Your Fonder Heart

The best kids this side of Riverdale

2011-02-27T02:27:00.001-08:00

I've been having very strong dreams lately.
Dreams where I adventure.
Dreams where I read.
Dreams where I'm a hero.
Dreams where I'm a soldier.
Dreams where I'm outside.
Dreams where I'm asleep.

Last night's shook me.
I had a baby.
Then back in time, I was pregnant.
How do I tell [any/every] one?
I tell someone.
Then I have to tell more people.
I'm going to burst.
The joy!
I have to tell you.
"Sit down."
Unfazed.
In my dream, I woke up from a dream about it.
I woke up for real, terrified you heard me talking in my sleep.
You'd leave.
I'd die.
I want nothing more, nothing less.
I'd die willingly.
I'd die happy.

Where am I?

2010-12-30T00:19:00.001-08:00

It's like vertigo for the nomadic - sometimes I blink and when I open my eyes I forget where I am.
Abbotsford? Langley? Edmonton? Spruce Grove? Some other suburb of Edmonton or Vancouver?

Then comes my memory, oh yes, I'm just where I'm supposed to be. Wouldn't I rather be where I thought I was? Of course. But then I'm there, and it doesn't feel like home, and I forget where home is, and I have so many good things about these places, and so many things holding me back.

A taxi driver once said to me "So many things make you do what you don't want to."

I just might get vertigo from this.

So, here's a thing:

2010-08-06T02:21:00.001-07:00

Why would you put such blinding lights above such a beautiful place?

Why must we drink so much when we know it won't be as [good] tomorrow?

Why do we fall so vulnerably in love when we have had such wretched pasts?

Where does the beauty come from, and why must we forget it with the most fleeting of bad things?

When will the mosquitoes stop biting!?

Eaten alive.

2010-06-01T00:29:00.000-07:00

It's an anxiety thing. Comes back every spring.
Fresh foundations for some; new beginnings.
A crumbling false sense of security found hiding in bed all winter for me.
Store the winter coats and heavy boots in the back of the closet,
with my hopes that the world really will be okay.
So a glass of wine, benson and hedges and mumford and sons in a bubble bath....
and maybe tomorrow I'll have the strength to face another year of unachievements.
Before I go back home to tell my mother I, yet again, have nothing to offer.
"there's always next year!"
"you said that last year."

I forgot about this weather

2010-05-20T16:31:00.000-07:00

Red lips black coffee yellow umbrella.
White pearls brown hair black heels.
Black asphalt yellow lines grey sky.
Green leaves purple lilacs blue eyes.
The weather will pass.

Head space findings

2010-03-15T00:23:00.001-07:00

I recently found a notebook I carried with me in May and June, when I first moved to Edmonton. Most of this is long forgotten, the feelings I had to expresses are ancient history. But here they are.

1.
Something:
It was here, within us, between us.
Under the sheets, speed dial 2, the wrong shoes,
the right hands to hold.
We lost it.
Perhaps in the park, or down the drain with the cold coffee we couldn't finish.
Recycled with yesterday's cross word.
Regardless of how it was found, or how it was lost,
it happened. There are debts to settle.

2.
I couldn't fill enough note books to display how much I hate this.
I couldn't even fill one.
Paper never did anything to deserve such orchestrated,
impetuously violent
misanthropy.

I am so sorry.

3.
Your direction of love changes faster than the seasons,
cycles of the moon,
songs on the radio.
You don't know what to do with me, so how should I?
You said, "Love and loss; it's a written rule." So tell me now, dear,
where are the instructions?

Maximillion, God Speed

2009-08-07T20:55:00.000-07:00

This aloof front is fatiguing,
not unlike being on the front-line in a war,
but this is a war of hearts.
We've got the defense systems covered,
but our offense tactics are weak.
Definite room for improvement, boys.
Hit the showers.

These hearts, disfigured from breaks,
are my favourite things.
A project, something vulnerable and real.
Timeless.

We're playing at a game with no teams.
Everyone plays in solitude.
Guessing at the rules, which are made up as we play.
With no time line, and no end.
Love is not difficult, some just need reminding.

Why are we concerned about zombies attacking?
What about our own self destruction?

I guess this is what blogs are for;

2009-06-30T00:08:00.000-07:00

"I am friends with you two on different levels (read: i hang out with the two of you seperately and exclusively. Combining you two would be weird and potentially dangerous - you may find holes in my story, the recreated me I've been developing since moving here)."
- me
- personal insight by fluke.

"your honesty is unpredictable and your vulnerability is disarming. you never disappoint."
- Robyn Mooney
- very poetic, and very flattering to my ego

Timeless.

2009-06-29T22:25:00.000-07:00

Empty promises,
broken hearts,
loose lips,
sinking ships.

Piano keys,
broken strings,
mo-town blues,
bred to lose.

highways
coastlines
falling leaves
slanted thieves.

More words at your expense.

2009-06-16T02:55:00.000-07:00

The streets are static at this hour,
but the avenues are lined with trees.
And there's a rabbit running north
along the yellow line.

What a brilliant display of audacity,
while I'm feeling like...

falling leaves,
electricity,
forgotten languages.

Something romantic, but lost,
like 'take a penny, leave a penny' jars,
or the second receipt that
nobody wants.

Unspoken confessions, damp sleeves,
gutters filled with cigarettes butts.
Reopened wounds shallow skin deep salt water burning.

Have you got a light? Won't you spend the night?
I'm sending this storm out west, to you.

anchored to the sea.

2009-05-20T14:28:00.000-07:00

I love the coast the most.

Society Islands

2009-04-27T23:17:00.000-07:00

When ink smudges look like llamas, or if you really could fly by taping feathers to yourself and moving your arms so fast it hurts, and the time your lunch monitor saw you wiping your boogers on your pants and looked disgusted. And what if time travel was possible and the world's most powerful nation saved itself from international recession by becoming peaceful and what would your mother say if she heard that tone you took with your sister, but who would play doctor for you if there weren't any band-aids in the house, because you never bought any, because you were alone and destined to be so forever and hoped if you cut your finger bad enough with that damn knife you always use for the wrong thing, then maybe, just maybe, possibly, being lonely wouldn't matter any more.

