was my external hard drive...
It was mostly backed up.
except for all my music!
good thing my reggae and dubstep are all on my laptop, or i'd be fucked.
but all my other sets, all of them (baile, electro, "electro," minimal tech, house, jungle, rock, psyche, prog, tropicalia, jazz... 200 gigs of you get the point).
Fucking fuckers.
and I thought it might have just been the external case.
so i opened it.
and a chip had melted.
any suggestions?
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Alert: somethingsentimental.blogspot.com takeover.
Almost four years ago. I ran into a friend who would later be one of the most important people in my life. It was in front of an arcade on Yonge street. I was with my friend Mark, and we suggested that we go, get some booze, and drink it at his place which was close. My friend who I had bumped into had never drank before, go figure. So, at the LCBO, we decided to buy something that would appeal to someone who has never drank, especially hard liquor. What we ended up with was a series of promotional samplers for absolut vodka each with their own flavour. We figured that if one flavour disagreed with her, she could always try the next -- that is until she found a flavour in liquor that she enjoyed.
That afternoon we did drunken arts and crafts, we each drew or made something special for each other. What I had ended up with was a series of origami stars trapped inside a miniature Absolut Kurant bottle with the explicit instructions to open a star when I needed some reassurance or something special. Well, I'm generally a pack rat, sentimentalism is something I carry with me wherever. But if you're reading this blog, I'm sure you understand that I'm working to get over that (it isn't just Ironic that the name of this blog is nothingsentimental). None the less, when I came out here, I came with four pieces of sentimentalism, a pewter box, a wooden box (that my parents bought when they were on their secret wedding/honeymoon in Niagara falls), a framed photograph, and a miniature bottle of Absolut Kurant. Four items that I've carried with me on all my travels since I've received them, I'll always be a sentimentalist.
These items have been most likely forgotten by the gift givers, or in the case of the wooden box which was a found object that was already well forgotten before I had asked for it. But I remember them, the context, the words that were given when the objects were given to me.
The Absolut Kurant bottle though remains the most important, and I don't know whether the reason it still has stars in it is because I've been strong enough to get through all my moments without any outside reassurance, or if the remaining stars are just too big to get out of this tiny bottle.
In any case.
I just used the screwdriver that I use to repair my glasses to fold and pull out one of the remaining stars in the bottle. Not because I'm sad, or need reassurance, but truly at this moment, I miss two people in particular, the two people 4 years ago that sat down and finished off the sampler pack trying to find a suitable alcohol. Mark Hamilton and Annalisa Candido. More than anything in the world, I love you two people, I'm sorry, I have to say it, I couldn't say it enough in the last year, in fact I probably said it in such a way or place that it seemed like more of a formality than anything truly heartfelt. And such was the last year for the three of us. Fucking holy trinity that fell apart.
And I remember sleeping on a banana chair, I remember mattresses wrapped in plastic to scare away the bed bugs, I remember Dovercourt, and I remember two very important years of my life that was wholly dedicated to those two individuals.
fuck,
well.
fuck nothingsentimental for a moment.
The star that I pulled out of the Absolut Kurant bottle was the first one in maybe 2 years. I plan on carrying it for the rest of my life and there is only 3 more remaining. I need to ration them!
The message was (in quotations no less)
"I love you guys"
That afternoon we did drunken arts and crafts, we each drew or made something special for each other. What I had ended up with was a series of origami stars trapped inside a miniature Absolut Kurant bottle with the explicit instructions to open a star when I needed some reassurance or something special. Well, I'm generally a pack rat, sentimentalism is something I carry with me wherever. But if you're reading this blog, I'm sure you understand that I'm working to get over that (it isn't just Ironic that the name of this blog is nothingsentimental). None the less, when I came out here, I came with four pieces of sentimentalism, a pewter box, a wooden box (that my parents bought when they were on their secret wedding/honeymoon in Niagara falls), a framed photograph, and a miniature bottle of Absolut Kurant. Four items that I've carried with me on all my travels since I've received them, I'll always be a sentimentalist.
