chronicles of snow - 2

It was snowing when I woke up this morning. My mum reminded me that it was my grandma's birthday. She told me that the snow was her gift to me.
Thanks grandma.

----------

There are a few things I don't like about living in the city. I mean, I can't imagine myself lasting all that long in the country, where the closest neighbour is a half hour walk, the closest bar is even further, and the closest cafe is even further, I think that despite how much land I'd have to run around in and how many dogs I'd have to placate my loneliness, I'd go crazy after a while, and in general I try to placate my tendencies towards cabin fever. But there's one thing that the city doesn't have that I miss desperately every time I'm there, and that is stars. Most of the time, though, I don't miss this lack, the sky usually isn't the focus of my attention most nights. Most nights I'm too enthralled by the constant light at eye-level, so my gaze remains landlocked. But the other night, I was taking a bus. Just after we got off of Montreal Island, I realized just exactly what a bus is when it whips across lowland farmland Quebec and Ontario. I started laughing in exhilaration at the absurd speed and wind I wasn't feeling at all. And my eyes turned skyward, and though the view was interrupted by the ghost glow of stranger's laptop screens and those dinky lights on Greyhounds meant to illuminate the world of one person reflected in my windows, I saw stars. I didn't see the whole beautiful pantheon, but I knew that if I could get everyone to turn off their lights, live with darkness, I could've seen them all, and I still saw more than I had in a while. It brought me back, screaming, memory-wind whipping my hair, to cold winter nights stargazing with my family through my mum's telescope, summers on the dock staring upwards, camping trips where constellations slurred into each other, and suddenly all I wanted was to be somewhere with no light, where I could find comfort in the infinite twinkle because the dark holds no hope.

So I miss stargazing, even though I've always lived in the city and the stars only revealed themselves to me in tatters through mists of light pollution. These brief exposures to the full glory of stars will never leave me.

And I'll tell you why I love the stars. The stars have stories only you can read. They're like clouds or Rorschach blots, only so much more abstract and precise. If you look hard enough, long enough, you can find any shape you want, you can read any word, phrase, sentence, novel, name. It's written in the stars, darling, because I wrote it there.

PART 2

Okay, so this isn't actually part 2, I've given up on that project. I'm going to say something came up, and you'll have to play along with my illusion, because that's what friends do, and we're friends, right?

Anyways, let's talk about cold.

The cold is a son of a bitch, if you forgive the anthropomorphism. It's, fuck, I can't even talk about it. It's cold, is all. You ever had a shower on a winter day when the hot water heater's broken? You ever been caught in freezing rain? You ever had to walk for an hour against the wind on a cold night? The cold kills, folks. Not a winter goes by that I don't hear some story about some poor sap frozen to death in a snowbank. It's tragic. The cold is tragic. You ever been in love with a cold hearted woman? Tragedy. Tragedy is what I'm speaking of here. The cold is a tragedy. It is tragedy. Tragedy incarnate. And when it stings the exposed pieces of your skin so you can't even make a damn phone call to your poor old mother without cursing the world for unleashing something so baseless and destructive, so fuckin' callous, as cold. You ever had that? You ever got frozen fingers from trying to do some good? It's demoralizing.
But here's the thing, I still love the son of a bitch. And it's strange, but I love the bastard when he's at his worst. On cold mornings, wrapped up warm in blankets driving a shield between me and this asshole trying to invade through any small opening it can, until my thrice-snooze-buttoned alarm goes off once again, and I have to throw myself into his damn abusive arms, that's when I love him. When I'm walking home at night, woefully underdressed, and the wind cuts through whatever ridiculous facsimile of a coat I threw on that morning when it was bright and warm, I can't help but fuckin' smiling at the cold tingles drawing daggers down my arms.
And here's why: The cold, the son of a bitch bastard asshole it may be, is but a herald to the messianic queen bitch goddess of my heart. What I'm talking about will come easily to the lips of anyone who knows me well enough to say that they know me. I'm talking about snow. Snow is the goddamned greatest thing on earth. It's my one true love. I woke up this morning to three inches of snow on the ground, when last night there was nothing but the barest, skittish hints of clouds and nothing but frozen earth beneath my feet, and yet all through the day the snow kept falling, and it kept a smile on my face even as I was trudging, truly trudging, and slipping and stumbling in wet, frozen feet, and even yet, as the bona fide to my November eyes snowstorm turned me into a human-Samsquantch, I was laughing. Because, darlings, while the snow can make it a bitch to get to class on times, the absurd beauty of it all just blows me away. And, man, snow just seems to me to be the perfect symbol of purity. Untouchable lest it's destroyed or turned hard, white as a maiden's skin in Grimm tales, completely transitory, completely terrible. If there's anywhere that literary canon is right in the frequently used and abused metaphors, it's in equating snow with virginity. And I don't know about you, man, but I'm gonna fuck the shit outta this snow.
Now, seriously, who wants to go motherfuckin' sledding?

