26/12

"Oh! It was a very nice life, let me tell you! She got to meet the Queen, she’s had tea with all the Royals, lots of those things. It’s very exciting. But she’s not very intelligent. She’s got a PhD in languages and she had to rely on me for her French! And then we met a Korean girl and we met a professor from Scotland and then we met a few more jetsetters - real jetsetters - that jet all over, all the time, and they have homes all over the place, too. That’s having a life!"

Like every night I try to sleep, without the ease of so many others. My work has not been finished and I shall leave it for another day, if another day will bring it to existence. That unwritten manifesto is hours behind me, its potential suppressed once again as it ever should. Now is the time to forget, but it seems impossible to dismiss the impossible at this hour. Instead of drifting I am lying, not constructing but collecting, subconsciously resisting the subconscious. I sprawl nude in my bed, at the entrance to the show-not-tell, yet impassive. What keeps me here? I try to constrict my breathing by merging pillow and mouth, but I always find another airway paved. So often I hope my immobility will move me deeper into the static, but the choice to be made does not always reflect my desires. Tonight, I try.

In bed, then, staring, waiting, thinking: nothing. What’s that here? Silence. Silence, let it be and it will come.

But what? Something in me must fill it, don’t let it. I hear a door open and squeak, a memory of the daylight and then, words. No! Don’t let the words come. Let silence be the key, let it be the transition from my thoughtless day to the surrealism of nights without passing through the superrealism of evening. Do not let a word pass for it will grow into alertness if not awakeness and now I’m thinking about my thinking of words and a line here: “Hencetaking tides we haply return…” don’t finish it it should come tomorrow. A headline: “So-and-so is back in the news”. No, thinking. Do not let ability meet you in the dead of your supposed night, when there is no pen to translate. Focus. The cuts on my finger, the pain in picking my wounds. Focus. Overthought and wrought, now.

Rethinking. Maybe it should all be released and revealed and I should think nothing of its importance, just to let these words pass through each of their levels before they reach their late conclusion and I will be free of them. I will give them this example. What do they say, then, let me listen. Which is faster, the concrete or emotional? Let there be no images, let there be no sense of an outside, let there only be words with multiple definitions. Guide: do not describe my behaviour with objects of my behaviour. Do not associate my alertness with overstimulation or describe it with the stimulants whether it be a liquid of what kind it does not matter of what size is irrelevant of the process of consumption is useless fodder for those who spend too much analysis in the present. Should it be as self-aware and dramatic as a Fassbinder or just as so as the name-dropping? Let’s not speak too many curse words but overemphasise our speech. There shall be a plot, yes, but who shall know? Let’s put it into steps, with titles and goals so it can be followed in manned confusion. It is for every one the process but for no one else the content but let them believe it not. Yes, the masquerade of an opus for the mass, for we have all been in this foetal position. The universality of unbeknownst sleep-deprivation. It is to be forgotten but felt.

More in the past twenty minutes than the last twenty hours and yet prepared for the next. The distance great between the wake and the rest is as short or tall or proportioned as each night decides. Has this king been cleared, is it now to pass from the I to the he? Has it gone, will it go, will I go, will he go, he goes.

a summer last in ottawa

They led me to a bar, the devils, and to the most devilish of bars I’ve seen, certainly in this city. I know they all close at one in the morning, just as things are getting good in other cities, and that corner stores and gas stations do not sell any liquids but juices and milk and instant coffee and Red Bull. Lack of alcohol. That’s why there’s no fun, no poison, in this city. It brings you up and drops you right when you think you can fly or dance or live and that’s much worse than the side-effects themselves. In my world you can buy wine anywhere and you can stay out until you get tired and you can love who you do and wear the most outrageous costumes on a Tuesday night. Unlucky I’m over here.

There it even has horns and oh how it’s fitting that it’s not yet nine and the funblonde and her unfunbrown and their others in arms and legs and beds but never in heads are wearing them to tempt me. How long will I last, I ask? Until one, they reply, and I, too, for I meant in life and they meant in night. Why a bison? They’re all west, no? or south, I figure. Must have skipped that in American history, but it was in the time of the Old West and Cowboys and Tycoons and things that aren’t talked about but in stories and I don’t know even when they could have existed because I can’t picture them on this continent or in this history of man. How things change so suddenly and how things are forgotten. I want to be a lost historian of the alternate universes and many, many worlds of which there are and they are infinite. If only I make it through to one with whataretheirnames I’m sure they all have fun together and more fun together without me the third fourth fifth wheel of this trio quad pent? They go in Greek, yes. It’s a pity I took Latin for so long if I can’t even make up these words and I’ve not a drop to drink yet how unfortunate for them all and for the poor soul in me.

