment anymore... that is until I return to my four-room apartment on Bloor St... It's astounding how severe the hierarchal dichotomy is in the professional world. I often feel inadequate. I shouldn't though and I know that. But, to be honest, it's kind of nice to not be so self-assured for a change. It makes you work twice as hard, if not harder.

It also makes you always wonder what others are thinking and why.

My Dad says not to worry. He says to just be my honest self and everything will be more than fine. How does he say this with such unbound conviction, as if he's in tune with some deeper fate with God himself.

In any case, I've come to understand that even if we think we owe to others for the bulk of our achievements, we also in part owe it to ourselves to see that we at least play some role in getting to where we wish to be.

We just need to build it. And considering there's a massive green tarp right behind my cubicle blocking off a site of demolition - in order to then reconstruct a corner office that oozes years of learning, harwork and success... I know for a fact that "building" is a work in progress. So we gotta be in it for the long-haul. If you're in a nervous hurry? Then this life? It ain't for you.

Patience.
Axl Rose really does give great advice.

Lola.

"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!