I write like little girls play hopscotch

It's so hard to separate a person and their works. So many people, so many good people, so many people worth studying are complete assholes. 

Right now I'm reading Heidegger, and the man is a Nazi. He, quite literally, is a card-carrying member of the National Socialist party. And I'm not reading his politics, I'm reading his philosophy, his metaphysics. 

Okay, fuck it, I was trying to write that, because that's been in my head for a while, and it was building up to this whole thing where I reveal I cannot separate a person and their work, but that's pretty much a given, that's not worth saying. I don't really know what is worth saying. I'm sitting in my room and there is a typewriter in front of me and I have no idea why I'm writing on a laptop and not on this machine sitting in front of me. I respect the machine, so intricate and hardy and delicate, so much more than this toy on my lap. And I just have no idea why I am on this laptop. It feels like the force of my fingers can break the keys. I don't want to dance daintily across the keyboard, you can't write poetry like that, you can't write beauty like that. I want to pound on the typewriter keys like a percussion instrument until my fingers bleed, I want to hit the typewriter with my fighting words, I want to pour anger and resentment and passion into my words and man the medium is the message, macbooks just have no passion to them, they're too dainty. 

I have known for so long, for so long, that you can't write poetry on a computer. I have known this but I still write on a computer. And I don't goddamn know why. 

Okay this is going too far into anger and I don't want to write angry things. It just feels kind of forced now. 

Today it's raining in Montreal. Or it's not even rain, it's a light drizzle. I decided to walk home from class, even though it's, like, 45 minutes and I already paid $14 for a three day pass. I figure I paid that $14 for the freedom to use the metro whenever I want, so I don't really have any obligation to use it. Just because I can do something, doesn't mean I want to at all. That's a stupid way to think, in my humble opinion. Freedom doesn't mean obligation. But yeah, it was raining, and it was so soft and sweet and sad and I was listening to sad songs and I loved it. I felt good, the world was so white and grey and green and it all looked united in these colours. The world had a single intent, and I guess it still does, since it's still wet and miserable outside. 

The mountain was covered in fog, and it was wonderful. It reminded me of the summer when I was trying to hitchhike down a mountain road and there was clouds all around and it was one of the most beautiful mornings. And the mountain looked like that, except it was Westmount, and it's covered in houses and mansions and castles and you couldn't see the top but I knew it was shrouded in fog. And it's great, because the people up there, the people who paid so much and probably did horrible things to get that money to live up there only saw white, they only saw the inside of the cloud, while I could have the mystery of not knowing what was up there. 

And I guess the inside of a cloud is as close to oblivion you can get, and I don't really know what lies these people told themselves so they can be comfortable staring into that. Or maybe they just shut the blinds and turn up the TV. Or maybe I'm completely misrepresenting them, maybe they're good people, who just happen to have money, and just happen to live up there, and the sight of the inside of a cloud is welcome and beautiful to them as it would be to me. Or so I think. I don't know, maybe I'm just lying to make myself feel comfortable staring at that. Maybe I'm just as bad as these people living on top of the mountain, maybe I'm just as bourgeois. After all, I have a place to sleep at night. 

And I don't know if that's a good judge of wealth but if it isn't I don't know what is. I have a place to sleep at night, and I have a few meals a day. And because of this I'm better off than so many other people. 

Okay, this is too socially relevant, moving somewhere else. 

Goddamnit, I just want to write poetry, man. I just want to write beauty, I just want to write with rhythm, with flow, with no intent but to illuminate a darkened place, you know? But for some reason I can't make myself do this. I blame the machine, but that's just blaming, that's just an excuse. I don't know, I feel like if I was a real poet, a true poet, a pure poet, I could sit down anywhere with the capability of making sound, of communicating in any way, and I could write something beautiful. And I guess if that's how I define poetry, then everything is poetry, any communication is poetry. Or any beautiful communication is poetry, and isn't beautiful communication just art? I don't know if I want to be a poet or an artist as they conjure up completely different images to me. For me, for some reason, the epitomal poet is Oscar Wilde (though he didn't really write poetry, or I don't really know his poetry that well), and the epitomal artist is Picasso. And I guess these are just, like, popular images of these titles, and I don't really want to be either one. I mean, I have nothing against either of those dudes, they seem fly as fuck in so many ways, but that's not me, and I don't want it to be. 