work in progress.

There is, at this moment and at all moments between when it was built and when it'll collapse, a telephone tower outside of my apartment building.

check in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion!!!!!

I call this one "Gas Mask Theatre"

*ahem*

The audience sits in muted expectation, their hazmat suits prevent even the quiet conversations of glancing at their watches or sharing looks of impatience, though they can still continue incessantly fidgeting.
They watch the piss-yellow curtains, begging them to open.
Backstage, a minor catastrophe occurs when the make-up artists realize their jobs are useless by the gas masks that are being pulled over the actors' faces. They tried to get the hairdressers to join them in impotent rage, but the hairdressers find the challenge of making hair look good between the rubber straps rewarding and refreshing.
The energy expended to subdue the irate make-up artists delay the play for fifteen minutes to half an hour, explains the producer.
The director is having a nervous breakdown. This is opening night, this is his debut, and it's already a mess, as the lines for the bathroom lengthen. No one can figure out how to pee through their suits.
The play finally starts, the audience rush back to their seats. The playwright in the wings winces with every word. His beautiful prose is squeezed through the panicked gasps of the gas masks.
The audience continues to fidget. Half of them surely would've fallen asleep now if the hazmat suits were a bit more comfortable. The story was hard to follow and the actor's were so constrained by the gas masks that they made extravagant gestures for no apparent reason.
These are bad actors, the audience agrees within themselves silently.
During the climactic scene, the lead actor, enamoured with his art and disgusted by the butchering the play is receiving, tears off his mask and gets halfway through his soliloquy before falling dead.
His understudy is pushed on stage to finish the scene. His lines are inaudible between his panicked sobs and even more panicked breathing. His eyes are wide and white beneath his mask.
Curtains drop.
The audience applauds politely and trade bad reviews in the theatre's lobby.
"Not worthing watching a man die," they quip, while trying to eat hors d'oeuvres through their suits.

----------------

I've been reading a lot of pictures for sad children lately. Blame that.

Kisses!

Fascinating.

In grade four a kid in my class stabbed me in the arm with a pencil. A piece of the carbon got stuck in there. It didn't really cause any problems, though. I didn't get sick or infected or anything. There was just this tiny black scar there. I liked it. I liked having a chunk of pencil stuck in me. It seemed important.

One night last week I was trying to find it again, but it's not where I remember it being and I can't find it again.

Oh, wait, I just found it. (No joke. I'm not trying to be coy or anything here. I literally just found it again.)

Crisis averted?

The moral of the story is that there's some pencil in my arm and I thought it was gone but it's still there and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

holy moly me oh my

YOU'RE THE APPLE OF MY EYE,
GIRL I'VE NEVER LOVED ONE LIKE YOU.