Sewer Rats

2009-04-27T23:14:00.000-07:00

Exactly the kind of vacant feeling associated with car dealerships.
Something you can't put your finger on, something not quite right;
like a grey sky with no hope of rain or sun.
And the mystery of railroads...
and the way you feel lifeless during winter,
surrounded by decaying deciduous trees.
You just want to go home, to summer,
to popsicles and sun tan lotion and waves,
and girls in bikinis and cars with no tops.
But mostly just the green, the green, the green.
Baseball diamonds forests dog trails graveyards backyards back doors screen doors locked doors open.
But for now, it's winter, and you can't quite put to words why you're so quiet,
and you can't quite explain why you cry when someone changes the radio station,
but it exists.
Just like you do, probably.
And just like I do,
probably.

we got high and asked

2009-04-27T23:13:00.000-07:00

HOW CAN YOU LOVE SOMEONE WHO CAN'T EVEN LIKE THEMSELVES!?

I eat whores for breakfast.

2009-04-27T23:12:00.000-07:00

You deliver words that melt like water from a glacier, becoming insignificant upon entrance into the ocean of other softly spoken words hollowly aimed my way. Deep sea divers couldn't find depth in your diction. Not to mention the expanse, the expanse that is your back. It couldn't be achieved by Mt Everest explorers. This was a lesson, one in geography, and not at all in liquor or love, company or incandescence. This was nothing more than what it was, backs and depths and heights and never-ending plains. Theoretical; much like the horizon. Ideally.

Moonwards bound.

2009-04-27T23:11:00.001-07:00

Souls without bodies:
Without bodies, because what are they good for? Consumption. Something to satiate the hunger to feel.
Like the feeling of eating too much, or pulling a muscle, or when your ears ring.
Or when you come inside from the cold, and wash your hands under hot water.
The ability to remember, the ability to forget.
The volcanic explosion in your chest when you see the wrong thing. Seeing.

Bodies without souls:
Something to fill the void. Something to stop the bones rattling between disconnected veins, sinews without purpose, holding together useless organs to useless skin. Nothing of worth.
Cosmic matter becomes boring. Understanding without feeling.
Disinterest: apathy, geography, psychology, physiology.
Ability without intrigue.

Self-quote, unlike self-improvement.

2009-04-27T23:09:00.001-07:00

"Accordions were probably invented after realizing how much like accordions our bodies are when we fuck."

Home by ten

2009-04-27T23:08:00.001-07:00

After you left without turning back
to see my hand over my heart
Surrendering from this war
I sent you a letter
signed "inconsequentially yours,"

the only hope i held was in that you would
return
the letter, with the 'in' crossed out.
instead you just crossed me off
your list of current events.

Lover's Lane

2009-02-22T23:58:00.001-08:00

She's the kind of girl who lives romantic.
Red lipstick, little black dress.
Curls and pearls.
Super slim cigarettes,
Dry martinis and vodka water.
White carpet, white teeth.
Leather bound books, rotary telephone.
Typewriter, typewriter, typewriter.
Personalized stationary, personalized pen.
Perfect cursive, wet black ink.
Polite shoes, yoga mat.

She's the kind of girl who lives nomadic.
Plaid sweatshirt, blue jeans.
Sneakers and coffee.
Cheap smokes and chain smoking,
Wind-blown hair, notes on napkins.
Water-logged book, back pocket.
Mascara
Tea lights, Belle and Sebastian.
Beer and scratch tickets.
French cursing, untying.
Bubble gum and wrappers.

Re:

2009-02-22T23:54:00.000-08:00

Tonight, Black History Month is not celebrated.
It isn't even forgotten. It was never thought of.

Tonight, instant coffee is pulsing through my fingers.
Dictionary-digits, as I call them.

Tonight, sleeping is not an option.
Nervous knees will deny my desire for rest.

Tomorrow, I won't get anything right.
I'll drink too hard, I'll smoke too much, I'll cry too often.

But for now, we'll just fold our hands on our laps,
tell stories of ghosts, and regenerate the night we met.

Paradise is still lost.

2009-01-12T00:13:00.001-08:00

I wrote you letters, I typed them
on my Smith-Corona.
Restarting with each mistake,
telling you stories of delicate,
cold sunrises.
Sunrises which I have never seen, for
each night I am awake into the wee
hours of the morning, falling asleep as
the moon rises in the East.
You told me, "I love the coast the most,"
but God damn, what about me?

Loss of sight.

2009-01-12T00:12:00.001-08:00

The love between two people,
nothing alike,
nothing in common other than
a love
formed through fear
of not being together.
So that in the future, you can remember that
being together was lonely,
but also just enough
so the loneliness didn't
hang
like your thoughts on life and death
when you step outside for a cigarette.
He hates you and your cigarettes, and you will die
lonely.
You will die rough hand in soft hand,
tool-baring hand in dish-washing hand,
idolized by the friends you knew well enough to
remain distant from.
And you will die happy that you are not alone,
even if that means being lonely.

this love: unraveled

2009-01-03T02:56:00.000-08:00

This love,
which began as a molehill, and as
so many other things, soon transformed into
a mountain.
A violent, unfamiliar journey,
obstacles and surprises.
Like trying to squeeze a pillow into it's case
after doing laundry.
It seems like it should be so
simple
and easy,
but it's a wrestling match, a feat of strength,
and no satisfaction can be found at the finale.
That night, sleeping on this pillow
will not feel right.
Where do you go from there??

no release.

2009-01-03T02:55:00.000-08:00

How do you expect me
to rid myself of all,
of everything,
of all this, this turbulence of the heart?
These hurricane winds,
the smell of hair product,
the untied shoe lace,
the music in your car?
I've been saturated with everything
that is you,
so please add one more piece,
the last piece,
the cure to this un-release.

Four seasons, a dozen apple trees, one life

2008-12-03T00:39:00.001-08:00

I've always played the role she needed filled.

