I'd like to share these lyrics. If you, like me, like to listen to angsty music - the kind where you just feel the heart and body yearning... i recommend bright eyes. here's a taste.
the Perfect Sonnet:
Lately I've been wishing I had one desire
Something that would make me never want another
Something that would make it so that nothing mattered
All would be clear then
But I guess I'll have to settle for a few brief moments
And watch it all dissolve into a single second
And try to write it down into a perfect sonnet
or one foolish line
'Cause that's all that you'll get so you'll have to accept
You are here then you're gone
But I believe that lovers should be tied together and
Thrown into the ocean in the worst of weather
and left there to drown
Left there to drown in their innocence
But as for me I'm coming to the final chapter
I read all of the pages and there is still no answer
Only all that was before I know must soon come after
That is the only way it can be
So I stand in the sun
And I breathe with my lungs
Trying to spare me the weight of the truth
Saying everything you've ever seen was just a mirror
And you've spent your whole life sweating in an endless fever
And now you are laying in a bathtub full of freezing water
Wishing you were a ghost
But once you knew a girl and you named her Lover
And danced with her in kitchens through the greenest summer
But autumn came, She disappeared
You can't remember where she said she was going to
But you know that she's gone 'cause she left you a song
That you don't want to sing
We're singing I believe that lovers should be chained together
And thrown into a fire with their songs and letters
And left there to burn
Left there to burn in their arrogance
But as for me I'm coming to my final failure
I've killed myself with changes trying to make things better
But I ended up becoming something other than what I had planned to be
Now I believe that lovers should be draped in flowers
And layed entwined together on a bed of clover
And left there to sleep
Left there to dream of their happiness
xo LO.
ps if i were a love song i would be "leaving on a jet plane."
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Bat shit crazies
There is a mouse in my room.
Colour me unimpressed.
If I really wanted to, I'd use this mouse as a metaphor for everything that's pissing me off right now: small, invisible, hiding itself amongst all the books and movies and distracting crap I keep crammed in my room, robbing me of sleep and unsettling me just because I know it exists. I haven't seen the sonofabitch yet, so that adds to its insidiousness. I don't know if I'm afraid of mice, but I don't like the idea of someone living in my space, someone freeloading off my rent, without my permission.
As a metaphor, it upsets me. As vermin, it annoys me. Either way, I'll kill the fucker if it ever comes out. My policy on pest: Zero Tolerance.
Exterminatingly-yours,
Inari
If I were an animated cat, I would be...Dragon, from The Secret of NIMH. The one who ate Mrs. Brisby's husband.
Colour me unimpressed.
If I really wanted to, I'd use this mouse as a metaphor for everything that's pissing me off right now: small, invisible, hiding itself amongst all the books and movies and distracting crap I keep crammed in my room, robbing me of sleep and unsettling me just because I know it exists. I haven't seen the sonofabitch yet, so that adds to its insidiousness. I don't know if I'm afraid of mice, but I don't like the idea of someone living in my space, someone freeloading off my rent, without my permission.
As a metaphor, it upsets me. As vermin, it annoys me. Either way, I'll kill the fucker if it ever comes out. My policy on pest: Zero Tolerance.
Exterminatingly-yours,
Inari
If I were an animated cat, I would be...Dragon, from The Secret of NIMH. The one who ate Mrs. Brisby's husband.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Deep End Diving
I'm exhausted which means I'm in the perfect frame of mind to blog.
So if there's one thing I've learned from three years of film school and countless sleepless nights on sets is that the biggest favour you can do for yourself is to just own up to your ignorance and not give a fuck. I figure, it's pretty inescapable...I'm never not going to know something and the fact that I don't know these things usually doesn't say anything about me except that I'm inexperienced, which is probably the best shoe-fitting definition of who I am. I'm young, inexperienced and full of desire to learn and experience as much as possible in as little time as possible. That said, this experience still hurts and it still sucks and it makes me want to just go home and blog and eat chocolate cake with whipped cream which is exactly what I'm doing right now.
I am so tired. And I can't stop thinking about how much I miss him. And how long it's taken for me to realize just how much of him I've lost. God, I get so angry sometimes.
Exhaustingly yours,
Inari
If I were inappropriate film innuendo, I would be..."Dolly in."