Ahead! Into the devil-horned bison bar for beers or beverages most tasty with the four and I the one!

Even the seats, Christ. Brown and hardwood and the tables the same. Leather and brown and fur and more brown and that means I know it’s not a place for me. I’m more grey if one could imagine. But the most beautiful of greys, for the colour is often connoted negatively, the kind of a strong steel or of a boy’s eyes. Oh! boys. Look around and pick them out, if there are any in this world. A glance to a bald in his forties, two women with two sweat stains, a group of university students, though the ones in for the athletic ride. I’m not so much into muscle of the body, though maybe if I were more horny I could go for it. All straight, though. The problem with the straights is that they think they have to live with us like an annoying sister, where we think of them as senile uncles. You can’t hold hands in this city, I think, if you’re two boys, but that’s the best thing, the little touches. I would cuddle for a night or a lifetime and never stick my stick in another hole in all my life because it’s the feeling of hands and mouths and skin on skin that’s the worthy part and not when things are in other things and there’s worry of damaging views and bleeding blood and coming out all shitty. None of that here, though, and none of that tonight, it seems. Maybe in the next room, once I’ve taken my gin and ice and the others their beers and fluorescence.

Oh! a command to the toastee and an exchange of glass and bill and change and change and we’re off and oh! a sip of oh! I’ve missed you pretty thing come into me and make me me more than I can be before and sober and elsewhere for isn’t that nice to feel alive at once. But ouch and a cube of the ice worsens my tooth and my self is irritable and more so when I hear the discussions around me of what are they talking of men and girls and professors I don’t know of studies I’ll never learn and I’ll be bored until they ask me things directly about how they kids are like in Montréal and more medial questions they took off of my returns so I sit on the edge, in the corner, and stare off and away with just me and my gin that’s all I’ll every need to be because we are me and a fact’s a fact if it’s indisputably the case.

Once two we are now one with every gulp you are a part of me and I am the thirsty beast of all that is good in the world and once it comes it goes again but it leaves the traces I wish I could keep for more than just an hour a lifetime of the pleasure of the hard to swallow. The more I have the more I can dream of my escape and less I have to think about what’s out of my mind and around my body the cold forearm of whatshername bouncing and prodding for more of me. No, my love, my love is ahead of me and nearly empty. My love is in this little box you cannot crack and how you never will because it’s far away from here on a beach with a fire or in a café in New York with themostbeautifulboyintheworld and the way he laughs shows his teeth as white as could be sold for as much as you’d pay it the way he’d answer and order and sit so perched across from me and we’d be noticed by a grandeur and he’d give us tips and fawn over us and we’d move up in the world and marry and live in Paris and oh! I think this drink has gone straight from the glass and into my head and I’m floating. Time for another if this is to continue in the most absurd of details.

...

[18 May 2010]

I remember the first time I told you I loved you; you laughed, and I was humiliated.

On our last date you came inside of me and we spoke of how committed we were. Your bed was warm and I slept well, even though the alarm rang at seven.

Three days later, after the breakfast we'd never have together, t'as dit que tu voulais prendre un peu de distance cette semaine, petit homme. J'suis sage, mais j'accepte pas.

you know I get hopelessly attached

a hug and a kiss on the cheek

He thought the train’s destination, about the city, about excess. He thought about how much a man can handle – how much coffee he could ingest before the caffeine shook his core, how long he could stay awake before the impulses of his body finally overtook his mind, how many men he could meet before he could no longer remember their faces. He thought about overdose, the dizzy spells he got from too much liquor and what would happen to him if he didn't stop. If he didn’t follow his breathing exercises or if he didn’t guzzle glass upon glass of water or if he didn’t stuff his face with bread but instead continued to swig, would he die? Or if instead of having just one cigarette in a sitting he chain-smoked pack after pack until he was dizzy and then nauseous and then couldn’t breathe? Maybe it will all be the death of me, he thought, a joint effort by each of my habits. A combination of one too many refills of soda, an extra mile walked at night, too many words spoken; when not just one thing would kill him but the build-up of them all. The coroner wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the cause of death. “He died of lifestyle,” they’d tell his family. “He died of his own behaviour.” Best beware, he supposed.

