When I Write It In The Sand, There Is Something Wrong

Would you love someone if they didn't love the same things as you, or be attractted to them if they did not like the same things as you? The affinity we have for others is really nothing more than an accumulation of things that we have collected - it's not you i like, it's the things you like that i like.

And it is how we define ourselves, with our things. i understand you don't define your self worth by a sport utility vehicle or perhaps a new condo's hardwood floors - i can tell this by your muted scoffing. But you, like i, quietly pride yourself on the books you have read, the magazines you hunt and restlessly await each month, the obscure music you love, the vinyl that you still buy, the clothes you wear that makes you stand out so, and the trips you might have taken around the world. Maybe our jobs and the education we have recieved along the way might creep into the mix of things. We are a collection of things, of objects, of spent money.

So if there is a pulsing want for another person, don't disguise it with justifications on why you would get along without the attraction alone. We really would be more sincere if we all just admitted that we just want to fuck.

Go Downtown With The Drugs In My Body

Without notice, i have slithered away into month-long disappearances. i now hide in an old downtown house with blown speakers and mixers, packs of cigarettes, warm coffee in the rain, raspberries and blackberries, dark chocolate, and my mess of papersreportsjournalsfigurestables next to my my little white laptop (i ask her to sing to me Feist’s The Reminder, Kitsunè Maison Compilation4, some BBC Radio’s Essential Mixes, and Billie Holiday). Those are the innocuous dohickeys in my toolkit by which i attack proposals, progress reports, final projects, posters, presentations, and committee meetings. Sometimes, when he isn't around, i dance barefoot on the squeaky hardwood floors to Dragonette's I Get Around or whatever Klaxons remix happens to popup that day. i smoke by the large window and watch the rain fall from the roof edges onto the green leaves of the bush and tall trees outside. Then, back to my patiently waiting white laptop.

i haven't been to my digs in months. i haven't been at home with my family either. i just travel from the university laboratories and libraries to this abode, then back again.

i miss you. and my friends. and my family. and the hipsters and the shows (the latter i only hear about after they have passed by). and the sun. and how we used to have coffee and pots of tea. and how i used to have the capacity to daydream.

---

i got in yesterday from LA. i am tired. i am old and boring. i just want to wake up stretching slow on a Sunday with the sunshine pouring in the window, with orange juice, some dub soothing from the stereo, and rolling around in the sheets. Instead, i fly again to Québec City this Saturday. Québec City for the Canadian Society of Microbiologists Annual Conference, LA was for an extended family wedding and marathon reunion/first meetings.

And LA is surreal. Four days of familyfamilyfamily matted into the hazy humidity, backed-up crisscrossing freeways, mega- strip- and mini-malls, palm trees, diamond-encrusted Sidekicks, and shopping carts rattling alongside Beamers and Benzes. Between the family picnic in the hills, soy beverages in Chinatown, and dinners in Orange County, i made an expensive quick last minute escape to West Hollywood on a Sunday night, to finally dance and drink and smoke and hug a broad-shouldered man as we both ran across the then deserted Wilshire Boulevard.


family touristing

flowershop love

wine rounds the tables and corsages on lapels




first meetings and late night Long Beach breakfast



family reunion bar-b-q house in the hills



late night sneak away



nobody innocuous



happiness is...

Streets of Neon French Romance Blinking Sweat

Sleeplessness for months ended the March, red-eyed to Montreal on Friday morning, still sleepless like the rest of the hedonistic weekend into this new month of April.

