You should read the previous post, but Alvin deViller, who posts as Daymoon as well as Lee Molnar, both have tumblr blogs now.
Lee Molnar:
http://veryfunwords.tumblr.com/
Alvin deViller:
http://desirousdesirousdesires.tumblr.com/
Our marriage:
http://veryfundesires.tumblr.com/
They are all fantastic. Just open your heart and fall prey to art; let it violate your good will and change something inside of you. I can only hope that my efforts amount to you enjoying pieces of our lives and reverberating throughout personalities across the globe and in outer space. Love awaits you; it always does, even if only in the end.
-Daymoon
that's a wrap.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
i'm gonna hang up this blog, it's been real, but there's no purpose to it anymore.
i'm on tumblr, and i'm gonna use that system to do what i want.
peace, kissas, keep an eye on my other place.
http://veryfunwords.tumblr.com/
you might have to dig for wordy posts, but that might not be a bad thing.
once again, it's been real.
Lee J. Molnar
i'm on tumblr, and i'm gonna use that system to do what i want.
peace, kissas, keep an eye on my other place.
http://veryfunwords.tumblr.com/
you might have to dig for wordy posts, but that might not be a bad thing.
once again, it's been real.
Lee J. Molnar
chronicles of snow - 2
Friday, December 2, 2011
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.
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
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
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?
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.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
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!!!!!
check in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion!!!!!
I call this one "Gas Mask Theatre"
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
*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!
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.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
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.
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.
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