I don't like being compared to people. I mean, I know it happens, and sometimes it's pretty flattering, but I don't want to be anyone else. I'm me, I accept this, I embrace it. 

I'm me, I just need to figure out who that is. 

Dear cats, and kittens and cats who wish they were kittens, and kittens who wish they were cats, and puppy-kittens and Gabez, and Gay-Babez, and Gay BLADES (such a horrible music video.) and Gaylens and Alvin,

I cannot tell anyone and everyone and everything enough just how much I totally really fucking love the people who write on this blog. They write about gorgeous things like being lamp posts or the beauty of walking and shit. I try.

No, I don't.

Montréal is a sweet place. I'm looking for a sweet Montréal job. Hook me up.

Furthermore, I have been looking into citizenships and dual citizenships and multiple citizenships and naturalization and all that bullshit. Here's a little TIDBIT of info for you; in some countries, if you try and gain citizenship in another country, they make you renounce your old citizenship. WHACK. I guess they have their reasons. Or they totally don't.

Oil spills = heart attacks = logic = heart ache = sad cat = space travel.

Now, let's just be quiet, one second, please.

Oh, also, guys, I totally love hipsters. That's you, Repus Eel. I dig your ironic lack of facial hair.

Does Lee ever even update this thing anymore? My updates from now on are going to turn into comments.

Double post. Alter Ego recites: --I Wished to the Biggest thing Around--

Oh
Beautiful moon, the precious,
illuminated bottom of a bottle, top of the only lighthouse,
make me a lamp-post.
TALL
and throbbing of magic glow.
Stark on the street
eons below.

Tuesday. Listen Up. A new story.

Alter Ego:
I will try really hard to post on an actual Tuesday next week. JUST watch me. Just so you guys know the schedule. It is SUPPOSED to go like this:

Tuesday: DayMoon

Thursday: Spiny Norman

Saturday: Cyrano's Mustache

And of course, Super Lee blogs whenever the hell he wants.

















Want to see some of my art?
Click that> WHAT OF IT?

Rollerblading. To the max.

Dear Reader,

You may not know this, but what you hold in your hands is explosive.

I am avoiding writing a response to an Emily Dickinson poem and Lee is doing the dishes.

So last night Lee and I tried (and failed) to attend a Young Rival concert, which was balls because I really wanted to see Young Ri

val again. We stayed home and ate nachos and pretended instead, which was also sweet, because we had nachos. And apple pie. And Nirvana the Band. And Norm was there, too (or was he? I can't really remember. srsly, was he?).

Alvin is in O-town rocking that poor, sad city with his obscene, lady-killing presence. He brought a DVD copy of Disney's Robinhood with h

im. So if you live in Ottawa and you're totally itching to see that movie, then hit him up.

Anyways.

Who even reads this? Besides my mother? Mom, why don't you ever comment. It would probably seriously boost Lee's confidence. Try it sometime.

Hyperlink Assault (should be a video game. OR a legitimate like, charge. we're charging you with hyperlink assault. that's probably not the

right wording. Assault by Hyperlink. or something. I just really like the word hyperlink it's like, high-tech and spacey and stuff. I'm hyperlinking you the info as we speak. Hahaha... the word hyperlink is starting to make less and less sense to me. hey, did you know that there is a 100$ fine for not wearing shoes in the Metro? Yeah, crazy. He kept telling me it was an infraction. He also didn't speak a lot of english.)

For now,

For ever,

For better,

For worse,

Four

times Four

is sixteen.

PS. I fucking love Juice:

Tuesday. uhm. We. Have to talk.

I am very Sorry Tuesday. I still love you. I am in love with you, but I don't know. YOu know. I was just so busy. ANd. AND THEN. And then the next day past and I was all sad and down and I missed you. I MISSED YOU. But I don't know, you know? I just don't think that it is working out right now. I uh, think that we have to. um. b. Break. up.
. . . . . . . .
... ... ... ...
...
. . . . .
Nawwww, just kidding. I love you Tuesday.
Hey! Where are you going? Hey! I am sorry.
Okay, enough diiddlliinng around. Here it is.
Alter Ego:

DEPRESSING. LIKE, SUPES DEPRESSING.

