The Calendar Hung Itself

Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning when you start to raise your head?
And does he sing to you incessantly from the space between your bed and wall?
Does he walk around all day at school with his feet inside your shoes?
Looking down every few steps to pretend he walks with you.

Oh does he know that place below your neck that is your favourite to be touched,
and does he cry through broken sentences that I love you far too much?
Does he lay awake listening to your breath?
Worried you smoke too many cigarettes.

Is he coughing now, on a bathroom floor?
For every speck of tile there's a thousand more,
you won’t ever see.
but you must hold inside yourself eternally.

Well I drug your ghost across the country and we plotted out my death.
In every city, memories would whisper, "Here is where you rest."
I was determined in Chicago but I dug my teeth into my knees,
and I settled for a telephone and sang into your machine.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

And I kissed a girl with a broken jaw that her father gave to her.
She had eyes bright enough to burn me. They reminded me of yours.
And In a story told she was a little girl in a red-rouge, sun-bruised field
and there were rows of ripe tomatoes where a secret was concealed.

And it rose like thunder, clapped under our hands.
And it stretched for centuries to a diary entry’s end
where I wrote,
You make me happy
oh when skies are gray.
You make me happy oh when skies are gray, and gray, and gray.

Well the clock’s heart it hangs inside its open chest
with its hands stretched towards the calendar hanging itself
but I will not weep for those dying days.
For all the ones who've left there's a few that stayed.
And they found me here and pulled me from the grass where I was laid.

I've been waiting for you.

What does it take to keep you in my room?

We'll trade touch for touch and you'll feel my heart.

I hear you coming down the steps.

Part the sea.

You should know that I do love minimalism. You should also know that I play with language like a child plays with food.

Parrelisms and allusions are my favourite.

Take note.

But can't you see it??

You were exactly like the ones you scoff at.


Don't make me have to be explicit.

As I expire.

I don't see this going anywhere.

Tied up at the dock. The waves deceive us by simulating movement. We are rocking back and forth but we are not gaining any distance.

In love with the idea, but paralyzed by the reality.

I lost my mind, but I know where to find all the pieces.

I found my heart, and I know where to hide the keys.

There are still two around my neck.

I've got a total crush on you, baby.

http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/profile?id=467475

Copy and Paste Poetry.

I was born with a knack for explanations.

A story. A legend. Let's give them something to write about.

You'll know who she is by the mark on her chest, in the shape of a letter that was too proud to form a word.

Was it all for show or tell?
Self- referential until the world knows my name.

Exfoliate. Slough off the dead. I take it all with a grain of salt, and now I'm begging for water.

Sealed tight.

Goodnight, it's time to go home.

Make me feel beautiful

and document it.

Memories bite like rats.

The past paralyzes me. When I think about my comparitive youth, I am overwhelmed to the point where I question reality. It was a whole new world beyond the confines of my small town. Area codes meant something. People were characters, given names and personas to fit the storybook. The King who fell from the throne, the minions who moved and dressed as one, the jokers, and the Killer Queens.

I wanted so badly to belong. I became a nomad. No town was my own. I would disregard logic for the sake of relationships with those who embodied what I wanted to become.

I don't know how I crossed the line. I'm hazy as to how people learned my name.

Exits mean something to me that they would never mean to you.

Trying to race the clock. Lying to our parents that we didn't have school the next day. Belonging to something that we created.


Does anyone else feel robbed?

Does anyone else feel lost?


How quickly they forget.

I'll have what she's having.

I've got a sickness that I just can't shake.

I need somewhere to invest.

And I don't need an interest rate.

Give me a sign.

Anything will do.

Wonders.

I don't know why I am still so fascinated by the Great Pyramids. They appear in my poems, I read a lot about differing construction theories, and I would say that I am asked about them on a monthly basis simply because I have travelled (and lived) in Egypt. Not to mention my favourite research project I did in Grade 6. Or was it 8? One of those years.

