hey, you, sweet sweet
I feel like going out dancing tonight. Fall is coming, and I'm so excited for it. I love living downtown.
I did the ritualized all-nighter last night. No sleep, just coffee, chatting, studying, reading, and homework. And now I am caught up. Mostly.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Sunday, September 25, 2005
A moment
I was on the way home today on the train, and I felt creative so I decided to try to write down a basic idea of my thoughts for the ride home. Obviously pen does not move as quickly as brain, so I only caught a few thoughts, but here they are anyway.
The train passes and again the world outside the circle under the lamp is swallowed by shadow. Some dirt on my fingers, retreating just at the base of the tip. From the door perhaps? It doesn't matter. I pay special attention to the sound of the fingers sliding on frets... his hands will probably smell like metal afterward. I want new shoes but I don't think I should be spending the money. The bell on the train is ringing. My mind reaches out again to the ears of those who can hear it. I can see the lines in her face, his lecherous intentions... The station comes and now the bells and violins have taken me to my ancestral home in the heills of Ireland, I am running to ma, her shawl brushes my face in the wind, and she is gone. The light here is flickering two seats away. 'Next station stop Eglinton'. I wonder how you are. An imaginary conversation runs through my head. Years have passed. You are engaged, I tell you about my boyfriends, the girls who have broken my heart. I've decided to write something. I thought you hated coffee. I can tell by the curl of the corners of your lips that you're disappointed. That's why it never worked, you know, I could never take your judgement. My pocket is vibrating. Answer it. Allan asks if I made it to the train ok. It was sweet of him to call. It's nice to be reminded that someone cares, even if it is small. Bonnie Pink sings about the sun falling into the sea, her words japanese. It's interesting to think what this language means to me. futatsu ga hitotsu ni naru toki. She's interrupting my creative flow and I start to lose the wave I've been riding. Change. 'Intuition' enters my ears and I wonder how you're doing. I imagine what he looks like, I never get far doing this. I wonder why he is good enough, if he really makes you happy. I hate you sometimes you know. Why does it seem like I have memories of the future? I have to get off here. The man at the door reminds me of the man my mother has married. He is short, balding, and I have a hard time imagining how someone like him is with a woman like her. The bitch cuts me off. They linger, kissing. Lover's spit replaces intuition. It fits. She smells like cheap perfume, and I am NOT jealous. The boy in front of me has hair that is too long. The rain feels nice on my face. I don't like the rain sometimes because it makes me look like shit. I'm relieved to see that me, the only me that matters, I still enjoy it. I imagine the judgements people who see this will pass. I don't care. He would be pretty if he was a girl. It doesn't work for a guy though. That's the problem with being attracted to androgyny, it's all very degree based. There are no set rules to what is and what is not attractive. My time in the station is short, there are only about four people in the car I am on. It is yellow in here. I want to leave. The man is staring at me and the boy taps his foot. I exit. Upstairs a man asks me if I want a taxi. If I wanted a taxi, sir, I would walk out the doors to your parked taxi, open the door, and tell you where I wanted to go. The rain is falling harder now. A car is coming towards me, the light shines on the road, through the puddles and lines. The raindrops make it look for a second like the milky way, each drop a star exploding life. Or perhaps a scene from world war two. Or jackson pollock is throwing another hundred thousand dollar dob of paint onto a canvas. What is he feeling that makes him do this? The men stare at me as I round the corner. The air behind them smells like fabric softener. It is a good bet that if you smell like fabric softener, your cologne was not worth it and you should not be staring at other people like there is something wrong with *them*. The keyboard effects on this song bring me to a time when I was eight years old, wrapped in blankets sitting on a couch in a basement. I am eating rice, like I always do when I watch my neighbour totoro, because somehow it makes the adventures more real, closer. Stepping into the door, my dad says 'the umbrella is there' and points beside the door. It is not funny. I am home.
I was on the way home today on the train, and I felt creative so I decided to try to write down a basic idea of my thoughts for the ride home. Obviously pen does not move as quickly as brain, so I only caught a few thoughts, but here they are anyway.
The train passes and again the world outside the circle under the lamp is swallowed by shadow. Some dirt on my fingers, retreating just at the base of the tip. From the door perhaps? It doesn't matter. I pay special attention to the sound of the fingers sliding on frets... his hands will probably smell like metal afterward. I want new shoes but I don't think I should be spending the money. The bell on the train is ringing. My mind reaches out again to the ears of those who can hear it. I can see the lines in her face, his lecherous intentions... The station comes and now the bells and violins have taken me to my ancestral home in the heills of Ireland, I am running to ma, her shawl brushes my face in the wind, and she is gone. The light here is flickering two seats away. 'Next station stop Eglinton'. I wonder how you are. An imaginary conversation runs through my head. Years have passed. You are engaged, I tell you about my boyfriends, the girls who have broken my heart. I've decided to write something. I thought you hated coffee. I can tell by the curl of the corners of your lips that you're disappointed. That's why it never worked, you know, I could never take your judgement. My pocket is vibrating. Answer it. Allan asks if I made it to the train ok. It was sweet of him to call. It's nice to be reminded that someone cares, even if it is small. Bonnie Pink sings about the sun falling into the sea, her words japanese. It's interesting to think what this language means to me. futatsu ga hitotsu ni naru toki. She's interrupting my creative flow and I start to lose the wave I've been riding. Change. 'Intuition' enters my ears and I wonder how you're doing. I imagine what he looks like, I never get far doing this. I wonder why he is good enough, if he really makes you happy. I hate you sometimes you know. Why does it seem like I have memories of the future? I have to get off here. The man at the door reminds me of the man my mother has married. He is short, balding, and I have a hard time imagining how someone like him is with a woman like her. The bitch cuts me off. They linger, kissing. Lover's spit replaces intuition. It fits. She smells like cheap perfume, and I am NOT jealous. The boy in front of me has hair that is too long. The rain feels nice on my face. I don't like the rain sometimes because it makes me look like shit. I'm relieved to see that me, the only me that matters, I still enjoy it. I imagine the judgements people who see this will pass. I don't care. He would be pretty if he was a girl. It doesn't work for a guy though. That's the problem with being attracted to androgyny, it's all very degree based. There are no set rules to what is and what is not attractive. My time in the station is short, there are only about four people in the car I am on. It is yellow in here. I want to leave. The man is staring at me and the boy taps his foot. I exit. Upstairs a man asks me if I want a taxi. If I wanted a taxi, sir, I would walk out the doors to your parked taxi, open the door, and tell you where I wanted to go. The rain is falling harder now. A car is coming towards me, the light shines on the road, through the puddles and lines. The raindrops make it look for a second like the milky way, each drop a star exploding life. Or perhaps a scene from world war two. Or jackson pollock is throwing another hundred thousand dollar dob of paint onto a canvas. What is he feeling that makes him do this? The men stare at me as I round the corner. The air behind them smells like fabric softener. It is a good bet that if you smell like fabric softener, your cologne was not worth it and you should not be staring at other people like there is something wrong with *them*. The keyboard effects on this song bring me to a time when I was eight years old, wrapped in blankets sitting on a couch in a basement. I am eating rice, like I always do when I watch my neighbour totoro, because somehow it makes the adventures more real, closer. Stepping into the door, my dad says 'the umbrella is there' and points beside the door. It is not funny. I am home.