I was a stranger when we met. I was a friend, a companion, a girlfriend. I was a teacher when she got a promotion. I was a lover when she was lonely. I was available when she was anxious. I was a date when she wanted Italian for dinner. I was just another person at the end. Now I don't matter.

How is a kite supposed to fly without wind? How is a fish supposed to swim in a mud puddle? How are the birds expected to not explore the boundaries of our atmosphere while they're up there? How am I supposed to be a person who has been everything and doesn't matter anymore?

Our generation holds themselves higher than our parents' held the bible.

2008-11-10T23:07:00.000-08:00

We allow ourselves to be corrupted by society. We allow ourselves to become lost in the internet. We allow ourselves to have such an excess of narcissism that we spend hours choosing what to reveal about ourselves on facebook in order to create an impression of someone we wish to be, and not at all who we are. We keep digital records of our daily events and feelings, because writing with pen and paper is so passe. We must smoke cigarettes as to occupy our hands, which may otherwise display some sort of truth, the truth of uncertainty. We must develop a reputation of consistency to form personas behind which we hide. We become uncomfortable without a connection; no cellphone, no internet, no safety net. We must illuminate the spaces in between one another with televisions, silver screens, the glow from the text message you just sent to the person you were thinking about while you were with someone else. We cannot be in silence or darkness, unless it is a specifically rebellious lifestyle. We cannot eat at home, we must eat in a social and expensive atmosphere. The money we make is burning holes in our pockets, the retail market loves our generation. But we can't find it in ourselves to love us too.

Yesterday is miles away, it would be a closer trip to the moon.

2008-11-09T02:01:00.000-08:00

I am just trying to keep my head above water. Just like everyone else. Why aren't we uniting under this front of consistent uncertainty?

Materialistically Satisfied, never satiated.

2008-11-09T01:24:00.000-08:00

Bright Eyes discography in my possession, chronologically:

letting off the happiness
every day and every night
fevers and mirrors
there is no beginning to the story
lifted, or, the story is in the soil, keep your ear to the ground
lua
i'm wide awake it's morning
take it easy (love nothing)
noise floor
four winds
cassadaga

Further confounded.

2008-11-07T00:03:00.000-08:00

Other anxious people would recognize me by my deep, shaky breaths, my clenched fists, my closed eyes. By the volume on the television or stereo being prime numbers only, because having to think about the possibilities and probabilities of other numbers makes my knees sore and my feet cold. I have nervous knees and I'd really like it if you didn't touch them. If you did touch them, I'd respond more intensely than with dislike, I'd likely respond with violent distress.

Black holes; what's the deal? And why does skin get 'dry' after being in water for too long? What is 'vertigo,' and how can someone believe they are good enough to stand in judgment over others?

Amplify your rebellious side and switch off the mediocrity you know. My favourite place on Earth is where it rains all the time, and when it rains it really rains, it means something to rain there and the occupants of the atmosphere accept that.

I am filled with love a size colossally more immense than the distance from the Precambrian era to now; the Anthropocene (that was once the Holocene, now named for the humanism of this time period). I am crushed to think about how many people I'll never meet and how many books I'll never read and how many things I'll never know and how many lives I'll never fight to keep.

The bigger picture and specific people don't matter, but the times when there is no person to be found are the small times that add up so fast you die alone.

Look around, look within, and look closer (not in the mirror). Look at the stars and think about the sea. I've been having troubles sleeping again.

My world is heavier than yours.

Cheers to fears

2008-10-01T21:55:00.000-07:00

I am on the inside looking around. None of this "outside looking in" bull shit.
I am aware of my choices and decision, I am aware of situations around me, and the effects they have, and I feel good about it all.
I feel really good. Even if I am acting self-centered in my self-awareness, I still feel good.
Self inspired to boot!
And that's something to 'cheers' about.

Can't stop [it]

2008-10-01T21:54:00.001-07:00

I've collected all the books strewn across my bedroom that I have bookmarks in and am currently reading. They are stacked beside my bed now.
-a magazine with Connor Oberst on the cover
-a Zitz comic book
- No Logo
- Food For Though, The Vegetarian Philosophy
- Vegan Sourcebook
- Bright Shiny Morning
- Stuff White People Like
- Green For Life
- Bagombo Snuffbox

On my desk I have three organizers / day planners / calendars, none of which has all of my events / deadlines in it. I have Frebreeze, cat nail clippers, cat treats, rocks, four dictionaries, three thesauruses, twp water bottles, an empty juice box, an empty EA coffee mug, a stack of now-useless free movie passes, pens, two pairs of glasses, three pairs of sunglasses, a ring, a hair elastic, iPod cables, camera cords, sticky notes with very outdated information, a 'scent of mullet' air freshener, a matt good pin, an oasis pin, and an EA coffee sleeve. No wonder I can't work in this space.

Now my desk is (mostly) cleared (however, my bed is filled with all this stuff), I am lighting my room with a small lamp and Christmas lights, and I think I am ready to work.

If I can get off facebook...

A day like this

2008-09-21T16:01:00.000-07:00

I love the coast the most.

Feeling under the weather, perhaps, the sky is solid grey. I'd prefer some rain or shine.

A plethora of feelings backstroking through my blood stream, unidentifiable feelings, uncategorized emotion floating through the mind of an organized person.

Time to myself with some slow songs courtesy of Belle & Sebastian.

Time to think about some suffering and some growing friendships.

Lots of homework to do, it's time to expand my mind in a negotiated direction.
You force me to go to school, I choose what I will learn. I can learn on my own, I have meters of books to read, and millions of conversations to share.

Microwave another cup of coffee and tell me how you feel.

The confound aerodynamics of my heart.

2008-09-21T16:00:00.001-07:00

The only time I've ever been in love lasted ninety minutes, and I believe I was asleep for an hour.
I was in the airport. Red eye flight. It doesn't matter where I was going. I found myself an empty boarding terminal to get some shut-eye and some peace and quiet before the catastrophe that is a fifteen hour flight.
She must have been doing the same thing. I don't think I even noticed when she sat down beside me, not until she pulled my headphones out of my iPod and attached them to hers, introducing me to something Finnish and poppy. We didn't say anything.
I fell asleep at this point, the left side of my face stuck to her pleather purple bomber jacket. When I woke up, she was painting my nails and humming.
I asked her what colour it was supposed to be.
The colour you feel when you listen to Ryan Adams in the rain.
Are you intentionally trying to make me fall in love with you?
Absolutely.