Fuck it, I know quoting lyrics ain't cool but goddamn it does Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros have some good things to say in that song. I saw them at Bluesfest this summer and it was such an ill show, they were obviously high as clouds the whole time but i got so much more into them. I even got a signature from the trumpet player, it's hanging on my wall.
That song is so goddamn true, too. Home, it seems, ain't no place at all. Home is a person. Home is the person you want to go home to, and I know that's fuck all cheesy but it honestly seems to me, knowing that I've known people like that, that it's the most honest definition of home to me. I've been more at home in a stranger's house than in my own, because of the people I was there with.
And I guess it's never just one person, it's any and all people who make you feel that way. That make you feel like yeah you could take on the world right now for sure but this couch is really comfortable and the kettle just got put on and it could wait until after this chapter and the person sitting there agrees and maybe you go out and save the day but maybe you don't and either way you know that you have that option.
and yeah it might just be delusion but some days it isn't, because to be home you have to love the people in that home, and love it goddamn turns you into a superhero, it helps you scale buildings and fly into the stars even when you're just sitting there talking because when you talk to someone you love you're everywhere in the world because the whole world is right there.
and no i'm not just talking about romantic love even though romantic love is the most intense and passionate and agonizing of the loves, but any love can make you feel that way. and i've loved a hell of a lot and i'm not sure yet if coming home to my new apartment is coming home yet but it's feeling more and more like it just because i love my roommate and my cat and my stack of books and the posters on my wall but half of those are memories and emotions pressed into books and onto paper and hell they don't compare to the real interpersonal love.
and i don't know how to properly state an ounce of my emotion but however much i can put out is enough and goddamn i want to know everyone right now. i want to hear everyone's innermost secrets and put them on a goddamn billboard next to their names and phone numbers so that when anyone gets lonely at night they can look out their window and know someone so deeply and intimately that they could talk for hours they could talk forever they could count the seconds between when the sun rises for one and then the other and with this they could determine the exact distance between their lonesome beds and with this everything feels a bit less bad, because no matter how far away you are from someone your footsteps can carry you to their front step and maybe it'd take an hour or a day or a month but eventually you'd collapse on their porch and they'll take you in and you'll have hot chocolate and later that night you'll get engaged and it's perfection for that one night but knowing it's perfect that one night is enough to know that this is a perfect world, that this is the most ideal of worlds, that no matter the fact that the rebels are racist douchebags they still take care of their kids and sure maybe no ones perfect and you can either be good great or good small but it seems to me that everyone's great somehow and i'm sorry if that's idealistic of me but hell i can't help myself for some reason tonight.
i want to make out with the setting sun.
i want to count footsteps.

NEEDY.

Needy! That's what I'd call these ghosts.
Each and every last one of them, needy little fuckers. Why're they all here, asking me to finish their failed tasks and lives. Isn't there someone else they could go to with their problems?
I mean, I've got the time since I got kicked to the curb by my last job, and then when my girlfriend left me, but seriously, their demands are getting ridiculous.
Oh, go dig up this time capsule and bring it to my brother.
Tell her I love her for me, just one last time. Tell her I'm sorry.
They come to me, all bloody and old and withered, and ask me to help them out. I need some fuckin' Ghostbusters shit on this. I should get an exorcist. I even asked my landlord if this was a common problem. He threatened to evict me, he told me he doesn't rent out to crazies. I almost brought up Ms. Kazenski upstairs. Lady has, like, 12 cats, and I hear her talking to them all through the night. I don't think she sleeps. I wonder if she has her own ghosts.
One of the ghosts asked me to avenge his death. I said no, but he persisted, would follow me into bed, into the shower, I finally snapped one night, killed the man who killed him.
What the hell am I supposed to do with that ghost when it shows up?

Better? Besides the fact that it took me a week to write, and it's significantly shorter. Ehn, I'll get better at this.
The word was provided by my lovely sister, Ms. Sheila Molnar.

FORTITUDE.