So if there's one thing I've learned from three years of film school and countless sleepless nights on sets is that the biggest favour you can do for yourself is to just own up to your ignorance and not give a fuck. I figure, it's pretty inescapable...I'm never not going to know something and the fact that I don't know these things usually doesn't say anything about me except that I'm inexperienced, which is probably the best shoe-fitting definition of who I am. I'm young, inexperienced and full of desire to learn and experience as much as possible in as little time as possible. That said, this experience still hurts and it still sucks and it makes me want to just go home and blog and eat chocolate cake with whipped cream which is exactly what I'm doing right now.
I am so tired. And I can't stop thinking about how much I miss him. And how long it's taken for me to realize just how much of him I've lost. God, I get so angry sometimes.
Exhaustingly yours,
Inari
If I were inappropriate film innuendo, I would be..."Dolly in."
Monday, September 22, 2008
when i was 5 i was a bunny with a fat lip
“My favorite review described me as the cinematic equivalent of junk mail.”
It's a mad house.
We're all super busy.
So. I'll be brief.
I live for this rush.
I'm only 20 for 3 more days.
I love to write. I love what I'm writing and think about it all
the time. I talk to the dead about it. It helps.
I feel that already this is probably the best week of September.
The weekend was meaningful. And this coming weekend will be
even moreso. I want there to be lots of kissing... but not
involving me. I wish to be a spectator and commentator
but not an actor in the sensation.
I'm living off of the energy from my acting class this morning
and my memories of past autumns. of your apple pie.
of my - "im a funny girl phase".
i miss that phase. I want to be joe pesci in Goodfellas.
do I amuse you? im funny?
My fingers hurt but I can't wait to touch my cello strings.
I seriously am in love with Mary Louise Parker
and wish i wrote WEEDS.
I am surrounded by sexy women and love it.
(shout out to my roomies , my sister and homegirls o and my
regular hooker. (all my bests in one big bannana boat bowl
of Thumbs Up Korean for a cool 5.95.)
My head feels light and airy.
I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders
or is slowly lifting up.
Thank you for one of th most life-changing and life shaping years.
It was brilliant.
I feel alive. And that's all I've really wanted since the day i died.
xo
Lo is HIGH.
ps. If I were halloween treats I would be:
- the house that gives the orange, can of RC cola, rockets and a halloween
pencil with a black tip. o how i miss trick or treating on walts street
Steve Buscemi
It's a mad house.
We're all super busy.
So. I'll be brief.
I live for this rush.
I'm only 20 for 3 more days.
I love to write. I love what I'm writing and think about it all
the time. I talk to the dead about it. It helps.
I feel that already this is probably the best week of September.
The weekend was meaningful. And this coming weekend will be
even moreso. I want there to be lots of kissing... but not
involving me. I wish to be a spectator and commentator
but not an actor in the sensation.
I'm living off of the energy from my acting class this morning
and my memories of past autumns. of your apple pie.
of my - "im a funny girl phase".
i miss that phase. I want to be joe pesci in Goodfellas.
do I amuse you? im funny?
My fingers hurt but I can't wait to touch my cello strings.
I seriously am in love with Mary Louise Parker
and wish i wrote WEEDS.
I am surrounded by sexy women and love it.
(shout out to my roomies , my sister and homegirls o and my
regular hooker. (all my bests in one big bannana boat bowl
of Thumbs Up Korean for a cool 5.95.)
My head feels light and airy.
I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders
or is slowly lifting up.
Thank you for one of th most life-changing and life shaping years.
It was brilliant.
I feel alive. And that's all I've really wanted since the day i died.
xo
Lo is HIGH.
ps. If I were halloween treats I would be:
- the house that gives the orange, can of RC cola, rockets and a halloween
pencil with a black tip. o how i miss trick or treating on walts street
Steve Buscemi
Monday, September 1, 2008
Singapore Sling
Chapter One
They say there are two sides to every story. I agree with “them” who ever they may be - assuming “they” is actually a small and highly secure unit that controls and directs the tides of popular culture. I also assume that “they” were born in bland business suits and use a profuse amount of Depp styling products, all the while planting such all-purpose universally recognized truths and idioms within society for the masses to adopt, and later reference at their convenience (like I am doing right now.)