Choose Your Own Adventure

2008-09-21T15:58:00.000-07:00

I have this reoccurring dream I keep meaning to tell you about, but it's just never the right time. If I told you when we were going along well, it might ruin things. If I told you when we were on the rocks, you wouldn't care. It's a dream that should be like real life, but our real life is dream like.

In one version, you are a machine not a man you are meticulous and malicious. You are forward and sincere, you know I've always appreciated your sincerity. You destroy me so completely that I don't have the chance to see your back as you walk away. I don't want to wake up from these ones, they're definite and certain, always unlike myself.

In another version, you are subtle, I am caught off guard. Sultry and sinister. Always achieved with subtlety and ambiguity, always left open ended. I am left wondering if it really happened, waking up in a cold fear, the fear of being alone. Waking up alone, like nobody wants to, but we always do.

They are both reoccurring, both versions. You would have been able to tell them apart for me, but as it stands I can no longer differentiate between the subconscious and the reality.

Saturated

2008-08-25T13:47:00.000-07:00

I woke up from that sleep that comes right before the real sleep and found myself with an unexplainable thirst and an acute awareness of how dry my hands were. I spent eight hours earlier tonight with my hands under running water, the water achieving more in sixty seconds than I ever will. My skin is itching dry now, trying to remind me that it is still there, it is still a part of me, it to deserves to be taken care of. I drag myself away from my pillow and get a cup of water, I drink it and refill it, I drink it and refill it, I drink it and refill it. I have to water the roots, my roots, inside is thirsty and outside is wilting.
Water is unique to our planet.
I don't feel comfortable not understanding why skin dries out after washing dishes a lot, but gets soggy and expands when you're in the bath. Or why the inside of a pot lid is different than the outside, it looks like a completely different material, but it isn't. It just looks different. Is there a purpose? Is it still a purpose if nobody knows, if nobody appreciates it?

Aestival

2008-08-20T02:21:00.000-07:00

Have you got a light?
Can I spend the night?

Stephanie is

2008-08-16T02:27:00.000-07:00

WHEATY-KEEN

NARCISSISTIC

LA CREME DE LA CREME

MONOPOLIZED

'SOULED OUT'

(loves) THE COAST THE MOST

THE GREATER GATSBY

UNDER THE WEATHER, ABOVE THE ATMOSPHERE

NOT IN LOVE WITH THE MODERN WORLD

MILLIONS OF MEN WITH BLANK FACES

THE FUTURIST

COFFEE AND CIGARETTES, the key to success.

Washed away

2008-08-16T02:22:00.000-07:00

Summer's ending and I can feel myself becoming better.
Setting standards and working progress.
"I told you to be patient, I told you to be fine; I told you to be balanced, and I told you to be kind."
I'm getting there, Emma.
I'll stand up straight, although my back hurts.
Practice patience and keep the bigger picture in mind.
Spend less time as a narcissistic contrived histrionic white girl.
Workin' on it.

Draught

2008-08-01T03:56:00.001-07:00

Mid summer.
Uninspired and contrived.
Nowhere, now.

Sniffles

2008-08-01T03:47:00.000-07:00

My nose has been running for about a week now. I feel no other symptoms of illness, not even so moderate as a cold.
My eyes keep leaking. I can't cry, but my eyes wont stop leaking.
I'm growing up in the wrong world, and ought to try to make the best of it.
No more games. Just honesty.
What do I want, honestly?
I want to be free of want and desire.
I want to know what I want.
I want to know how to be better, be more, and achieve what I can.
I want to know myself.
I want to feel more, experience a wider realm of pure feeling.
I want more stability.
I want more clarity.
I want to stop expressing affection where I'll never do anything about it, and
I want to stop feeling the copious volumes of affection that will get me nowhere positive.
I want to learn how to talk myself out of things.
I want a backbone.
I want to escape this feeling.

Graduation

2008-06-30T01:44:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or did life get weird in the last month?
I did not expect to be that person who flips out after graduating, and here I am, flipping out. I am royally cheesed off with myself. Disappointed, at the least.
The plans, they are fluid whereas I used to know where I'd be at what time at any given point during the day. Now I'm 'playing it by ear' and things are getting weird. I never thought I'd be here. Plan: work 12 hours today. Reality: work 2.5 hours, power out, listen to some acoustic, take it easy, hit up a record release, sit around a fire with skin heads, graffiti artists, poets, and dreamers.
I like my life in the moment, but when the moment is slow lately I've been getting too deep into my head. It feels like I'm lost, quite simply.
Wat.

Sunny Days

2008-05-17T01:44:00.000-07:00

My solar vitamin reaction is fantastic. I've been smiling and enjoying. Picking up worms off the side walk and placing them in the grass. Watching basketball star help physics star carry his catapult home, for no apparent reason. Finding a dog in my garage. The inspiration for a best friend's birthday present. Being in love all the time, rather than never being in love at all. Skinny love.

Dear Catastrophe Waitress

2008-05-16T00:39:00.000-07:00

Maybe creepy, definitely awkward, sorta sans sanity

I can make two promises that I believe are true.
WON.) I am not anything close to a stalker. Or even obsessive. Just interested.
TWO.) I feel I need to tell you what I'm going to tell you, because if I were in a position such as yours and someone else were me, I would definitely be interested (among other things) to hear such a tale.