"Fortitude, darling. It's what I have and you don't. And with that," Dan said, extracting the wiimote from the box, "I will destroy you!"
Boxes filled the room. They had just moved, but due to an argument on the car ride over, the wii and TV were all set up, raring to go. Dan was standing and Claire sat on the part of the couch not covered in boxes or the lethargic dog. Janet unpacked loudly in the kitchen, words like "useless" and "nerds" somehow drifted in above the clatter of cutlery slamming into their proper places. Josh wandered the apartment in a daze, apparently confused about where his bedroom was, and then further confused about why it was the only one without a window.
"What the hell does fortitude even mean? And how does that help you with Mario Kart?" Claire asked, scratching the dog behind the ear.
"Fortitude is, like, toughness, or something," Dan said, selecting a bike for Bowser to ride on.
Josh wandered in, enthralled by something on his phone. He glanced up at the TV. "Dude, you're playing Bowser? Homeboy sucks in this game."
"Fuck you!"
"Yeah, don't mess, he has 'fortitude'," said Claire, picking out the scooter for Yoshi.
"The scooter? Y'all suck at this game," said Josh. "And what the hell does fortitude mean, anyway?"
"He's tough!" Dan yelled, then swore as the race started and Bowser spun out. "God damn it, I've lost now."
"The race just started, don't be so FUCK," she yelled as a red shell smashed into Yoshi.
Janet stalked into the make-shift living room, the arena for this epic battle, which in reality was Dan's room. They had to turn the living room into Claire's so they could all live there.
"Who broke my French Press?" she asked, livid. "Hey, nerds! Which one of you idiots broke my French Press? These are expensive, kinda."
But her anger could not distract the gamers, the race was heating up, and in this game, at any second everything could change. She stopped to watch the match. The technicolour race was mesmerizing. The upbeat music was interspersed with the swearing and yelling of the racers.
"Fuck! I lost," said Claire, putting down the controller.
"What did I tell you," said Dan, trying to coax a high-five from Janet, who had turned back to the kitchen to unpack. "Fortitude!"
"Whatever, asshole, you gonna help unpack, or will you revel in your victory a bit more?" asked Claire, trying to get up, but failing, as the dog had laid his head on her lap, and it would be heartless to expect such a dog to move.
"Unpack? But we still have three more races!"
"Janet will kill us," said Claire, as she picked the controller back up.
"So? She's always saying that."
Josh left the living room. As he passed the kitchen, Janet called out to him.
"Are they playing again?" Josh nodded. "Useless nerds."
He walked on to his room, ignoring Janet's almost-panicked call of, "Wait, aren't you going to help?"
He shut the door, turned on the light, and gazed upon his four bare walls, his mattress, his boxes, and his bare bulb dangling from the ceiling.



Okay, that didn't turn out so good. Fortitude is hard, people. But considering it's a first try, I'd say it turned out good, maybe?

BEES!

I got stung by a bee today. BEES HURT, PEOPLE. I haven't been stung by a bee for, like, a year, so I didn't really know what to do. The only ointment we had was burn ointment, and then I put some ice on it, so I think I'm covered in case it was one of those evil FIRE BEES. But I don't think it was. Those only come out on the coldest nights. They are nightmares.

Anyway, I'm going to try something here. And usually when I do that, nothing of the sort happens, but today I have faith in my own self to see this through, because I think it'd be a good exercise.
I, Lee Joseph Molnar, first (as far as I know) of my name, has already asked facebook to give me a word.
And this word will be the first word in a little story, vignette, dialogue, scene, or whatever else I want to write.
I shall do this weekly, on every Tuesday I suppose.
I've already gotten some, so I will be using the first.
The word is "fortitude", provided by one Kaia Kater.
The incredibly short story will show up later tonight, if I remember.
Kisses!

What Matters To Me, Moon? Prologue & Epilogue

Here it is. The end of a long short-story. Ignore the left side of that first page there and read "What Matters To Me, Moon?" chapters 1, 2, 3, 4-1 & 4-2. RIGHT! I should mention that this story was previously called "The Relief of Rock At The Side Of The Road" because I needed to call it something and when I first started this story I was on a bus in Ottawa that was traveling by a rock-cliff between Holland Cross and Lebreton Flats. I liked the rhythm and assonance of the phrase, but it ended up having nothing to do with the story.
Anyhow, if you click on the tag "Daymoon" at the bottom there, you should be able to find all of my stories.
Dear readers, I swear to you, that one day and other days after that, I will upload every single story or poem or anything that I write and like. This public diary will live on and love lots. Nmaste, babes, amen.

What Matters To Me, Moon? ch.4 pt.2

Howdy. I know that it has been a long time since I have last posted. Regardless the story is finished. I am proud of it. It has actually been finished since April or May of 2011. I, however, have not been lazy. It pains me so much that I have ten million responsibilities, when all I want is to be a kid and have fun with my years of know-how, creative urges and friends. FRIENDS! DAMN, friends are one of the most important things to have in your life at aLL times.
Dear Hope and Derring Do, I miss my great friends greatly and my super friends superlee -der, I mean, supremely. I cannot know how long it will be before an other post from alter ego Daymoon, but make sure to check out the PROLOGUE/EPILOGUE when you are finished with this writy-dighty WHO-HAW!