I argue however that there are more than two sides to every story given the obvious factor that a “story” usually involves a number of characters each with their own set of experiences resulting in burgeoning stories that shoot off of the main branch. “Spin-offs” one might identify them as. A story can also focus around a single event that affects a group of characters related or otherwise. This single event may be one individual’s experience, but in turn stirs the pot of so many people’s daily grind. Explicably becoming a smorgasbord of story as opposed to one serving of a single dish from one restaurateur.
A woman gets cancer for the second time. This time however she does not respond to any of her treatments and thus lies in a hospital bed on New Years Eve hooked to an IV drip, eyes half closed, jaundice skin the color of squash and sunken cheek bones that remind her youngest daughter of the animated crypt keeper from the YTV television series she watched as a child.
This woman is surrounded by the closest members in her family, all paying hyper attention to the sound of her breaths, the acute rise of her tummy up and down -- the slightest pause making each of their hearts skip a beat, sometimes in unison. At this point the members of the woman’s family present, are all dumbfounded by the mystery of life, death and the lottery of disease -- lost in the silence of thought, memory, prayer, all of which are too ideal for the current and seemingly expected inevitable dooms of the woman’s ill-fated reality.
The heart rate monitor beeps.
The woman’s youngest daughter rests her head against the woman’s chest, feeling the bump of the mastectomy scar from 9 years earlier through the thinning fabric of a hospital gown washed a batch too many. She hums Day Dream Believer by the Monkeys as finally, the woman’s body succumbs to the evil unknown invading her cells, traveling her veins – reaping her of her old age, her motherhood, her every last desire on Earth that could have been (should have been), and catapulting her into an entirely separate unknown. This unknown being the second of two sides to this woman’s story. The story that ensues while on the “other side.” Hence there are two standard sides of one person’s being. One while alive on Earth and one that carries on after that person has passed on to whatever and wherever the other side may be. In any case, after the woman passes on, her being perpetually affects and crafts the stories of all those she touched as she goes on to live inside the hearts of each of them all at varying degrees but really to a fucking immeasurable level.
Chapter Two
This is not the woman’s story. This is the result of the woman’s story on her youngest daughter’s being – whom of which just happens to be me.
Cocktail anyone?
xoLO
They say there are two sides to every story. I agree with “them” who ever they may be - assuming “they” is actually a small and highly secure unit that controls and directs the tides of popular culture. I also assume that “they” were born in bland business suits and use a profuse amount of Depp styling products, all the while planting such all-purpose universally recognized truths and idioms within society for the masses to adopt, and later reference at their convenience (like I am doing right now.)
I argue however that there are more than two sides to every story given the obvious factor that a “story” usually involves a number of characters each with their own set of experiences resulting in burgeoning stories that shoot off of the main branch. “Spin-offs” one might identify them as. A story can also focus around a single event that affects a group of characters related or otherwise. This single event may be one individual’s experience, but in turn stirs the pot of so many people’s daily grind. Explicably becoming a smorgasbord of story as opposed to one serving of a single dish from one restaurateur.
A woman gets cancer for the second time. This time however she does not respond to any of her treatments and thus lies in a hospital bed on New Years Eve hooked to an IV drip, eyes half closed, jaundice skin the color of squash and sunken cheek bones that remind her youngest daughter of the animated crypt keeper from the YTV television series she watched as a child.
This woman is surrounded by the closest members in her family, all paying hyper attention to the sound of her breaths, the acute rise of her tummy up and down -- the slightest pause making each of their hearts skip a beat, sometimes in unison. At this point the members of the woman’s family present, are all dumbfounded by the mystery of life, death and the lottery of disease -- lost in the silence of thought, memory, prayer, all of which are too ideal for the current and seemingly expected inevitable dooms of the woman’s ill-fated reality.
The heart rate monitor beeps.
The woman’s youngest daughter rests her head against the woman’s chest, feeling the bump of the mastectomy scar from 9 years earlier through the thinning fabric of a hospital gown washed a batch too many. She hums Day Dream Believer by the Monkeys as finally, the woman’s body succumbs to the evil unknown invading her cells, traveling her veins – reaping her of her old age, her motherhood, her every last desire on Earth that could have been (should have been), and catapulting her into an entirely separate unknown. This unknown being the second of two sides to this woman’s story. The story that ensues while on the “other side.” Hence there are two standard sides of one person’s being. One while alive on Earth and one that carries on after that person has passed on to whatever and wherever the other side may be. In any case, after the woman passes on, her being perpetually affects and crafts the stories of all those she touched as she goes on to live inside the hearts of each of them all at varying degrees but really to a fucking immeasurable level.