These items have been most likely forgotten by the gift givers, or in the case of the wooden box which was a found object that was already well forgotten before I had asked for it. But I remember them, the context, the words that were given when the objects were given to me.
The Absolut Kurant bottle though remains the most important, and I don't know whether the reason it still has stars in it is because I've been strong enough to get through all my moments without any outside reassurance, or if the remaining stars are just too big to get out of this tiny bottle.
In any case.
I just used the screwdriver that I use to repair my glasses to fold and pull out one of the remaining stars in the bottle. Not because I'm sad, or need reassurance, but truly at this moment, I miss two people in particular, the two people 4 years ago that sat down and finished off the sampler pack trying to find a suitable alcohol. Mark Hamilton and Annalisa Candido. More than anything in the world, I love you two people, I'm sorry, I have to say it, I couldn't say it enough in the last year, in fact I probably said it in such a way or place that it seemed like more of a formality than anything truly heartfelt. And such was the last year for the three of us. Fucking holy trinity that fell apart.
And I remember sleeping on a banana chair, I remember mattresses wrapped in plastic to scare away the bed bugs, I remember Dovercourt, and I remember two very important years of my life that was wholly dedicated to those two individuals.
fuck,
well.
fuck nothingsentimental for a moment.
The star that I pulled out of the Absolut Kurant bottle was the first one in maybe 2 years. I plan on carrying it for the rest of my life and there is only 3 more remaining. I need to ration them!
The message was (in quotations no less)
"I love you guys"
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Re-reading
"I've made my life into a script. My calendar is my blocking, my cellular phone is to remind me of my cues. I'm late, its part of the performance, this character only ever shows up on time for dinner, dates, and disasters. My stage right now is a street car. I play myself as a writer, I'll exit at the front of the stage when I've arrived at the end of the line. The scene asks for the white noise of multi-cultural toronto. Languages bleed together in to form a polyglot ambiance. It fades out to only the humming of florescent lights, illuminating advertisements."
I wrote this a while back when I felt most trapped in the city and in my life. Re-reading some of the writing in a couple of the old notebooks I brought with me, for some reason this one stood out. Maybe because I recognize this feeling as being something wholly Toronto. The line, "I play myself as a writer, I'll exit at the front of the stage when I've arrived at the end of the line" didn't quite make sense to me, I thought I had just written it in a hurry, and a lot of my hurried writing doesn't make sense in retrospect. But, after thinking about it for a second, I remembered when I wrote it - On a Spadina street car waiting to get off at the subway one winter morning on my way to work. And the context brought the whole piece back viscerally to me. I think the reason it caught my eye was because its so specifically Toronto. Its something I take for granted for when writing it, or reading it, while in Toronto.
It feels a bit like the dead.
,, Tu " fui
,, Ego " eris
What you are, I was
What I am, you will be
These words marked the entrance to an old Crypt in Brno, Czech Republic.
I wrote this a while back when I felt most trapped in the city and in my life. Re-reading some of the writing in a couple of the old notebooks I brought with me, for some reason this one stood out. Maybe because I recognize this feeling as being something wholly Toronto. The line, "I play myself as a writer, I'll exit at the front of the stage when I've arrived at the end of the line" didn't quite make sense to me, I thought I had just written it in a hurry, and a lot of my hurried writing doesn't make sense in retrospect. But, after thinking about it for a second, I remembered when I wrote it - On a Spadina street car waiting to get off at the subway one winter morning on my way to work. And the context brought the whole piece back viscerally to me. I think the reason it caught my eye was because its so specifically Toronto. Its something I take for granted for when writing it, or reading it, while in Toronto.
It feels a bit like the dead.
,, Tu " fui
,, Ego " eris
What you are, I was
What I am, you will be
These words marked the entrance to an old Crypt in Brno, Czech Republic.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Cuba Libre!