B.J. THOMAS!

Somehow SOMEHOW my heart is beating a love for art still. Somehow that's where my feet are bringing me day after day I find myself amidst beauty on riverbanks and under overpasses. I see people making this beauty, and maybe I'm making it whenever I open my eyes or maybe every time I close them.
and goddamn this text I'm typing out just looks so goddamned classy sitting here on this white background. it looks tasteful. it looks like it can sweep you off your feet and teach you to dance. and maybe it's substance isn't the same and maybe it doesn't want to be classy or tasteful, but I'll be damned if it doesn't want to run dance classes in the Catskills.
and books or pages or zeroes and ones aren't enough to keep this in because every GOOD book is more than a book, the words on the page explode out and scream in your head making you sing with every pore in your body ecstasy isn't the aim but somehow the bullet always passes through there on the way to hit somewhere a bit more fragile and damaging. a good work of art is a good workout. it tears you apart in a million tiny little ways and leaves you there, sore and cursing, to heal yourself like you have to. so i never got why people damn pain to the worst of hells, or why people revel in it, pain is pain is pain. it's there, darling, whether any damned one of you wants it or not. and pain is where you grow and pain is where you die and pain is pain.
and somehow pain isn't enough to build a home out of. discomfort does not lead to comfort, no matter how familiar it gets, and i don't want to write about this. pain isn't life, but life is married to pain and this is where it gets confusing.
we all want to live within the boundaries of happiness. some of us build fences and walls on the border, man it with memories of what happens when you cross it, we shoot ourselves in our foot and put it in our mouth. and i'm not saying that i don't like my flat in this metropolis, but vacations are nice too. day trips to the cliffs of despair and all that. and i feel bad saying that, because i don't seek out these trips, but i get kidnapped some nights by regrets i try to deny, and i'm dumped at the side of the road far from home, but today the rain drizzled down insubstantial, not even enough to be fun, but as people passed frowning like all hell lived between their lips, i couldn't help but smile because, man, I can't help it. and also, admittedly, because pop-cultured poetry swam in my head.

rain drops keep falling on my head, but that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red. crying's not for me, 'cause i'm never going to stop the rain by complainin'.

yeah just like that. and i wish i could think of a better quote for it all but there it is. aye, there it is.

 

 

FACE!

Hola,
What's happening velvet thundercats? I knew it! Oh you guys! Always sneaking around! Having adventures! Being precocious!
Okay, I don't know where I was going with that. I'm basically just going to let myself write for a while and see what happens, maybe if I split open my head and bleed over the keys the write connections will be made with the electricity within and beautiful words will come out and dazzle all over this exploding fiery revolutionary world.
Or maybe not. Maybe the words will all be trite and over-used. Maybe not one word will make the difference. Maybe.
In other news, Machine of Death, the breakout hit short-story compilation that was mentioned by Glen Beck (GLEN BECK?!?) on his radio-show in hatred, is getting a sequel. And I really want to submit a story but I don't have any ideas. So it's going to sound morbid, but if anyone has any ideas for how someone could die in a way that could add some dramatic appeal to their lives while they have them could you let me know? Or, y'know, write that story yourself? That might be a better idea.
Anyways, the point is, that it's going to be awesome, and I would love to be a part of it but if I'm not then ehn? I could deal with that.
I guess that's it.
HIGH FIVE.