Chapter Two
This is not the woman’s story. This is the result of the woman’s story on her youngest daughter’s being – whom of which just happens to be me.
Cocktail anyone?
xoLO
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
In Toronto
It's a little early for a Summer '08 post-mortem.
As you might have noticed, I've deleted most (i.e. all) of my previous entries. I'm not going to offer an explanation except to say that I own 1/3 of this blog and I can do whatever the hell I want with my fraction. Hah! However, I do offer sincere apologies because self-censorship isn't really what this space is about. At least, that's how I see it. What's the point of publishing free-hand rantings if you stop and regret it later? My usual philosophy is: You've tainted the air with your words, now live with it. There is always that moment of hesitation before you click that shiny, orange 'Publish Post' button and once you do there is no going back (in theory). But alack...alas...that's what I've done. Not to be gone forever mind you...only to resurface years later as 'Inari Classic'.
I'm so happy to be home. It's good times. I woke up far too early...probably something to do with the time difference even though time zone logic would suggest otherwise. Already the moods are going up and down and now I'm wondering if my moods are only undulating because I pay such close attention to them. Hmm? I need to get out of this gorgeous brain of mine and start living present-tense! At least, that what I imagine my imaginary therapist would tell me.
No plans for today or for any of the days leading up to when I go back to work. I need to print out a schedule for my boss that will somehow keep my weekends open and still allow me to make enough money to pay rent...and make my movie...and maintain my rather expensive book-buying habits. Gosh, Inari! You got a library card! Use it!
I have nothing else to say. Odd. I probably shouldn't have posted.
Too late now.
Head-noddingly yours,
Inari
If I were a lyric, I would be: "I got soul but I'm not a soldier"
As you might have noticed, I've deleted most (i.e. all) of my previous entries. I'm not going to offer an explanation except to say that I own 1/3 of this blog and I can do whatever the hell I want with my fraction. Hah! However, I do offer sincere apologies because self-censorship isn't really what this space is about. At least, that's how I see it. What's the point of publishing free-hand rantings if you stop and regret it later? My usual philosophy is: You've tainted the air with your words, now live with it. There is always that moment of hesitation before you click that shiny, orange 'Publish Post' button and once you do there is no going back (in theory). But alack...alas...that's what I've done. Not to be gone forever mind you...only to resurface years later as 'Inari Classic'.
I'm so happy to be home. It's good times. I woke up far too early...probably something to do with the time difference even though time zone logic would suggest otherwise. Already the moods are going up and down and now I'm wondering if my moods are only undulating because I pay such close attention to them. Hmm? I need to get out of this gorgeous brain of mine and start living present-tense! At least, that what I imagine my imaginary therapist would tell me.
No plans for today or for any of the days leading up to when I go back to work. I need to print out a schedule for my boss that will somehow keep my weekends open and still allow me to make enough money to pay rent...and make my movie...and maintain my rather expensive book-buying habits. Gosh, Inari! You got a library card! Use it!
I have nothing else to say. Odd. I probably shouldn't have posted.
Too late now.
Head-noddingly yours,
Inari
If I were a lyric, I would be: "I got soul but I'm not a soldier"
Saturday, August 16, 2008
This Sally wants her Harry.
The release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince has been delayed from November 2008 to July 2009.
8 months.
I manage to have the worst thought possible. How many people, who were looking forward to the film, will die between November and next July? I know what you’re thinking… and yes, I am a riot at parties.
Six degrees of separation: A law of the universe? Would the Earth turn backwards if we were disconnected from the person next to us on the subway? Hopefully not, since at the moment I feel about 10,000 degrees away from everyone in the universe.
My soul is currently split seven ways.
1.
I want to dance. The kind of dance where you’ve been partying up a storm the whole night, and you’re both gross, sweaty, and sloppy. But you find each other. Your hands find their places, and suddenly the group party falls away and it’s just the two of you. Maybe one of you tries to say something, but the noise carries it away. Thundering loud club music, and yet somehow you’re softly swaying in each other’s arms. Like nature. Like waves to the shore.