I live in a moderately populated small city / big town near Vancouver, Canada. I work at a movie theater, and get maybe 6 customers on an average Wednesday night. So I keep myself busy. One day my manager / good friend Robyn was reading Sex Drugs and Cocoapuffs, and I proceeded to take it from her midway through my six hour Wednesday night shift. I got about half way through it before I went home that night, and finished it before Thursday morning. However, I skipped the chapter about The Real World (because I do not care and do not plan on caring any time soon) and on basketball (because I am disinterested). Then I borrowed Chuck Klosterman IV from her, only because it seemed logical to read what else you've got. I liked it a hell of a lot more than Sex, Drugs, and Cocoapuffs.
My favourite part, ever:
"It seems like we talk about girls and love all afternoon, and the conversation was excellent - there was very little small talk, it was almost all "big talk."" (page 163). I avoid small talk at (almost) all costs, so this seemed deliriously suitable for me.
Ok, now for what this is really about. While I was reading these books, I probably told the aforementioned Robyn (a very crude, hilarious, condescending jerk, with a brilliantly vibrant laugh) that I might enjoy these books more were I not stoned senseless on all sorts of prescription drugs (I was reading A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas just after I had surgery), and also if Chuck Klosterman was more of a Robert Redford-esque sex bomb.
I hate dreaming, I hate the ambiguity of the potential meanings and interpretations, although they are probably nonsensical, I always make too much of them.
[Interrupting myself to mention that I didn't expect this to be so long, and I apologize if you find this completely dull.]
About a week ago I had a dream in which you came to see a movie at my theater. The next scene, you were sleeping on a mattress in the middle of (presumably) your floor. I was sitting on the edge of said sleeping pad. Next scene: we're walking down a street. Next: you're driving a mini van down the same street, and I'm riding shot gun, playing role of napkin-passer and DJ. We were probably listening to the Life Aquatic OST, because I'm certain the weather was perfect for that. Next scene, you pull into a church parking lot and speak in a foreign language to a man named Brad Jersak, which is actually the father of a pal of mine. This part weirds me out, in retrospect. Next scene, we're at a funeral reception. Next scene, we're standing at a crowded cross walk.
The end.
Just like that.
And ever since then, I've totally had the hots for you.
The next time I read the Great Gatsby, and think of the movie, and think of Robert Redford, I'll think about how much better it would be if he reached a Chuck Kloserman-esque level of sexy.

Sincerely, Stephanie Herbert.

this heart's on fire

2008-05-13T00:50:00.001-07:00

your expressions
your sentiments
your feelings
your words
your love
your life

contrived

Mind the gap (between heart and soul)

2008-05-12T15:14:00.001-07:00

You know when they say "it hurts in places I never knew could hurt"? Those places hurt all the time. It's the places that are meant to hurt that I can't feel, or I feel like I can't feel them, sometimes they hurt even more then the non-places that always hurt, but it feels like way too much hurt for one person to bear by herself, it's a feeling of sadness, a constant melancholy, an invariable despondency that contaminates the marrow of my soul. I feel sad, all the time.

Quote:
Bright eyes to bat and hide behind.. just for show

-Matthew Good

Perception

2008-04-24T15:35:00.000-07:00

Life isn't black and white, life isn't red cars and heavy boots; life is grey, and I'm awake.

Heavy Boots

2008-04-23T18:38:00.001-07:00

things in unnecessary amounts of packaging, how female turkeys in America have lost all maternal qualities because of artificial insemination, friends who keep telling me to quit smoking, friends who don't tell me to quit smoking, being identified as a lonely person, when beautiful people do the ugliest things, limitations, when pencils break, how i need a new laptop but love the way I've decorated the one i have, when I'm running late, time in general, graduation / uncertainty / unsuccess, that bad movies are so popular, gravel in my shoes, Will Farell movies, not recycling, people without manners, water stained pages, forgetting, how first impressions are always lost on me, smells that stick, women who still wear lip liner, minimum wage, when soulseek has bad days, people who leave water splashes on my bathroom counter, not being inspired, the ease with which my mood is swayed by the weather, home sickness, cabin fever, being so cold my bones start shivering, when scissors stick together because people don't understand the concept of cut then glue, going to school when I'm sad, how sad i feel when candle wicks drown in wax, having a domesticated pet, when people go to the movies alone, green bananas, over-use of the words 'random' or 'awkward', that RM is leaving me, that she is taking JC with her, people who don't spay / neuter their pets / careless pet owners, how under-used 'faux-pas' is, the jokes you (plural) make, Capitalizing Every Word In A Sentence, dirty / streaky windows, Ivory soap 'proverbs', the gap between the rich and the poor, harshin' my mellow, being doubted, cockroaches, stiff pillows, stray dogs, half children, aeroplanes, how nobody ever claims their favourite car to be a bicycle, the running commentaries some people feel they need to include for every picture they add to an album in facebook, hangnails, slow delivery, the Coalition Against Banning Thailand Grads From Prom, the things we don't understand and aren't going to talk about, the things i wanted to tell you but couldn't, my terrible blood circulation, therefore cold hands, cold feet, cold hearts, procrastinating, paper cuts, longing, my dry soul (or, how i only ever cry due to stress anxiety being overwhelmed and fear, never for good things like people poetry love books movies or stories anymore.), the modern world, wedding photos, how i feel during the spaces between your words, the wrong words (or, how to take it out on the wall when you can't find the right ones), nothing better to do than chew gum, "if you'd just stop wishing you felt like that, you'd be feeling something else and wouldn't be wishing you felt like that anymore" logic, my 'unfriends' plan, that guilt floods me so easily (or, I'm sorry i threw water in your face devin), buyer's remorse, getting mad at my cat for wanting to play when i'm reading, when i go an entire week without reading, how I haven't read Jane Eyre yet (and it's the biggest component of my AP final!), how i may not hate myself but i hate the things i do, how Chuck Klosterman has me pinned when he labels Billy Joel's 'lonely' as "the way it feels when you're being hugged by someone and it somehow makes you sadder."

Breaking down. Up?

2008-04-21T20:56:00.001-07:00

Because I don't want to live two lives anymore. I can't be an old soul in the modern world. I have to find a medium where I can be an old soul in the modern world.
This is the modern world speaking; this is the modern world telling me I have to condense, abridge, combine, consolidate every aspect of my life into one detail that I should focus all my energy on. Like some people do with work. Or with sex. Or with celebrities. Or with fitness. Or with eating. Or with organizing. Or with counting. This is the modern world speaking.