madness

bon soir canada,
how's it?
that's cool. god damn. i am so f'kin' tired bro. i want to say something cool and mindblowing and completely fuckin' genre-defying -defining -denying here but my brain just ain't working those cogs and gears right now. seems like ain't a lot is working the way it should. i want to say something life-affirming and remind myself i am CANADIAN and A MAN and ALL THESE THINGS I INSISTED ON IN EUROPE but the fact is that jet lag is fuckin harsh to deal with. if my head still thinks it's in paris does that mean i'm still in paris? where does my perception end and where do i begin or is there a difference or am i one and the same with how i perceive the world? and then, if that's the case, then why was perception altered when i was drinking absinthe? was i a different person then, or am i always and always will be LEE MOLNAR. and is that the sad fact that no matter where i go or what i choose or choosen't to put into my body my body will always be me? is that the case or were fluroscent bulbs always that goddamn beautiful? i don't know but i can tell you now that all i want to do is listen to tUnE-yArD and bliss out and simply accept the MADNESS screaming through these veins of city streets sleeping under the broken glass soft cells of my skin letting in the sunlight and holding it in there so in the middle of the night i scream light from every pore.
yes.
that is exactly what i want to say right now.
bon nuit paris.

howdy fans

hey,
just a few things. mostly house keeping, but you know, it has to be done.
i'm opening up the questionery dealery deal again. just click the link at the side there and ask me freakin' anything, and i will answer it. it is my destiny.
i'm a bit hesitant to ask this next thing, just because it seems a bit desperate, but really i want to be desperate about this, so if you enjoy what i do here, could you, like, tell people about it? or let me know with comments? or something? i don't know man, i like doing this but i also like doing it when people are paying attention.
yaaaaay,
lee

i have been waiting so long to use the term "pigeon-hole"

on the metro today, i passed this guy. he looked university aged, big guy, muscled, looked like a total frat boy jock-y asshole kind of dude. i mean, i know dudes like that and they're mostly okay, but the stereotype still sticks with me, i'm not entirely sure why or if it's a good thing. i heard a line of his conversation, and it honestly surprised me. 

"I was like, "yo bro, chill, what the hell's your problem?"

it surprised me because i am, in a way, preconditioned to the assumption that there's more to people than appearances, that random lines of conversation are illuminating to the inner soul of a man, and that within these windows i'd be able to find something good and pure. 

but no, the snatch of dialogue i heard was perfect for him, it was exactly him in so many ways. 

and is it bad that i find some comfort in that? that appearances can reflect personality so perfectly sometimes? i only heard a single line of this guy's conversation, but i don't think it's much of a stretch to assume that he's always like that at least a little bit, that no matter how far away from the bro-serna he puts off, he's always circling that pigeon-hole. and i know i should rebel against this but really i'm kind of tired today and i want things to be simple sometimes. is that a crime? 

man, i meant to write about nationalism but i'm beat. i'll try that out tomorrow, i need a personal nationalistic manifesto more than you know. 

i want to say something here,
but all i can think is notebook fodder,
bullshit about stars and the moon
and fields of dandelions reminiscent of
Wordsworthian wanders.

that is all that's running through my head goddamn i want to write about everything i see i want to compose a poem to the trio of porcelain dandies surveying the battlefield of my room where the twin waves of books and clothes erupt from opposite corners i want to write a haiku for every picture my laptop pulls up i want to believe that a sonnet can be formed from how i feel about my abused and neglected and loved loved loved loved loved loved plants felix and elizabeth and i just realized i kind of gave them pretty damned romantic names they could be the hero and heroine of a gaudy godly romance novel harlequin but not the brand the idea the concept of harlequin of dark french clowns and jesters sleeping in cloisters of cathedrals and i know that's not what they did but i believe it is i believe and i know my christmas card conceptions of reality aren't real but sometimes sometimes i think they might be and when that happens i feel like a christmas card may be all i have to tell the world by and all the world is embodied in that one idea that one picture gracing the world.

i'm going to sit at my typewriter and try to make some sense or at least some beauty

I'm not entirely sure what I mean by this, but there seems to be an imbalance.

or maybe there's just a new balance i have to get used to.

i mean, god, there's tsunamis and revolutions and tuition increases and super moons and love and madness all around and i don't especially know how to deal with it all. so many people are going around saying what's best or what needs to be done or what is happening but none of it makes sense.

the tilt of the earth is off now. and that's not a hyperbolic metaphorical statement, it's what's fucking happening. i don't know how to deal with that.

kerouac said in the subterraneans, which i'm reading on and off right now, that everything is so goddamn messed up that you can never really examine the why of anything, it's lunacy to try, all you can do is quantify and qualify the what of it all.

so i guess i'll try to do that.