2.
I want to hold hands. The kind where the fingers lock. So innocent, yet oddly saucy, happening secretly in the dark of a movie theatre, or a club, or some campus walkway at night… No one is around to witness it. Who grabbed whose? Can’t remember. It happens with neither of you mentioning it before, during…. or after.
3.
I want eye contact. The kind of moment where I want to ask what the eyes are saying. And they answer me wordlessly.
4.
I want to be hugged. There were times when I felt so bitter about being hugged. When I felt so upset, so angry… and suddenly I was being hugged. I didn’t hug back, and all I could think was how mad I was that they had the nerve to think that this stupid hug was going to make me feel any better. They are just arms, and cruel people have arms too. But right now I want a hug. I want to be on that selfish receiving end… where I can weep, and keep my arms at my side …and still they continue to hold me, trying to blanket the fire.
5.
I want a kiss on the shoulder blade. It sort of always sneaks up on you. Since, I am rarely looking at my shoulder blades.
6.
I want a hand to brush the hair out of my eyes. Even if it isn’t really all that much in them.
7.
I want to be in the same room as someone who cares about me. Between four walls, zero degrees of separation, sharing the air, and the universe with someone else.
Because when the world starts to spin backwards, when I’m not in the room with someone who cares… I start to think about the one who doesn’t. And then I think of our first dance, and his hands and eyes; I think about the Xs and the Os. I think about the drunk nights, the sober mornings. I think about my dad waiting with a shotgun, and then passing him the keys to his car. I think about all the time spent…
And I wonder how substantial a difference 8 months really makes.
Signed,
Desiree Thrash
If I were a screenplay revision colour, I would be… Buff.
8 months.
I manage to have the worst thought possible. How many people, who were looking forward to the film, will die between November and next July? I know what you’re thinking… and yes, I am a riot at parties.
Six degrees of separation: A law of the universe? Would the Earth turn backwards if we were disconnected from the person next to us on the subway? Hopefully not, since at the moment I feel about 10,000 degrees away from everyone in the universe.
My soul is currently split seven ways.
1.
I want to dance. The kind of dance where you’ve been partying up a storm the whole night, and you’re both gross, sweaty, and sloppy. But you find each other. Your hands find their places, and suddenly the group party falls away and it’s just the two of you. Maybe one of you tries to say something, but the noise carries it away. Thundering loud club music, and yet somehow you’re softly swaying in each other’s arms. Like nature. Like waves to the shore.
2.
I want to hold hands. The kind where the fingers lock. So innocent, yet oddly saucy, happening secretly in the dark of a movie theatre, or a club, or some campus walkway at night… No one is around to witness it. Who grabbed whose? Can’t remember. It happens with neither of you mentioning it before, during…. or after.
3.
I want eye contact. The kind of moment where I want to ask what the eyes are saying. And they answer me wordlessly.
4.
I want to be hugged. There were times when I felt so bitter about being hugged. When I felt so upset, so angry… and suddenly I was being hugged. I didn’t hug back, and all I could think was how mad I was that they had the nerve to think that this stupid hug was going to make me feel any better. They are just arms, and cruel people have arms too. But right now I want a hug. I want to be on that selfish receiving end… where I can weep, and keep my arms at my side …and still they continue to hold me, trying to blanket the fire.
5.
I want a kiss on the shoulder blade. It sort of always sneaks up on you. Since, I am rarely looking at my shoulder blades.
6.
I want a hand to brush the hair out of my eyes. Even if it isn’t really all that much in them.
7.
I want to be in the same room as someone who cares about me. Between four walls, zero degrees of separation, sharing the air, and the universe with someone else.
Because when the world starts to spin backwards, when I’m not in the room with someone who cares… I start to think about the one who doesn’t. And then I think of our first dance, and his hands and eyes; I think about the Xs and the Os. I think about the drunk nights, the sober mornings. I think about my dad waiting with a shotgun, and then passing him the keys to his car. I think about all the time spent…
And I wonder how substantial a difference 8 months really makes.
Signed,
Desiree Thrash
If I were a screenplay revision colour, I would be… Buff.
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