With Wooden Buttons And An Apple Core

i dreamt i traveled and found you there,
in the woods one Christmas Eve,
waiting
by Hayato Nagao
...

Nights before Christmas found me coldly reconciled at a dance party soothed with whiskey, cigarettes, and beautiful young people. Then, waking up in a big old house to a blinking VCR clock telling me that i was to be in the lab in mere minutes, and i was in the same clothes as the night before. Blurry contacts and disoriented, i shake the boy on the couch next to me and we stumble out into the twilight to bundled-up schoolchildren crossing the street and on the playground in the winter morning, our breath frozen before us. i had parked my little red car in a school zone the night before.

Hurry along, all...

Garden Wall Of Eden, Full Of Spiderbites And All Your Lovers

There is not anytime to breathe when the semester's end sneaks up on me - i am so tired and rusty. But i let out my first sigh of breath along this stretch on a Friday, when the term paper left my hands for the professor's, and i decided for my sanity to consciously avoid any later indulgences in my studies for things eukaryotic.

i thought, on the dark and cold Friday night leaving the lab that i would congratulate myself with the best coffee in the little city with a stack of papers to mark by my side. Alone at last...not to last. Because Thursday and me and boy from a long time ago chanced upon each other and by Friday, we didn't mean to meet but did. He left the OR and found me in my snuggery, heavy with the smell of espresso. i took him to another, heavy with the smell of cigarettes and martinis, and by 4am, when the alcohol had cleared out of our systems, we said goodbye.

i woke to an empty house Saturday, but sleepy phonecalls catching back and forth from a lady i love woke me up at last - tea is what ladies have Saturday afternoons. And then they serve and have angry drinks with boys and friends when it gets darker in posh niches, and by midnight, they are hungry and drink Chinese beers in Chinatown and eat vegetarian noodles with burley men. By 2am, they drive to a hotel by the railroad tracks with a divebar for off-sales liquor and drink with the men back at the house until the morning.

Mourning Sunday morning because another boy in the house starts his cold lazy day off with waterfalls of pot, opening and closing the backdoor where i try to sleep - the fireplace is off in the morning. i rub my eyes and can taste the night before, but i ignore the blurry vision and hangover, and careful not to wake any other sleeping bodies, i take out the papers to mark until the house is bustling with hunger.

Vegan brunch to be had on a busy avenue, and i buy a small stack of cds that will dream me pretty dreams before we make it to the restaurant, and a pirate scarf after the pumpkin pesto tofu and yam hashbrowns. Somewhere in between, my cheeks blushing and anticipating, i saw the beautiful boy with whom i don't get to spend my Tuesdays or weekends with these days, to uncomfortable delight.

My weekplanner covered in cd stickers and i had agreed that i was not to see high jinx and hedonism until mid-December. But now, my brain works better after the coaxing from good and bad drinks, packs of cigarettes, and the wonderful people i get to be with. This week's end was a long and marvelous fuck up.

One More Tired Thing, The Grey Moon On The Rise

There is snow on the ground now. And there are less stubbed cigarettes littered around my white boots where i stand with my coffee, outside the grey university buildings. Strangely, the coldness of winter soon approaching has initiated a convulsive heat through my body and flickers of vitriolic discomfort rising in my rib cage and into my breaths. i am choler, in black mittens and a young girl's old dress-up jacket. i bite my lip hard, just like i can feel my hands crack to bleed into the dry air and the floating flurries.

...

i have been baking a lot. Baking is like doing an experiment in the lab, except more delicious. And usually, the results are tangibly better.

The Film Has A Story, But It’s Of Little Importance

These days are so different from the ones i used to have. i feel like there is no coherence and i just wander along, falling into one dysphoric situation and then on to the next - it's like some Lynchian feeling of awestruck confusion mixed with absurdity and ultimately, utmost fear. My old daydreams are now replaced by visions of myself violently crashing my scientific caravan into a hypothetical dusty and hostile territory. And i find myself often thinking about a robot-loving boy, and how his robots will stare blankly at me from his desk in the blue glow of the computer screen as i lie there.

There is something very unsettling lurking about. i am not sure what it is. But i have unlimited faith in a secret weapon to calm myself: a Norwegian duo strumming placid musical modulations over large headphones.