This is the old soul speaking. Before 1900, it wasn't a problem if somebody was a social recluse, they weren't mocked, teased, looked down upon, or thought to be particularly crazy. Many were considered scholarly, intelligent people who couldn't be bothered socializing with normalcy, only the most exclusive philosophers and savants were considered to be worthy company, and even then, rarely.

So why is it such a bad thing for me to want to be alone all the time?

this is shit.

2008-04-21T19:58:00.001-07:00

adjust your shutter speed now, son
the action is about to start
"on your mark" are you ready?
"on your set" are you nervous?
"go!" are you going to come back for me?

Desolate landscape of a soul

2008-04-21T19:53:00.000-07:00

wouldn't it be all rainbows and butterflies
if i could just laminate this feeling so it would never escape
and strangle me into this alienating oblivion again?
unfortunately, unicorns? well, they don't exist.

A heart of solitude and spite

2008-04-21T19:51:00.000-07:00

the girl with an appetite for saturated disaster.

more than rhetoric

2008-04-21T19:50:00.001-07:00

What are you trying to salvage from this dejected train wreck heart?

this was March 13

2008-04-21T19:49:00.000-07:00

So if my plane crashes, I die of an anxiety attack of food poisoning in Thailand, or just decide to buy a house and live with the Thai, I've compiled a rough draft of my will.

MARIE HERBERT (mother!): the hamster, the (real) cat, my sweet orange towels. Best mom ever, 4srs!

MEGAN HERBERT: you get first choice of all my books, cds, dvds, and clothes. Also, my room. I'll miss you to the max!

STEPHEN JERSAK: all my magazines / cut-out worthy books, second choice of dvds, my scissors and glue and, most importantly, all my pens. Bests.

ROBYN MOONEY: second choice of all books, cds, and clothes. third of dvds. I'd say shoes, buy your feet are tiny. "Ghetto" and my gabe saportta sweater!

TIM FERNANDES: my camera; keep taking pictures of trees for me. My pillows, because you're a college student who needs more sleep. My nexopia fame.

ALANNA GREW: my copies of Everything is Illuminated as well as Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, because you can never have too many copies. My bird seed shirt. The sticky notes on my walls. Any of my shoes that you'd like. My iPod. My knitting classes, so you can finally apply for that ad.

PETER IM: my movie posters, because we're similar like that. All of my dictionaries.

JESS CODE: all my charm and good looks and height (i know you need it! [just kidding]). My lamp shade, which is awesome. And my mollusk shirt, for the same reason. And my piss star bucks bottle, because you hate it!!! And my maraca, because I believe you have musical talent dwelling just beneath the surface.

Am I successful?

2008-04-21T19:48:00.000-07:00

I've been living my life giving you a reason to miss me when I'm gone.

Sex, Drugs, and Cocoapuffs

2008-04-21T19:47:00.001-07:00

"It does not matter that Coldplay is absolutely the shittiest fucking band I've ever heard in my entire fucking life, or that they sound like a mediocre photocopy of Travis (who sound like a mediocre photocopy of Radiohead), or that their greatest fucking artistic achievement is a video where their blandly attractive frontman walks on a beach on a cloudy fucking afternoon."
(p. 3)

"The main problem with mass media is that it makes it impossible to fall in love with any acumen of normalcy."
(p. 4)

"And it's not "clever lonely" (like Morrissey) or "interesting lonely" (like Radiohead); it's "lonely lonely," like the way it feels when you're being hugged by someone and it somehow makes you sadder."
(p. 44)

"However, even I liked that record [Billy Joel's Glass Houses] when I was eight. And I didn't like records when I was eight; I mostly liked dinosaurs and math."
(p. 46)

"People have always been depressed, but - during the early eighties - there just seemed to be this overwhelming public consensus that being depressed was the most normal thing anyone could be."
(p. 52)

"But it goes without saying that Michael Jordan could never date Pamela Anderson. That would cause the apocalypse."
(p. 78)

'cause Pa said so

2008-04-21T19:19:00.000-07:00

Well kid, lemme tell ya, I know all about love.
I know it puts ya at the top of the world,
I know it hurts like a knife in the throat,
I know it makes men do crazy things,
and I know that some people fake it.
I know all that, but I still don't know how to love your mother like I should.

Bottl'd up

2008-04-21T19:17:00.001-07:00

I am going to try to do this without swearing. but i'm pretty annoyed / cheezed off at the moment.

this 'thailand' issue, which is actually the 'drinking' issue, which is actually the 'not going to prom' issue.

ultimately, i believe that all 27 of us were told:
-what was expected of us (to not drink because it was a school trip), and
-the punishments (not attending grad activities, which includes prom because prom is a privilege and not a right) if we chose to disobey the rules.

we totally chose to ignore this, due to our own speculation of comments by chaperones, and the application of our teenage distortion to these comments.
we're teenagers, we made any excuse possible to justify having a drink.
in the end, we're the only ones we can blame for this.

and to anyone who thinks that we don't deserve this because all of us on the trip are good kids, take a second to dissect what you are saying. Danielle and Megan, along with the 5 others, are really good kids because they followed the rules. the 20 of us who are suspended and not going to prom broke the rules, and now look at the stink you're raising. do you think your teachers will still respect you the same way after you're being so ridiculous? i don't.

these are not Mr Roger's nor Mrs Pollistretti's rules, therefore they cannot simply wave their hands and dismiss us from our punishments.

and you can sit in or walk out all you'd like, but it's not getting you back into prom.

in my opinion you may as well throw your own prom party, one with pizza instead of hotel food and booze instead of punch. i know you ragers all like your liquor (jk guys, jk).

and all the talking about this, all the tension and drama is driving me nuts.
like, pulling my hair out, cannot handle all this drama, NUTS.
i do not care that i am missing 5 days of school (don't tell anyone, but i actually love it). i do not care that i am missing prom (don't tell anyone, but i actually never wanted to go in the first place).

prom is not a milestone in your life unless you decide it is. i decided years ago that i can live a perfectly fulfilling life without regretting missing my prom because i don't need to get glamorous, sweat it up on a dance floor, and wait in anticipation on a buz to get back to abbotsford for the real party to start. if you just think of aftergrad as the real party, you'll get through it.

i promise, none of you will die without going to prom.
i promise, nobody will have a severely dysfunctional marriage because they missed their prom.
i promise, none of you will miss your chance at ever getting laid because you didn't go to prom (that's what aftergrad is for anyways).
i promise, you'll all be ok.