The point of that presage was not to prove that I am some sort of expert. In fact, I have a lot of issues with the idea of calling people "experts" (note to self: write that entry soon). The point is, I want you to know that although nature is most often described as breathtaking, I am fascinated by architecture. Why is it that we build the way we build?

Look around your city. If you live in a metropolitan setting, chances are that most buildings are designed for practicality. Slanted roofs for water resistance, squared roofs to maximize space for urban sprawl, concrete and steel to stand the effects of weather, gravity, and time.

Shift your focus back to the pyramids. It is believed that the Great Pyramid of Giza was constructed over a 15-20 year period to honour fourth dynasty Pharaoh Khufu. It is approximately 460 ft tall, 5.9 million tonnes, and has a volume of approximately 2,500,000 cubic meters.

Pharoah Khufu ordered the construction of this monument to carry him into eternity. It was his glorified tomb, meant to bring him safely into the afterlife that ancient Egyptians subscribed to.

Khufu built it to last forever, yet as the tallest structure for over 3,800 years, The Great Pyramid of Giza was begging to be destroyed by time. Jutting out from the yellow sands, till this day the triangular prism stands. Stark. Severe. Solitary.

Withered, but still valiant, the pyramid refuses to be forgotten, unlike the kings and treasures that were once inside.

I think that this is the oldest, most powerful fuck you to non-believers ever created. They said it wouldn't last, but it's still standing. It's still beautiful. Meant to last forever, but built in the moment. Khufu would rather be certain that his monument was great, rather than unfailing. Even if it crumbles tomorrow, it will still have stood as the greatest man-made structure for thousands of years.

Isn't that better than a reliable square roof?

Posed.

If you're sexy and you know it, then you don't really need to show it.

And if I rise from this,

God knows how far the bottom will be.


My chest constantly feels like it is caving in, but I have to push through my own ribs. I am meant for more, and I will be more. The question is whether I am digging in the right direction.

There's the rub.

Sometimes the people we hate the most are the people who remind us most of ourselves.

What we hate, we make.

Some days it is harder than others to accept the fact that I live in a world which values things which I deem to be utterly meaningless.

We hate it, but we are the ones who made it this way.

I will rise.

They made those sculptures without asking me first.
My parts never lined up but they stand
precariously without beams.

Ashes to ashes
dust to eyes.
My halos are discoloured and misplaced.

My father created the internal structure.
He makes good, honest money.

If you close your eyes you can be anywhere, at any time.

Close them.









Where is it that you call home?

KFC Double Down.

"Everything in moderation, including moderation."

Jumper.

The power went out on the subway this morning. As we sat there in awkward silence, people began to get more and more annoyed with this disruption to their day. Cell phone calls, huffing and puffing, and looks of general despair filled the metal cart.

Finally, we were instructed that we must evacuate. One by one, we walked to the front of the subway cart where we funnelled out of one single door. A mass of angry, confused Torontonians marched up the stairs and were instructed to wait for shuttle buses.

I can hear people complaining about the TTC and its "technical issues." One man is so angry that he is walking around yelling, wondering when the shuttle buses are coming. I hear some mumbling in the crowd about tax dollars and service. I'm just thinking about what I'm going to tell my site supervisor. I am going to be an hour late for my internship, and I am at Castle Frank station. I'm nowhere I recognize on Blooor.

Then I get a tap on my shoulder. It's my friend, Tellie. I smile, and feel a sense of comfort. I like that girl. She looked pale, and her eyes were a little teary looking. She explained to me that she was on the first cart, and a woman jumped in front of it. She could hear the scream and feel the bump.

Only her and the other passengers in the first cart (and now myself) knew the reason for the emergency exit.

It made me realize how often the blanket is drawn over our eyes.

And you think you found the realness?

www.rafalgerszak.com

What an amazing photojournalist. My friend Jamie (who is another amazing photographer) just introduced me to rafal gerszak's work. I love how visceral and raw his photo stories are. I feel uncomfortable looking at some photos, and I appreciate that.