Free-Fucking Radicals

Back from Montreal with a newfound hatred for Air Canada. Fuck the national airline - it should have gone under years ago, and it seems to have no problem carrying that mentality as the insignia of the corporation.

*Punches the unused boarding pass*

But then i digress...

Montreal was a wonderful way to cap off the summer, with a multifunctional media pass used often to blow my mind to little melted bits, and a groovy/crazy magazine posse to cover an amazing festival named after how ridiculous Jacques Cartier must have looked to the Mohawks. On the second day of the fête, when Nick Diamonds mentioned that summer was indeed over, i felt very inclined to believe him. It was curiously astounding to fully realize the season had passed me by so quickly, a terrifyingly breakneck giant humming and spinning whirl since the rainy Norwegian spring. It did make me want to throw up a little.

Strangely, summer has never been an issue, although with such a short one where i live, i have always understood why the townsfolk worship and celebrate the two months with all glee and jubulance. However, this year is the first time i have felt any kin to the season. Maybe every summer for the last three years has presented itself to me without consequence because there was nothing to end it. The summer would turn into the fall slowly and the days would get shorter with the trees becoming yellow and red. Then there is the first cold that leaves frost on the windowpanes and then the snowstorms become more frequent. Warmer days then seem to creep through the darkness and you realize that the snow is turning to rain, and it's almost summer again.

This year, i am heading back to school, wet behind the ears. Hence my obsession with the ominous end of summer - an obsession leaving me with a weathered face, little sleep, charred brain and decreased liver function.

Indulge me.


a mind melting and Dinosaur Jr. in the wind by cy



in the Salon des Arts by jesse



dusk with James Chance & the Contortions by cy



how sad Clap Your Hands Say Yeah makes me... by cy




Sonic (fucking!) Youth by cy



waking up to interpretive dance and Islands by cy



up close and personal with Tokyo Police Club by jesse




Wolf Parade after soundcheck... by cy



sheet music standing by The Hidden Cameras by cy



beer o'clock at osheaga by cy



Damian "Jr. Gong" Marley makes my heart by cy



Kid Koala spinning for his mum by cy






The Flaming Lips and the massive explosions in the rain by cy



the posse by cy

It's The Ticking Of The Clock When You Wake Up Alone At 7am

Insomnia is my summer lover every night.

Quiet music floats from my stereo to hold my dreamy stream of consciousness, until i start dreaming to believe that i am in a haze of weary abstraction, folding onto the day's dreams, daydreams and preoccupations, and then i begin muttering nonsensical responses to the eventide. My eyes are closed, but i can see shadows dancing from my musings and from my candles on my dresser, so i curl up tighter. My dusty window lets in cool night time breezes as i am tossing and tangled in my little pink worn-thin blanket.

And then, the twilight is overtaken by violent punches of pink in the sky, making way for the dawn over the parade of cookie cutter houses along the horizon.

Fucking insomnia.

Wet Wet Wet

Tonight found me soaked and screaming while running to my little red car in the severe thumderstorms. Last night was dance floor sweat and spilled drinks in the electronic steam of the hifi.

So now, i have to do some laundry.

Wir Jagen der Monotonie

It feels like the days are stretching longer and longer. i am waiting for something to happen. It feels like i am just waiting for the days to end.

i busy myself with long nights on the rooftop patio of Broken City and in the bizzare amusement park that happens to be in town for a while with my media passes and magazine buttons. i daydream with Hayato in the afternoon at work and chain smoke with my editor all night until the wee hours of the morning to his favorite records. i watch Alicja and Anne splash around at the lake while i take pictures. i watch old movies with my boyfriend while we eat vegan Chinese takeout, and drag him down to hipster hangouts when i need to smoke. i am busy, but i always feel like i am waiting.

We are chasing monotony. With cigarettes and whiskey.

Honey Kisses Clouds Of Fluff

This beautiful long weekend of Canada Day saw none of me, as i was bedridden with a bad allergic reaction to a still yet to be known substance. Falling in and out of sleep for 3 days in the heat of the house lead me to the realization that summer is really almost over. So i dragged my sorry and swollen self out today, grabbed my dear friend and headed downtown to Prince's Island Park with slurpees in one hand and kites in the other, Wilco blasting out of the speakers of his old Ford Topaz.