The Ed Banger Records Party over left me with bruises all over my body, my tights ripped, sweaty, dirty, drunk with wine and gin, and smoking packs of cigarettes in a most beautiful fox dress and blood red nails. Liquourbottlesmix of water passed groping hands in a grimy, sweaty, stylish, beautiful mad decent in the Banger pit, as we stormed the stage - "We Are Your Friends." Picture photographs taken by party people, my fox dress slipping and hair matted from the sweat of mine and others float about now, amongst the captured stage diving and kissing and sticky moist air. i slept in the dress beside warm bottles of Fresca and water.

i had packed Vladimir Nabakov's Laughter in the Dark and two packages of Benson and Hedges Special Lights, along with new sharp sharpies and every intention of reading, writing, and daydreaming the short escape away. Instead, sensual excesses coddled me with vegan feasts, cigarettes without disdain in bed and on long walks, sexy fucking results, boutique hats and plaid trench coats, endless coffee and earl grey tea; warm and lasting for hours, records and books, Just Noodles, and a playmate with freckles. A sword necklace now hangs around my neck, and i love licorice.

Red eyes to and from, Montreal's super sexy vibes.


a sign of mad ascension by cy




Busy P and Justice making Ed Rec by Reid




SebastiAn whispering Busy Justice by cy




dj Mehdi avant the jump via thecobrasnake.com




"we are your friends..." via thecobrasnake.com




"...you'll never be alone again" via friendattack.com




fucking fox grime via friendattack.com

Stochastic Reverse Engineering, Or The Sensing Of Stress

The month of February was a quick blink - a flutter of my thickly smudged and mascara-coated eyelashes in the large melty flakes of snow that made the University grounds look like a cold and absurdly utilitarian ski lodge complex. Also, i had lost two pairs of mittens this February month. i suppose it was really hard to smoke with clumsy mittens anyway. Goodbye to you then, Sir February, and our quick fling together; when you made the days piercingly cold to soothe my raging anticipation propelled by my seminar to my Faculty cluster, and when we danced all the gin-soaked night to a C'est Dangereux anti-Valentine's party, and when you spun me into a panic attack in a big bed at 4am one of your nights, so all i could do was cry out for someone to lie close to me.

March hides the spring and protects her from our city's eagerness (as the last snow is always during the May long weekend, preferably when our flimsy tents collapse from the snowfall accumulated overnight onto our ever-optimistic selves, every time we decide to inaugurate camping season). But today, i believed in the coming of spring, in a borrowed and worn-in badass tshirt and a black yarny sweater, as i walked along the melted streets in the sunshine with a large coffee and a soft package of cigarettes with an accomplice. i am still sick, and i know that no amount of orange juice or Neocitran could possibly make up for the way i have been careless with caring for myself. But i try in vain to suppress the chronically surfacing illness with vitamin C, throat drops, and a few less cigarettes. Spring comes with fever, right?

Which brings me to a colloquium a few days ago, held by the Physics department of the University i attend, hosted by a charmingly eloquent Dr. Stanislas Leibler, the head of the Laboratory for living matter at The Rockefeller University. i quite greedily drank in his nimble hour and forty minute talk on "Fluctuations, Informations and Survival: Lessons From Bacteria." He gets one thinking with his slides n' slides of formulas and clever collections of variables, about some sort of intertwined world where even stochastic variations can be accounted for in an elegant model. These stochastic effects of course, are multiplied together - not additive.

Multiplying the poor things i have decided for and done to myself is a limit fast approaching infinity at an exponential rate. i am quietly screaming all the way, like one might down a waterslide.

Kisses On My Arm When I Look Away, And That Tear Your Lips Becasue I Want It So Badly

January is always the most painful of months. There is no sense of renewal; just the expectation. We are left making the same mistakes, but far more indulgent and ridiculous. i hate January. And i am at ill ease becasue i have left many things to rot and oxidize in their hiding places, until they are poisonous through their pores.

Bows And A Blanket Of Weeds

i tilt my head, eyes wide and watering.

It is January again. The last bit of December was especially bleak, and a new year finds me lorn and all alone sitting on the steps of the science buildings as the sun sets, a package of cigarettes beside my black mittens. Many abstractions have left me for the coming of this year, and i have abandoned many of the fancies i had carved with care into wooden tables. Time will take it all and my head will fall between my knees.

Right now, i want kind pleasures like staying up late to the night by myself and daydreaming or reading thick Russian novels. i want to starve myself until all i can do is love so calmly and deliberately, to all those i know and have to meet.

Another one, yes?