Check out "Eastside Story" under his Stills section and make sure to read the captions under "image info" on the righthand side of the photo.

This moves me.

This is a call.

Inspire me.

Don't feel left out.

-Nancy
-Dylan
-Jamie
-Scott
-Bekah
-Andrea

I just made a list of friends who I care about. It isn't very long. I know that there are people I could put more effort with, but why? It's not like they are doing that for me. With every year that passes, I realize that most people utterly bore me. The fact that some people can be okay with just working some shitty job where they have zero personal investment into it, go to bars on a schedule depending on what's "good" that night, and shopping at stores that everyone else they know shop at. So boring. So tired.

I just can't fake it like I used to.

This parade still marches on.

I'm finished with my classes at OISE. What's next?

-internship in May
-Additional Qualification course this summer to teach English as a Second Language
-finding a summer job?
-moving back to Ancaster?


Heavy.

Modernity: A Love Story

I'm sick of online forums being used to boost one's self esteem. I realize that I am writing a blog, which is arguably a major form of e-arrogance, since I am assuming that there are people reading this (and who care). That said, I would like to preface this entry saying that I get it. I understand that we want a platform to talk about ourselves. It is not just because we are all selfish or full of ourselves, it has to do with the greater framework surrounding us. We live in an individualistic society where we are encouraged to better ourselves rather than better the community. There is a myth that our community will benefit if it houses a group of "elite" individuals, however, this is just a naive sentiment. After we educate and procreate, do you really think we ask ourselves, "What can I do to make the world a better place?" We do not. By this point, we are so immersed in our own quests that we continue to focus on how we can make more money, or reach a higher social standing. Once we think have reached the top, we may extend our hand to pull others up, but those people are likely our children as they continue to be a direct reflection of their mothers and/or fathers.
(end aside).

I think I have the biggest issue with Formspring. I mean, I understand how Facebook is useful to "connect" with friends and family, and I understand how Twitter is apparently a great way to network, but I do not see the logic behind using Formspring? Can someone please explain to me why people use it besides the fact that they want to know that other people give a shit about them? Those who use Formspring seem to get off on the fact that people have things to say/questions to ask them, even if they are insulting. It's warped. So far, I have noticed that most people using Formspring have a "questionable past" when it comes to a "scene" that they were/are a part of. It is almost as if they are using Formspring as a means to demonstrate their redemption. The ex-slut, the teen mom, the ex-edge band guitarist, the scene superstar who fell from grace...I could go on. People love knowing that other people give a shit. For many, it is the reason that they wake up and get dressed in the morning.

I know this is going to sound like I read way too much Foucault and Benjamin, but it is as if we are always on display. Society is the stage, and we are the actors. To me, Formspring is a spectacle. It is a low-culture version of theatre. We are directly involved, yet still observing. I think it is in this fact that I find comfort. I get it because I am in it, but I can criticize because I can step back.

So where do we go from here? All signs point to commodification. We are packaging ourselves and sticking on labels that we think will sell. There is an inflation happening, and something has got to give before our careers, our degrees, our style, our culture, our identities becomes completely meaningless.

Repeat.

And if I could swim, I'd swim out to you in the ocean,
Swim out to where you were floating, in the dark.
And if I was blessed, I'd walk on the water you're breathing,
To lend you some air for that heaving, sunken chest.

Because they chose you as the model for their empty little dreams,
With your new head and your legs spread like a filthy magazine.
And they hunt you, and they gut you, and you give in.

And if I was brave, I'd climb up to you on the mountain,
They led you to drink from their fountain spouting lies.
And I'd slay the horrible beast they commissioned
To steer me away from my mission to your eyes.
And I'd stand there, like a soldier, with my foot upon his chest,
With my grin spread, and my arms out, in my bloodstained Sunday's best.
And you'd hold me, I'd remind you who you are under their shell.