We photoboothed, sucked down our "mix" slurpees, flew kites in the grass with no wind, laughed a lot, met up with friends for sushi and video games, and then had fries and brownies at the Denny's before we said goodbye at midnight.

Gosh Ryan, i am gonna miss you when you go.

Two Extra Weeks? Here and There? One Then Two?

enemies like this?

Amsterdam was rainy and soaked my clothes and journals with its endless downpours. i stood in the cold to try to get my clammy hands on tickets the night of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs show, which was sold out months prior, joining the many other beautiful and polite locals with the same idea. No Yeah Yeah Yeahs, but something even better was the Radio4 show at the same venue, which is delightfully an old converted Dutch milk factory. Radio fucking 4. Fuck the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

Anthony Roman: So the Yeah Yeah Yeahs are coming here in a few days.
Crowd: [cheers]
Anthony Roman: Did you guys know that they have four members now? They're touring with an extra guitarist.
Guy from crowd: [screams] Yeah! Four!
Anthony Roman: [speech about the Brooklyn scene and New York music]
Guy from crowd: [interrupting, screams] CGBG's!
Anthony Roman: Uh, are you just gonna scream out every New York landmark now?
Dave Milone: [screams] Yeah! Empire state building!

associé de crime?

Paris is supposed to be a romantic city, so on my third visit, i bring a companion. After a month of reclusive Norwegian bliss and talking to only myself, it felt vaguely unsettling to have a whole person with me on my junkets, or a human response to the mindless blatherings i would expulse. It felt slightly better after a week, and sharing my umbrella became a more romantic affair. The days passed with kissing, fighting, smoking, and wandering. Sustained on continual cups of coffee, we turn out to be the biggest goofs and watched The Da Vinci Code on the Champs Elysees late at night, then ran to the Louvre the next day. A few days later, we watched Marie Antoinette a few theaters down the avenue and caught the morning train to Versailles.

Weaving Sunlight Threads In His Hands

Seven hours on a train from Oslo to Bergen.

Velkommen ombord. I Toget Til Bergen.

Then Bergen, along the wharf and in the cafes, in the sunshine and then in the cold winds. i am drinking the strongest coffees i have ever had the pleasure of drinking while warm and light Bergen dialects of Norwegian are spoken around me in soft sing-songy tones by beautiful hipsters. And the steep cobblestone streets lead down to Bryggen along the harbor one way, and paths to pretty houses in the lush green mountains the other. Bicycles everywhere, especially near the university buildings which are scattered along the main streets and museums, where beautiful students step outside to smoke cigarettes between classes.

i spend all my money on postcards and stamps, coffee and organic fresh baked bread. And my shoes are worn thin and breaking apart, because i have walked the charming town so much, over and over again.

i am in love.

the juniper bends, as if you were listening by cynthia yip


Last night, walking alone in the cold and rain that are the Oslo spring streets, i wandered into the darkness of Rockefeller. Inside, i was serenaded into a warm haze by the beautiful Mr. Beam, and then made to dance by Joey Burns and his culprits.

Oh, will it ever stop raining here?

Scandinavian Anxiety Syndrome

Plane ticket printed on a university computer. Passport no longer to collect dust.

Currency conversions and blowdryers, adaptors and tylenol, antibacterial soap and sunglasses, five cameras and hundreds of packs of chewing gum, insurance card and cigarettes, ipod and huge headphones, notebooks and my killer boots, cds and Journal of Bacteriology papers, vitamins and sharpies, lovely sandals and powdered ginseng, ziplock bags and ripped converses, delightfully thick books and water bottle, clean sheets and AA batteries, shower footwear and pretty dresses, hoodies and a little suitcase too, a bar of dark chocolate and kisses from the peeps i love.

And all the stuff i am forgetting...

Into my backcountry backpack.

Part Of Something Bigger Than Just On Our Own

So much admiration and ovation and love.





My funny valentine has been accepted into the University of Calgary Faculty of Law today.






Congratulations and kudos to mon petit ami...

dusk blossoms by Cynthia Yip


Vancouver again. Mais nous n'étions pas dans l'amour.

