Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Je ne parle pas francais. Katherine Mansfield.
When a thing's gone, it's gone. It's over and done with. Let it go then ! Ignore it, and comfort yourself, if you do want comforting, with the thought that you never do recover the same thing that you lose. It's always a new thing. The moment it leaves you it's changed. Why, that's even true of a hat you chase after; and I don't mean superficially –I mean profoundly speaking . . . I have made it a rule of my life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy, and no one who intends to be a writer can afford to indulge in it. You can't get it into shape; you can't build on it; it's only good for wallowing in. Looking back, of course, is equally fatal to Art. It's keeping yourself poor. Art can't and won't stand poverty.
Je ne parle pas francais.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The 5ive Magical Sex Acts
A friend and I went to a Cobrasnake party the other night. I left with some (act-|wait-)tress who, instead of taking her clothes off, decided to spend two hours explaining how she knew Emmy Rossum was a lez. My friend, on the other hand, got to leave with Cory Kennedy. I called him the next morning to find out how it was. He said:
“So amazing that it would be unconscionable for me to even attempt to relate the details to you.”
“Come on, tell me.”
“I will tell you five amazing things, and you must tell me which amazing thing comes closest to capturing the raw emotion of the experience.”
“OK. You ready?”
“Number one. It was like riding on the back of a giant sea turtle, across the middle of the ocean at night, while, high overhead, the heat death of the universe begins.”
“Number two. It was like feeling the warm, sweet breath of a unicorn on your face and neck as it nuzzles you awake, deep inside an enchanted forest, on the morning of the final day of an epic quest.
“You sound sure.”
“Number three. It was like being made love to by a wind-wraith, a being both nowhere and everywhere all at once, an invisible yet sensate creature able to hover gently above every pleasure cell and erogenous zone all over your entire body–I mean each individual hair on your head, your fingers and palms, your lips and eyelids, the insides of your forearms and thighs, all of them–and trigger them simultaneously.”
“Number four. You’ve been to the Playboy Mansion.”
“You know I haven’t.”
“It was like entering a place of unspeakable pornography, and being given the Holy Communion. Amidst the most horrifying perversion, you feel the touch of God, light upon your forehead, and are moved to tears. You are transformed utterly, but in the exact opposite of the way that you expected. Number five.”
“Number five. It was like a soul splitting in two. The ethereal half floats gently up to the ceiling, to gaze down upon the corporeal half and Cory, as they continue their primal, atavisitic ravaging of each other’s bodies. Then–at the exact moment of orgasm–the ethereal spirit ejaculates starshine all across the room. It cascades down and seeps into your skins. Your minds are suddenly flooded with visions. You are Anthony and Cleopatra. Lancelot and Guinivere. Jesus and Mary Magdalene. You are Adam and Eve. You are every couple, ever, from the beginning until the end of time.”
I thought for a moment. “Come on. It wasn’t like any of those things.”
He was silent.
I said: “You fucked her for 8 minutes and wished she’d squirm around a little more. She asked if you had any coke and you made an excuse about having to be at work early. Like it always is.”
“Like it always is with girls like her.”
“There aren’t girls like her.”
“It wasn’t like any of those things,” I insisted.
He whispered: “It was.”
Monday, September 21, 2009
I'd say I miss you everyday, but I don't.
Only when I drink coffee with a cigarette and remember how much you hated the movie.
Or when I go out to dinner and remember that for the whole first month together we didn't, opting instead to stay in my apartment, ordering take out, taking photo's, watching movies, drinking red wine and lying in bed.
I'd say every song reminds me of you, but they don't.
Only "Colour Blind" by Counting Crows that we swayed to, bare foot in a crowded room while everyone else just watched. And any song from the CD you left in my player.
I'd say I wish I had you back, but I don't.
Only when you message me saying how you wish I'd come back so we could be bored together. Cause we were always so good at being boring. Boredom is the new excitement.
But you remind me too much of me, only worse.
Your unstable, calculated. Crazy, straight minded. Intelligent, stupid. Mean, kind. Upsetting, funny. Mature, juvenile.
You know what you want but went about getting it in all the wrong ways.
I won't say I miss you everyday...
So stop saying you miss me.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
See kids you can save the planet and still be a babe all at the same time. So get out your green bags and start growing your own food.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Like a knot inside the mind, twisted, thick, complex, entwined.
Fingers run and flutter across a situation made up inside.
Sitting on one side imagining how you should be but heart wrenches to let it all go.
A particular weather condition, a smell, a delusionally locked inside feeling can make it all come flooding back.
And closer you are pushed.
Say the fiercely clenched cord that grips you from falling over the edge is cut? Mind figuratively allowing it to break?
What keeps you from them? What makes you different?
A simple bungee cord of the mind...
Friday, September 11, 2009
With summer arriving, and the need to be mostly naked shimmys its way across the country I thought i'd put some ideas up fomr my favourite shows for Spring/Summer 09/10.
Romance Was Born, Zimmermann, Kirriley Johnston, Ellery Aurelio Costarella and all make my list.
Light layers, muted tones, splices of colour, what more could you want for a lazy summers afternoon.