I'd walk through hell for you, let it burn right through my shoes
These soles are useless without you.
Through hell for you, let the torturing ensue.
My soul is useless without you...

And if they send a whirlwind, I'd hug it like a harmless little tree.
Or an earthquake, I'd calm it, and I'd bring you back to me.
And I'd hold you in my weak arms like a first born.

I'd walk through hell for you, let it burn right through my shoes,
These soles are useless without you
Through hell for you, let the torturing ensue;
My soul is useless without you...

Through hell for you
Through hell for you
Without you, without you...

Now I've walked through hell for you.
What's an adventurer to do,
But rest these feet at home with you?

Lack of effort.

It's different than disinterest.

Tick Tock on the Clock.

Despite my two hours of sleep a night during my placement, I feel really alive as of late. I feel this newfound determination to live to my fullest potential. You always thought I couldn't do it without your help, but now I am running laps around you.

Covet.

Is there anyone out there with any "firsts" left anymore?

Old beauty.

Daisy.

Another analogy

Is this where the river splits?

I was your wind, you were my sail. I was never steering, but you thought I was. My hands were almost touching.

Burying myself into books. Words soothe me. I'm going to be something great, and all of you will reminisce about who you think I am (was). I am breathing on my own and it feels good. I don't need machines.

I need to commit to something that won't turn its back on me once they learn they can stand on their own two feet.

Some need love.
Some need care.

Some need need.

I would like this chair.

I never get bored, and I don't really understand how people feel that way so often. I find that I am interested, or at least amused, by the things and people around me every single day.

I had an unusual exchange with a man today in a waiting room for a walk in clinic. After a series of 3 waiting rooms (aside: not too sure how waiting in one room, then waiting in another room, then waiting in another room is at all efficient), I found myself alone with a 40-something year old man who I presume was a recent immigrant to Canada based on his English language proficiency and the conversation we had.

After mumbling to himself for a few minutes, he turned to me:

Man: "Do you know what my first word of English was when I moved here?"

Me: Awkward pause. "No?"

Man: "Hurt."

Things got more strange after that, but that's all you get.

Tip of the Day: Part II

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.

Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.

-T. S. Eliot

What did you do in school today?

Gotta love OISE.

Dying pretty is living well.

Our bodies fail us, and we fail our bodies. What comes first?

You Ain't No Patron Saint.

As long as your happiness relies on other people, you're going to be low.

Thanks for thinking of me.

Sometimes in the morning I am petrified and can't move
Awake but cannot open my eyes
And the weight is crushing down on my lungs
I know I can't breathe
And hope someone will save me this time
And your mother's still calling you insane and high
Swearing it's different this time
And you tell her to give in to the demons that possess her
That god never blessed her insides
Then you hang up the phone and feel badly for upsetting things
Crawl back into bed to dream of a time
When your heart was open wide and you love things just because
Like the sick and dying

And sometimes when you're on
You're really fuckin on
And your friends they sing along
And they love you
But the lows are so extreme
That the good seems fuckin cheap
And it teases you for weeks in its absence
But you'll fight and you'll make it through
You'll fake it if you have to
And you'll show up for work with a smile
You'll be better
And you'll be smarter
And more grown up
And a better daughter or son
And a real good friend

And you'll be awake
You'll be alert
You'll be positive though it hurts
And you'll laugh and embrace all your friends
And you'll be a real good listener
You'll be honest
You'll be brave
You'll be handsome and you'll be beautiful
You'll be happy

Your ship may be coming in
You're weak but not giving in
To the cries and the wails of the valley below
And your ship may be coming in
You're weak but not giving in
And you'll fight it you'll go out fighting all of them

At least I have my youth.

Telling me that I don't fit in is like saying 1 + 1 = 2.

I know. I have known since I was 13 years old.