September 2007

2008-01-02T14:46:00.001-08:00

A big thanks to everyone who called to comfort me, to calm my nerves and anxiety over the stresses of commencing the 'grand finale'. Had I written this on Tuesday after school, it would have been d r i p p i n g with sarcasm; however, just twenty four hours laser I find myself illuminated.
I thought I needed to be comforted with all the right words, to have someone find a way to tell me that I'd be okay. Nobody's diction was well-selected enough for my likes, though. The lack of ease - the encounter with reality - shook off my summer skin.
Now I'm back to who I've always been,
sitting on the fence of mediocrity.

Independant.

I don't need you, although I miss you. That's not changing, I don't need to justify the devoid feeling you've left me with, but we'll be back to how we were before long. And I sure as hell don't need you. I'm bigger than that, I'm my mother's daughter, through and through, good and bad. Suck it, bitches

A true story

2008-01-02T14:44:00.001-08:00

It's happened before, I've lost heart.
Too many critics, there's no room left for true believers these days. Neoclassicist bastards trying to s t a m p my freedom into conformity. I've watched too many lovers' backs when they walked away as I changed yet again. Famous for it's shape-shifting - changing, if you will - are the ever mysterious octopusses. A ten-foot tip to tip octopus can fit into a 2cm diameter hole. Shape changing. These mollusks can change with such freestylin' dexterity because they have no backbone. This is inpiration through self-inflicted ignorance; this is ignorance through a delusive shadow of bliss.

I don't know where this came from.

2008-01-02T14:37:00.001-08:00

The last time Kingsley counted his chickens before they hatched, none of them hatched, and he'd already spent two grand betting they would. They say you shouldn't count your chickens before they hatch.

"You know what they say," Kingsley's mother used to tell him. Kingsley knew everything 'they' said (and he was sick of hearing his mother say it too).
She always told him to pee before he left the house. His mother was always trying to kill two birds with one stone - something Kingsley knew a thing or two about (killing birds that was).

Kingsley's mother never had to pee before she left the house - she never left the house. Some say she was an alcoholic, some say she was a nutter. Some other say one shouldn't judge a book by it's cover.

Kingsley was not like his mother, he was more like a shark - he always had to be moving, or else he (felt like he) might die. This family was not a particularly stable one. And nobody knew where Kingsley's father was. Some say he knocked her up and left, some say he was murdered. Some say it was nobodies damned business, it was 1993, single mothers were all the rage. Some say there's nothing right about a boy without a father.

Kingsley's relationship with his mother was what some would call 'rocky at best.' Some say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. It was certainly an indication of what his future relationships with all women would be like (and that's a lot of women). You know what they say about the quiet types...

Kinglsey up and moved to Montreal after high school - he didn't mind the cold - and worked at a sandwich shop (24 BLTs, 19 Club Houses, 16 Montreal Steaks, 14 Tunas, 12 Egg Salads, 9 Salami sandwiches, and 0 peanut butter and jams). He shared an apartment with a man named Stan, 34, Caucasian, balding, single, and definitely a nutter. Some say it takes one to know one.

Kingsley liked that Stan never wanted to grab a beer, watch the game, nor discuss female anatomy. Kingsley preferred to grab a pen, watch the cooking channel, and spoke only when necessary (and to this he did a good job of making sure it happened rarely).

As a young man in a cold French city, Kingsley occupied his time with walks through parks, pretending to browse books in the library when the thermometers froze, and pacing this aquatic sections of several local pet stores. Kingsley loved fish, but Stan's fanatical interest in dissecting small creatures prevented him from having his own aquarium. Not that Kingsley minded, he enjoyed the peace between Stan and himself. Some say an eye for an eye, a cheek for a cheek.

Life went by as such, a blur of fish, sandwiches, and deciduous trees. Kinglsey appreciated the simplicity of his life, not complicated by unnecessary human relationships or oblique hobbies. Unfortunately, things have a way of shaking themselves up.

October 3rd, 1995: Kingsley walks home from work (19 BLTs, 16 Club Houses, 16 Montreal Steaks, 10 Tunas, 8 Egg Salads, 4 Salami sandwiches, and 0 peanut butter and jams). Kingsley takes his time walking home, his mind elsewhere (it really is his favourite week of the year - the leaves are just perfect now). He stops abruptly: his house is on fire. As a matter of fact, so are all his neighbors. The apartment building is engulfed in orange flames and a thick smoke. Some say tragedies like such are diamonds in the rough.

Apparently, Stan had been making a grilled cheese sandwich when he was distracted (it happened easily with Stan) by a lady bug (which is actually a beetle, and only female half the time) on the windowsill. The beetle never stood a chance (nor did the apartment building).

Thus Stan and Kingsley parted ways. Fortunately, it was the beginning of the month, and plenty of apartments were opening up to new renters - and closing just as quickly. Some say money is the root of all evil; and Kingsley sure didn't have much of the former. He happened across a small dig across town (he needed to walk new parks anyway) and found himself moving in the next day (after a night at Dennys', thank God for all night diners!).

As Kingsley preferred not to speak, he didn't mention to his employer that he was moving this particular day. After work (22 BLTs, 21 Club Houses, 16 Montreal Steaks, 13 Tunas, 10 Egg Salads, 7 Salami sandwiches, and 0 peanut butter and jams) Kingsley found himself somewhat distressed by the feeling that all of his life's simplicity was simply slipping away, like it never meant to stay. Some say it's best to play things by ear, but Kingsley was already assuring himself that things would be like they used to before long.

Some say life happens in a New York minute. Until this point, Kingsley had never experienced that. Crossing the street towards his new apartment, Kinglsey tripped over a stray cat (there must be single women in this building, single women had an equal fondness for cats and 'the quiet type', which Kingsley tended to be) and dropped everything he owned. Everything he owned consisted of two books and a fork inside an otherwise empty bird cage atop a wooden kitchen chair. Needless to say, Kingsley's life went tumbling down the sidewalk.