i'm sitting in my room, on the mattress that makes my bed. there's a pile of unwashed clothes sitting beside me and a super moon in the sky above. i can almost see it out my window but it's not there now, i guess it's just another superhero only there when i need to be rescued. i have to be up early tomorrow. i'm going to church. maybe that's what's making me feel out of whack. i don't go to church, i form churches everywhere i go, where ever i feel a worship coming on i take a second to deify my surroundings and say eleanor roosevolt's war time prayer, but i haven't sat through a worship since october, and i haven't been in a church since the last time. i've never been part of a church growing up. yet tomorrow i'll put on my sunday best and wander off to a church in ndg. notre dame de grace. i guess it's impossible to avoid religion in montreal.

this world doesn't make any goddamn sense and maybe it's about time i get used to that again. i think i used to accept it, but then i thought i understood what was happening under my nose and then i lost it all and i need to embrace it again. i need to learn to embrace the bipolar lover that is this planet spinning on a new axis.

goodnight, sweet princes, you'll be in my dreams.

Relief of Rock at the Side of the Road Part 4 Chapter: first half

There has been an awfully long wait for this post or any post of mine and I apologize to any offendies. This last part is fairly long for a short story and the second half of it is nearly finished. Please Enjoy what happens to Clarence-Theatre Osewaald and Tarina Millenium.

There are kiwis in my fridge.

Hey,
I'm having a kiwi right now for the first time in, like, 5 months.
and it reminded me of a poem i wrote last year.
ENJOY.

There are kiwis on the counter

How I long to grab one of those seraphic orbs

and cut it into two perfectly equal halves.

The big, green eyes will weep

juice, as I pick up my shiniest spoon.

I’ll scrape off the daintiest sliver

of the emerald meat,

and raise the spoon, hand quivering,

to my dry lips.

The juice will touch my tongue,

and the tiniest moan will moan

deep within me.

My teeth will tear apart the seeds

and with every mastication

my mind will travel farther and farther

east, until I open my eyes to the Orient.

When I’m done, there will be nothing

of the kiwi left, it will be destroyed,

completely ravaged,

and I will be a dark dream

to scare young kiwis, and make them

go to bed on time.

But the fuckers aren’t ripe yet.

They are sitting on my counter

and they are not ripe yet.

They’re waiting for a sign

From God or nature or

whatever to become soft

and sweet.

So I sit,

longing.

Monday Morning Haiku.

Smoke curls so pretty 

when there's no wind. Don't worry 

dad, it's just incense. 

I'm a broken man on the Halifax pier.

When I was younger I wasn't exactly the most active of fellows. My brother used to come into the living room, which is this beautiful room with a high roof and a ton of skylights and windows so it's always light and amazing, and I'd be sprawled on the couch, not even watching TV, just lying there, soaking in the light of day. And a few times he said that in about 20-30 years, I would be a bum lying on some dock somewhere.

And it's weird, because this never especially bothered me. I mean, sure I'd be a bum, not contributing to society and just lying there all day, but on the upside, I'd be spending all day just lying there, sitting next to the whispering mermaid sea and under the wide baked sun, and I could watch the clouds and gulls go sailing by, and maybe someone would stop by and try to help me out or see what my deal is, and I'd meet all these new people, and guaranteed I'll have some sort of story to tell then. And I wouldn't have to worry about money or nothing like that, I'd have the sea as my bride and the sky as my son and that'd be enough, y'know?

I suppose the point is that I can think of a lot of worse things than living my life out at the end of a dock, as long as I'd be allowed to do so. As long as I have a typewriter. Naturally. 

three cups of coffee & escapism.

So, it's 3 in the morning on a weeknight. 

What does this mean. 

That's right, I thought it'd be an awesome idea to wage war on sleep and drink trois cups of cafe in the wee hours of the morning. 

I stand by this decision, I hate sleep. When I close my eyes, I see nothing worth turning my eyes to. All I see is darkness. I don't even like to blink. And it shows. True fact: I am awesome at staring contests. I once stared down a stuffed animal. 

Okay, that's a lie, but whatever. 