Misty

There is still drifting snow in the late nights and early mornings. The skies are grey and crisp, and my skin cracks to reveal blood that stains. i can't feel warm. i just sit by my window and watch the snow drift some mornings, feeling bleak and fading away.

i feel so defeated and overwhelmed - i am abashed and listless, until i manage to let out a pathetic scream of lament as quietly as i can.

i just want to abandon my life and run away to a warm abode where i can draw the curtains and chain smoke cigarettes until i can't cry anymore. And no one would find me.

lighten up, baby


Here is the stress and abandonment that i thought i had ditched a few years ago - it is a cigarette, and a whiskey is not far away...

akron/family keeps you warm on a cold monday night by cynthia yip

Footloose

When it rains, it pours.

Things can all add up after a quiet and severley uneventful three years. And then you find that in the next few months, you can be all broke, no plane ticket back, no home, and no grad school will want you.

And that boy you loved...yeah, he'll be gone too.

Spike Jonze On The Wall

This Saturday was the first time that i had actually lost something that i always feared losing - my keys. i walked all the way to my car in the -20.3 degree Celsius weather, only to discover that my keys were not in my bag. So i proceeded to fondle myself through my big red mittens, hoping that they were misplaced somewhere on my body - this was not the case. Becoming increasingly cold, i retraced my snowy steps of the day outside on the avenue and inside vegan restaurants and tea houses, finding no keys.

Disheartened and a bit worried at this point, there was only one thing to do: call my mums. She didn't like this, as she was at work.

Strangely, it was my editor who came to rescue me, and with a ring to my cellphone, he was whisking me from the record store which i was seeking warmth from and driving me to the hifi where he was the dj. He fed me coffee and kahlua as i sat in the dj booth with his crates of records. When he broke the mixing board, i ran away because my mum called to say that she was somewhere downtown, looking for me.

Thanks Glenn.

homecooked vegan celebration by cynthia yip on 04 february, 2006

Got A Moon Above Me

Whenever i am in Montreal, i am often found wandering along Rue St-Denis. Summer a few months ago, i wandered into a sort of trade store on a corner of the street. There was this huge sheepdog that greeted me, and then a beautiful dark-eyed gentleman let me look at rings he had collected. After a while, we didn't pay much attention to the rings and just talked and listened to Billie Holiday.

Beautiful Lady Day...


I never hurt nobody but myself and that's nobody's business but my own.

- Billie Holiday

i finally got to do my interview with Eugene Hütz the other day. Now i have to transcribe it. More thoughts later.

Later is finally here.

Last Call For Grits

In Jumpers, Tom Stoppard writes "It's not the voting that's democracy, it's the counting."

Living in Alberta, the hub of New Conservative love-ins, the party swept the province with the utmost ease. And people who wanted an alternative to the strangely unnatural looking Stephen Harper and his love for overprojecting tax cuts and space defence were left with the deadpan reality that if they voted in a non-Conservative way, their vote would be rendered useless and tossed out. Ah yes, the Riding system of Canada. 65% of Alberta's voters voted for the Conservatives, and therefore, the Conservatives won 100% of the seats. Me, like 500,000 other Albertan peeps who didn't vote for the Conservatives, could have just not shown up to mark an X. Another way to look at it is that the Conservatives gained three times as many votes as the Liberals in the Prairies, but took nearly 10 times the seats. No wonder voter turnout is so low...

i just want to be represented.

You Came To Take Us, All Things Go, All Things Go

This is the new year, yes? During the last bit of time, i have

baked a vegan pie for my beloved cousin, and then subsequently lost her to the beauty of the Norwegian landscape on Christmas day.

drank so much coffee over the holidays that I have once again, become reliant on the indubitable friend.

danced with all the hipsters at Broken City on the last day of the 2005 year, a drink never leaving my hand and a cigarette never leaving my mouth, unless it was to kiss someone.

lost my dignity and gained an oversupply of shame after waking up in a hotel room and not knowing where i was on new year's day, at two in the afternoon.

decided that Shirley Temples are my new preferred poison, and that whiskey shall be quietly displaced as the sweetheart.

chronic chest pains, which started on the first day of the year (perhaps from the expurgation sessions i have had since the massive new year's bender).



This list seems destructively deadly. All things go.

But the catalogue above seems slight and remote in comparison, because now, when i kiss my lovely boy, i almost cry, every time.