He would take pleasure in the moderate, he imagined, once he got to the city.

retour, part II

I'm back, I suppose. It's hard to update when I have nothing to say, or rather, nothing that I've written. and there are better places than blogger for phrases. It appears that in my absence I gained new followers (though what are they following, if I'm not updating?) and see some spam in my comments, and it makes me wish this still didn't exist.

How do I put myself in this mood again? How do I eke out these words and inspire inspiration? Is it in surrounding myself with the right people and the right distractions or sitting in the right environment, with one leg across another and my pad of paper on a table, or is it in the amount of alcohol I consume that makes me think of things passed or gives me greater attunement to the present? Not being tied down to those more important things like school and money gives me the freedom and time to express but also leaves me without material. And so I blather on and on and fill a page with my musings on not having any musings, but at least it fulfills my desire to write again, to finally fill this little notebook.

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It's been a while since I've done this:

12/03/10

It's a sunless day but I'm outside anyway, still anticipating that summer that gave us preview last week. The ashtray is already full, though I don't suspect many people have been sitting out here this morning. Rather, it was probably not emptied at close last night, the putts in the flowerpot probably weeks old. Still, I add to the pile and smoke as much as I would in fairer weather, my bones radiating warmth such that I can't tell whether the mist around me is steam or smoke.

Cigarettes are always best a few days after they've been opened, after the breaking of the seal oxidises them or something. I don't know the entire chemistry of it, but everything's better when it's not oppressed by plastic and packaging. Everything in this world breathes one way or another, I suppose. I can't speak for extraterristrial substances, surrounded by things other than oxygen and nitrogen, but I'm sure they find a way. Look at all those planets in the sky, thouse bright red and blue animals who grow and move and live so far aabove us. At times I'm sure they were capitve, like a child in the placenta of its mother's womb, and were one day freed and given the chance of existance.

If cigarettes must be freed by the hands of an addict, if babies are pushed from their cocoon by eager women with the help of gloved hands, does it follow that everything else in this universe myst have its own liberater in something or someone else? And if not, what could possibly have the strength and previous mindness to release itself from the constraints of the outside?

Of course, even when we are initially freed, liberation during existance is still required. Once opened, we are bombarded by the prospects of reenslavement, and we must use our own lives to counteract these temptations. This, I would say, is most evident in volitional beings, for enslavement loves to trample on free will. I cannot speak for other beings, for their movement and desires are outside of my own dimension, but there must be something trying to lure them back from whence they came, to some degree or definition or another.

...

"What mama wants, mama gets. Or else you know how she behaves."

Her four year old son lives with his grandmother and only gets to see his mama every few months. She works as a waitress to get enough money to send across the sea to her boy. I don't know what else she does in the meantime, who she talks to. But when she sees him he treats her like a queen because he's so in love and thankful for any moment together.

I look down at the point on my wrist where my shirt lines up with my cardigan and check it again against the other side to make sure there's enough white showing on each and that they both come down to the same point on my arm.

I stir my gin and tonic and sip until there's no more to suck up and my straw makes a slurping sound against the bottom of the glass. It's a warm night.

days two - ∞

day one

I'm standing on the wet sand in front of the ocean upon which all the great cities of my present rest, nestling my feet into the moving earth. As the tide goes out the pebbles beneath me escape my weight, called back to a greater monster. There are no stars above because it is too cloudy for them to reach my eyes and the only sense I have is of falling backwards. Wind and wet come to me, first in a dive and then a crawl, threatening to throw me farther off balance. It seems this is a hostile place, warm weather and lucid bodies only distractions and temptations. The tide surrounds me and tries to take me with it as it subsides, echoing with variable force. How good it is to be unmatched, subjugated once again; this time, however, it is not to my equal. I would let myself fall, be swept under and out by the current of the wave, more than I would any man. The shells are smart to bury themselves under the ground where they will find less difficulty in integrity, and I let them teach me as I move farther into the salty blue. I am willing to accept defeat, but does this sea value my sacrifice? It pushes and pulls and teases the strings of my garments, but after each strong tug comes a weak one, an opportunity for me to flee. I stand here for thirty minutes or more, waiting for the tide to grow stronger and malevolent with desire, but it does not come. Instead there is only the growl and crashing as the beast lets me know her power. For now I will return to my cube, one building among many upon this stretch of water, my clothes reeking of fire, which I'm sure my companions, with their years of experience, will pick up on. There are worse fates and better.

2 big 2 blog

working on something else. connecting the dots, really.
this is not the future I envisioned a year ago. rather, it's the dream I've had since birth. we'll see how lucid it is soon / within the year / until the period ends it all.

"It's my autobiography, and you're a character."