Okay, so that whole guest writer thing was kind of a bust. I'm going to get on their asses about that soon. Or maybe this is the way it's meant to be, guest writers sweeping in for a post or two, then disappearing, never to be heard from again. So they can tell their stories, whatever stories those might be, and then are gone, and when you walk down the street, you can look in the eyes of the people walking past, and never know quite for sure if you know their tragic tale, and that doubt is enough to make it real, because even if you don't know their tragic tale specifically, you know they have one, and yeah not all tragedies are the same, but you can still relate, you can still say, "Don't worry, I know, you're broken, I'm broken, let's have a broken party."And then you make out for a while. 

Yeah, anyways, I was holding back on posting because I was waiting for someone else to, so I wouldn't double post and all that jazz. But yeah, I guess it's just you and me again, just like the old day, the good old days, back when there were, like, dinosaurs and shit. Dinosaurs are fuckin' rad. 

Anyways, as you may have noticed, a bunch of the questions I have gotten so far (speaking of which, ask a goddamn question, peoples), just in general, have been about writing, and why I write, and et cetera. And the only real answer I could give was, "because writing is the tits." But apparently that wasn't enough for you people (WHY IS IT NEVER ENOUGH FOR YOU PEOPLE) so you made me repeat that, like, 5 times. 

And I think I kind of understand now why it isn't enough, why that answer doesn't satisfy. I mean, I'm not saying that just doing something because it feels good is a bad reason for doing it. Hell, that's why I do, like, everything I do. Hedonism is the shit. Of course my hedonism seems to be less about crack and alcohol and more about meditation and alcohol, but I digress. The point is I haven't gotten close to the point yet, because the point is that it's cool to just do something because it feels good, but it's also like if I'm in the right mood, I can just as easily and have just as much fun writing about, like, fuckin' flowers and birds as I would writing about domestic abuse or something. And okay that came out wrong but I hope you get the point. I'm not saying I like domestic abuse, and yes that is a hard subject for me to write about both because it's hard to think about and I (thankfully) have no experience with it. I think I was hit once by my parents and that was when I dyed my hair blue without telling them first, and that was more like something I'd do with my friends. What I am saying is that the subject matter of my writing has very little to do with my enjoyment of the actual writing, except that it's funner to think about flowers and bullshit like that than problems in the world. 

And yeah, the world has a lot of problems. That's a given. Everything, or almost everything, is pretty terrible. I mean, we can all do our part to help things out, I'm drinking fair-trade coffee right now, for example. And I'm mostly doing that because the coffee business is scary as hell and it's tasty. But even fair trade coffee is killing us, poisoning us, because of how far it must be shipped and the comparatively low shipment sizes which means that less is on each boat which means more boats are needed which adds carbon emissions and greenhouse gases which'll lead to Greenland splitting apart and sinking and oh god we are all going to die. Being a good person nowadays has become a bit of a Sophie's Choice, because we can either fuck over the third world, or fuck over the environment, and even that's ignoring the problems in our backyards. The pain and poverty and suffering even in places like Montreal is absurd. 

What I'm saying is that the world needs saving. That is a given, that is a presupposition, the world needs a saviour, it needs righteous might, it needs a riot, a cleansing flame, it needs anger and fury that'll be aimed towards destroying all the right things. What I'm also saying is that I don't think I can be a part of that charge. I know people who are political, who are passionate, who care about the problems of the world, who attack homophobes and save the environment, and I agree with them, (how could I not?) and I support them, and I sign their petitions, and I try to help where ever I can, but I was never able to actually join their groups, to discuss these problems, to hold the petition up to other people to sign. And I don't know why, I don't know what sort of fucked up person that makes me that I can't care enough about this, to devote my life to solving these problems, to relieve this suffering. But, for whatever reason, through some fault in my character, I can't, I can't save the world. 

But I realized today in the shower what I can do. I can't save the world, but I can help remind people that the world is worthy of being saved. I don't know man, it's mad easy to see the world, with all it's problems and pain and suffering and say it's past saving, that there's nothing we can do make it beautiful and whole again. But okay I guess that's the point of what I write, in a way? I write about birds and flowers and true love and kittens and magicians because that makes me happy, and because that's part of the world, and the world is awesome and fantastic because it has to be to accommodate such awesome and fantastic things. So yeah I guess that's not why I write, but why I write what I write, or why I will write what I want to write, or maybe this is just another excuse to not actually become politically active. Anyways, the point is, I am not going to save the world, I just want to remind people that the world is worth saving, no matter how broken and wonderful it gets. 

PEACE OUT!

lee