I was seeing on all these signs, "cuba libre" 40 crons, and was like, umm ok, free Cuba for 40 czech monies, its like free tibet or free iraq, but you can actually give money and stand in solidarity. Turns out, its a drink, rum (which is almost always havana club here) and coca cola.
p.s. this blog is now monitored i'm sure by some machine in some country since I used free Cuba, free iraq, free tibet, solidarity, and crons in one sentence.
p.s. this blog is now monitored i'm sure by some machine in some country since I used free Cuba, free iraq, free tibet, solidarity, and crons in one sentence.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Poo.
Oh, and people poo in the streets here...
I haven't seen people in the process, but it happens, what you think is dog feces, it could be man feces...
I haven't seen people in the process, but it happens, what you think is dog feces, it could be man feces...
Wednesday Morning
Today I'm going to go take pictures of Brno's Catacombs. I haven't really done too much sight seeing, the only places I've gone to have been to the bottom of various pint glasses. I'll be sure to put up pictures when I get back.
I had a strange dream last night. In my dream, I was horribly home sick. I missed the refreshing warm faces of people I knew. So I got on a plane and went back to Toronto. When I got here, I felt a bit ridiculous, wandered the streets not really knowing where to go. Doing banal things like getting on and off of subways. The whole time I'm frantically wondering how to get back to Czech. I'm pissed off at myself for being so impulsive, that I won't be able to afford a return flight, so I just wander around the city feeling useless. At one point in my dream, I got in a taxi cab, the driver was abrasive and kind of annoying. Saying things like, "oh this is just the European way" as he drove over curbs, pulled U-ies on highways. Strangely, each time he said that I would think to myself, what the fuck are you talking about, how does your reckless driving and odd maneuvers make it European, are you just saying that because you know I'm accidentally here instead of in Czech? My roomate Nadia and her boyfriend Jared eventually joined me in the Cab. We smoked cigarettes and chatted, just the 4 of us, while we drove about with no particular destination, all the while I feel horrible and guilty.
This is as close as it gets to a nightmare for me, in my dreams, when shit is scary, freaky, adventurous, etc. its not really a nightmare, its more exciting and I wake up exhilarated. Maybe it was from growing up on horror and action flicks. A zombie is neat.
This particular dream is also as close as it gets to a reoccurring dream for me. Rarely do I dream the same dream twice. But when I was in Costa Rica last December I had an almost identical dream. In my dream there, I woke up feeling lonely and got in a cab and went to the airport to exchange my return flight for one that I could board instantly. Back in Toronto, I realized that I'd left one week early, that I would miss Christmas with my family, and I felt horribly guilty and anxious. In these dreams, Toronto seems unfamiliar, I run through the streets, or in the case of last night's dream, drive.
One other curious detail that probably means nothing, but I thought it was one of the only humourous moments of the dream. It was when we were in the cab, Jared just started speaking Czech while looking at me with his regular friendly eyes. And I said "I don't speak any Czech, I was only there a few days before I came back," and he laughed and replied "neither do I, I just know a bunch of cuss words I thought were pretty funny."
I had a strange dream last night. In my dream, I was horribly home sick. I missed the refreshing warm faces of people I knew. So I got on a plane and went back to Toronto. When I got here, I felt a bit ridiculous, wandered the streets not really knowing where to go. Doing banal things like getting on and off of subways. The whole time I'm frantically wondering how to get back to Czech. I'm pissed off at myself for being so impulsive, that I won't be able to afford a return flight, so I just wander around the city feeling useless. At one point in my dream, I got in a taxi cab, the driver was abrasive and kind of annoying. Saying things like, "oh this is just the European way" as he drove over curbs, pulled U-ies on highways. Strangely, each time he said that I would think to myself, what the fuck are you talking about, how does your reckless driving and odd maneuvers make it European, are you just saying that because you know I'm accidentally here instead of in Czech? My roomate Nadia and her boyfriend Jared eventually joined me in the Cab. We smoked cigarettes and chatted, just the 4 of us, while we drove about with no particular destination, all the while I feel horrible and guilty.