Her name was Clarinet. She said her mother wanted to name her Claire, but her father thought it wasn't nearly unique enough. Then he left her. She wore colours like avocado and taupe, two cardigans at once, and had a tatoo of an owl on the outside of her left leg, just below the knee. Kinglsey hated all the damned nü wave girls who wore leaves dangling from their ears and knit toques and slippers outside, and these were always the ones who fell in love with him. She wore her words with confidence and a smile with self conciousness. Clarinet was single, but it wasn’t her cat.

Kinglsey never got along with girls, let alone felt any interest towards them. But her name was Clarinet, and she still jumped over the cracks in the sidewalk. You know what they say about chickens with their heads cut off, well, Kingsley was headless poultry at this point.

They went to the aquarium together. He liked the sea otters, and she liked the jelly fish. They got coffee. He liked his black, she liked hers cold. Some said no dice for this relationship. It was a friendship, but the kind where they shared a bed and he kissed her eyelids when he woke up before her. Clarinet owned a store (not any particular type, just a store). She sold pens, paper, thesauruses and dictionaries. She believed it was all a person needed in life, to express oneself, and she believed writing was the best way to do so. She didn't believe in Christmas; she believed in words. A deciduous tree grew outside their window.

In the winter it was naked and brown. Where the trunk split into two there remained a bird nest from the sparrows that inhabited the tree in warmer seasons. In the winter Clarinet took pottery classes and Kingsley read every book in his library. In the spring it was full of pink blossoms and birds. In the spring Clarinet and Kingsley took day trips to the lake and rented a lot of videos. In the summer it was green when the sun rose too early and it was green when the sun set too early. In the summer Clarinet had Jeff work at the store so she could drive to all the thrift stores and garage sales in a fifty mile radius around Montreal, looking for old used dictionaries and thesauruses and books. Kingsley still made sandwiches, but Clarinet was the only person who had ever ordered a peanut butter and jam sandwich. In the autumn the leaves fell. They were red, they were orange, they were yellow and gold and copper. Then they were brown. This was Kingsley's favourite time of year, but Clarinet said the tree was sexy all year round. In autumn they would try cooking new things and going dancing on Sunday nights.

In one year, Clarinet learned how to make bowls, how to knit (Kinglsey had quite the collection of cardigans after this), how to cook, and how to tango. Kinglsey still made sandwhiches, and Clarinet was the only person who ever ordered a peanut butter and jam. Some say nothing is certain but death and taxes, but it was certain that Kinglsey would remain stationery while Clarinet changed like the seasons.

The nice thing about seasons is that they always come back. Clarinet never left.

Alanna's insecurity

2008-01-02T14:36:00.001-08:00

How does one measure the weight of their boots?
Our feet are measured in length by the length of the last, measured in inches, multiplied by 3 and minus a constant, which further differs for men's shoes, women's shoes, and children's shoes, and which nation you are buying shoes from. This is rather complex.
Further yet, how is length measured? Inches, yards, feet, miles. Milimeters, centimeters, meters, kilometers. Nanometers? Micron, ångström. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries. Light-years.
How do we decide what we measure in length, and furthermore, what unit we use to measure it?
I've decided to measure the weight of my boots in length, because of the seemingly endless opportunities for variation.

My boots are heavy because of the distance between happiness and now.

Extremely Loud

2008-01-02T14:34:00.000-08:00

I am not a yes or no answer person. I wear very heavy boots, even in my sleep. I am not a happy person, nor a sad person. I am too intense too often, and my emotions are not forecastable. Surprises are really awesome. I feel like floating when I take walks under deciduous trees, because as Peter Im said so himself that they are sexy at all times of the year. I like to see them, to write under them or in them or about them, to photograph them, and to sit or walk or nap around them. Trees make my world a better place. My disillusioned world. Mine.

React

2008-01-02T14:33:00.000-08:00

I will not live your rectilinear text book life. I will not go to your prom to have your perfect end to your perfect high school years. I will not enjoy the high school feeling of the local college, attending classes with all my friends, spending my free time with all my friends.
Friends change faster than the seasons, but at least the seasons always change back.

Rhetoric

2008-01-02T14:32:00.001-08:00

When I judge you, it's not based on what car you drive. I didn't see you pull in. I didn't hear the tunes blaring from your pimped speakers. I didn't see you strolling in your pimp sneakers. I don't know where you got your shirt, nor do I care to know how much you paid for it. Your hair looks fine, I wouldn't notice if it didn't. I'll judge you when you open your mouth. Do you speak your mind, do you have any of your own thoughts to speak, do you believe, do you sympathize, do you think objectively and admit when you are wrong and try to be a better person each time you screw up, do you wait, do you change the world, do you change your view, do you hurt, do you heal, do you fly, do you drag along the bottom until the heat from the Earth is too great and your skin begins to melt and your hair smells like it's burning and you scream but you're too far down to be heard? Do you try?

Punctuation

2008-01-02T14:30:00.001-08:00

Do you know if you've misplaced a certain personal belonging?
Perhaps, true love?

Inspired (july19, 2007)

2008-01-02T14:24:00.000-08:00

You are solid gold.
I want to climb trees, to inspire you, to cry over a movie, to have someone to direct these feelings toward. to listen to the weepies, to feel like I used to about damien rice, to quit my job and love nomadic, to share my life of love, to read to you, to sleep in the sun, and to express. I'd like to watch a sunrise and feel good about it, to not watch the time or watch the door.

Longing
i am drinking coffee, it's raining, i'm reading, and listening
to my monthly playlist. i put down my book because i'm not following it,
because i'm thinking of you. you're too fantastic
("Don't be so amazing or I'll miss you too much." -Lime Tree; Bright Eyes)
you're beautiful, poetic, romantic, cliche, charming, endearing,
vivacious, synthetic, translucent, humorous, light hearted, senile,
oblique, and i want you to be all mine all mine all mine all mine.
not even all mine, i'd share you, just mine when you can be.
that's what i thought about in a cup of coffee.