This is going to change one day, but not until I get out of here. Please do not assume what "here" is, because you know what that does.

Tip of the day: First Edition

I have decided to start including "tips" in my blog either from myself, friends, family, writers, musicians, teachers, homeless people, whoever.

Learn to be poor yet dedicated, forever. Step away from the computer every chance you can and learn how to be flexible as an artist/designer. Learn art history, color theory, grid systems, typography, photography, and illustration. Work with other artists/designers around you. We all learn from one another. Education is everything, but the institution isn't. School is great, but retaining information is better. With that said, Art School is great for some and a waiting room for others. It's certainly not a requirement to be an artist. Once you have a knowledge base, the world is yours.

-J. Bannon

White Hip.

Sometimes it's too much.
They are pushing each other out of the way of the oncoming headlights not so that they can save their friends from being crushed, but so that they can steal the light. Being discreet is akin to being dead. Nobody notices you, and nobody remembers you unless they are triggered to do so.

Irony is that nobody will remember you, anyway. This is a patch-work city with hitch-hiking hearts. I don't think I want to leave until I'm ready. I'm not ready. I'm looking to you, girl. Show me how to maintain. Take me to your room and mold me...

Pose for the camera. Yeah, just like that. Contort your body a little. Invert that knee. Tilt your head. Stare through the lens. Look careless. Go limp. Off the shoulder. Rip the lace. Tuck the shirt. Roll the cuff. Light the cigarette. Drink the wine. Crush the pill.

Alright, editing stage. Crop it a little bit. Take down the saturation and the contrast. Make it lo-fi, baby. Yeah. You know this is what they want.

We're taught that we're not good enough the second we can understand. Make yourself better. Grab that official knowledge and put it in a frame. Go to a third world country and feel good about yourself. Don't be idle. He died for us, you know.

Tension.

It's sexy, right?

Stepping out.

Fuck the forecast because everyday is sunny.

I called it. Note the bold.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Punk is dead; it's just still bleeding.

MTV Live did a show dedicated to punk today. Kind of interesting, especially the segment on "black" punk, and the interview with Damien from Fucked Up. Damien gave a list of punk bands to watch for, and these are the ones I remember being mentioned.

-Mind Eraser
-Down and Outs
-Cold War
-Gallows
-Jay Reatard

I most agree with Minderaser, but as much as I enjoy listening to Gallows...I'm not totally convinced that they will continue to be relevant.
Anyway, Be Your Own Pet performed. Jemina Pearl is a complete asshole, but wow, I wish I were doing that.

For the best.

It takes more time than I have ever had
Drains the life from me,
makes me want to forget
As young as I was, I felt older back then
More disciplined, stronger and certain

But I was scared to death of eternity
I was saved by grace
but destroyed by naivety
and I lied to myself
and said it was for the best

My faith is replaced with a logic so cold
I've disregarded what I was
Now that I am older
and I know much more than I did back then
but the more I learn
the more I can't understand
and I have become content with this life that I lead

and I lie to myself
and say "it's for the best."

We're moving forward, but holding ourselves back
and We're waiting on something that will never come

All this time

I am finally ready.

In all the wrong places.

Got my hair cut today. I kept a lot of length, but one side is longer than the other and my bangs are short. I like it, I think.

Also, I have realized that I have huge features. Eyes, mouth, nose, cheeks. I don't know how I feel about this.

The Art of Romance.

The fourth best gift I ever received was my record player.

The third best gift I ever received was getting surprise tickets to Converge.

The second best gift I ever received was a mixtape. I make really good ones, and I can appreciate when someone else can as well.

The best gift I ever received was a song written for me. I guess I technically had two, but one was better than the other. It made me feel really shy, but in a pleasant way. If I were to have a song written for me instead of given "material" things for each consumer holiday or birthday, I would be a very happy girl.


Side note: I think there is a trend in the nature of the gifts. Try and spot it (because it is sooo subversive). Har har har.