I miss stuffed animals. I miss believing that this little piece of fabric and stuffing was real and I could go on adventures with them. I still remember blasting this Pokemon CD I had, which was full of original songs all about Pokemon and detailing Ash's adventures through the first series, and having a stuffed animal on my shoulder and pretending I was Ash and this stuffed animal (it was a Tabby) was Pikachu, and I'd run around my room that was unreasonably big for a child (it was the entire attic, and yeah I shared it with my brother but he never hung out up there like I did) and pretend that I actually was on the Road to Viridian City. I remember snapping that CD in two when a friend of mine called me out on liking Pokemon, and I was embarrassed and wanted to prove I wasn't that much of a kid. I was a stupid kid. Probably still am. 

I don't know man, I miss escaping like that, but I guess I got something good out of living in the real world. For one thing, I got a love for the world. 

I'm scared of escaping again, of retreating into books and inspirational people and music and fooling myself into believing that this will be me as soon as I'm done school or more settled or whatever. I'm scared of always putting this off and making excuses and dying in discontent when one summer of living like a gypsy or one year of hopping freights with a typewriter will be enough. 

But I guess it wouldn't be enough. And I guess that would just be another escape. I just have figure out what from.

Oh and also if you feel like still asking me a question then go for it. I'll answer them as I get them now, fuck that whole schedule thing. 

I got rid of facebook tonight. Or deactivated my account. Not sure how much it did, but whatever, it'd gone now, I can be free. 

Because, honestly, half the time lately all I want to do is read and listen to music, and the rest of the time I want to wander and write poetry. 

That's right. 

No sleep, no food, no nothing. 

Just poetry. 

Truth of the Universe.

Joey "Gaylen" McQuarrie is, quite possibly, the most splendiferous cat I have ever had the pleasure to meet. 

Fact: Just a few moments ago, I was petting him from my chair. He flops over onto his back. I start scratching his chest. HE HUGS MY HAND AND STARTS LICKING IT. 

What is this I don't even what.

Peace.

On January 8, 2011, a symbol of hope died.

Christina Taylor Green was 9 years old. She was born on September 11, 2001.

She, and everyone else born on that day, were looked upon, by the people of America, as proof that even in the most chaotic situations, fuelled by hatred and pain and anger, there was still hope. There was still life.

And she was killed today, in Tucson, Arizona, in a botched assassination attempt. Along with 5 other people.

Judge John Roll.

Gabe Zimmerman.

Dorwin Stoddard.

Dorothy Murray.

Phyllis Scheck.

I'm trying really hard not to make this political. I don't want to degrade it to that level. I want to focus on the fact that there was life. That there existed here life and love and hope, and it's gone now. And I'm really sorry I gave top billing to this little girl, because yes it is tragic that she was killed, but other people were killed too.

It took me so long to find the names of any of the victims that weren't her or Judge John Roll. But I found them. Because their names, their lives, are just as important as the two the press have leapt upon.

I don't want to be angry or hateful about this. I really don't. But I read the profile of the shooter.

Jared Lee Loughner.

He was only a kid, 22 years young. He made some videos on youtube. He seems like a smart guy, he talked about the new currency of ideas, he talked of libertarianism, he talked about grammar structures, and about words losing their meaning. Interspersed within this, interwoven, is ideas of racism, xenophobia, classism.

I don't want these words to lose their meaning in repetition, because this man, this boy, whatever, who I am not going to lie I am not going to disguise it I hate him, he represents everything I do not like, that I believe must be gone before we can go any further, he makes a good point.

"What's government if words have no meaning?"

Please. Please. Please let these words have meaning still.

Phyllis Scheck.

Dorwin Stoddard.

Gabe Zimmerman.

Judge John Roll.

Christina Taylor Green.

Dorothy Murray.

Peace.

That is all I ask.

Peace.

A very important matter.

Dearest readers,
I know that here I don't always discuss pertinent issues. Mostly, it's narcissistic blurbs that reveal a bit too much, or extended discussions of minutiae from my everyday life. But today, today is the day to change all that.
There is a question that we, as a society, have to confront. One that will change our very zeitgeist. Our paradigms will be shifted. Nothing in the Western world will ever be the same again.
The question:
Is Sylvestor Stallone a genius?