This is as close as it gets to a nightmare for me, in my dreams, when shit is scary, freaky, adventurous, etc. its not really a nightmare, its more exciting and I wake up exhilarated. Maybe it was from growing up on horror and action flicks. A zombie is neat.
This particular dream is also as close as it gets to a reoccurring dream for me. Rarely do I dream the same dream twice. But when I was in Costa Rica last December I had an almost identical dream. In my dream there, I woke up feeling lonely and got in a cab and went to the airport to exchange my return flight for one that I could board instantly. Back in Toronto, I realized that I'd left one week early, that I would miss Christmas with my family, and I felt horribly guilty and anxious. In these dreams, Toronto seems unfamiliar, I run through the streets, or in the case of last night's dream, drive.
One other curious detail that probably means nothing, but I thought it was one of the only humourous moments of the dream. It was when we were in the cab, Jared just started speaking Czech while looking at me with his regular friendly eyes. And I said "I don't speak any Czech, I was only there a few days before I came back," and he laughed and replied "neither do I, I just know a bunch of cuss words I thought were pretty funny."
Monday, September 17, 2007
Brno - Monday
Well, I've finally managed to catch up on some sleep. My life has been so hectic, diving right into full transition, that I've barely had time to sleep.
I'm currently in a nice home in Brno, a small Czech city, with my friends Christos and Anna. They're being very hospitable, and exceed as tour guides.
Brno is neat, they have their own type of colloquial Czech that I'm told nobody outside of Brno understands. The architecture is 13th Century, and despite seeming very new since they have new money flowing into the city, occasionally you'll go into a bar that takes you underneath these old buildings into old wine cellars that predate anything built on top of it. Old medieval bricks, small rooms, the air stained blue with cigarette smoke, beers served according to temperature (a 12 degree is a pilsner, a 14 is a bit more bitter with a bit of creme, probably around 5.8% alc, a 16 degree is beautifully rich with a froth has the texture of a well frothed cream cappuccino.) Many bars here also carry their own kind of home made absinthe. I'm not sure if it was necessarily hallucinogenic (well at least the kind that I was drinking, made at a bar called Desert that has a reputation for having the best absinthe in Brno), it was sure to leave me staggering with unfocused eyes.
There is a kind of wine that is only availiable for a couple weeks in this month, Burchak, a Czech specialty that the town celebrates. Its the first crop of frosted grapes. It is still fermenting, and when I first looked at it, there was all this dancing shit inside the bottle despite not having been moved at all, I was told that this was all the yeast still alive in the wine when you drink it. Its pretty tasty, very sweet, like very alcoholic juice, but it doesn't keep, and if you do bring some home, you have to open the bottle at least a couple times a day or it explodes from the pressure.
I'm not writing much more for now, i need to get out while its still sunny out.
I'm currently in a nice home in Brno, a small Czech city, with my friends Christos and Anna. They're being very hospitable, and exceed as tour guides.
Brno is neat, they have their own type of colloquial Czech that I'm told nobody outside of Brno understands. The architecture is 13th Century, and despite seeming very new since they have new money flowing into the city, occasionally you'll go into a bar that takes you underneath these old buildings into old wine cellars that predate anything built on top of it. Old medieval bricks, small rooms, the air stained blue with cigarette smoke, beers served according to temperature (a 12 degree is a pilsner, a 14 is a bit more bitter with a bit of creme, probably around 5.8% alc, a 16 degree is beautifully rich with a froth has the texture of a well frothed cream cappuccino.) Many bars here also carry their own kind of home made absinthe. I'm not sure if it was necessarily hallucinogenic (well at least the kind that I was drinking, made at a bar called Desert that has a reputation for having the best absinthe in Brno), it was sure to leave me staggering with unfocused eyes.
There is a kind of wine that is only availiable for a couple weeks in this month, Burchak, a Czech specialty that the town celebrates. Its the first crop of frosted grapes. It is still fermenting, and when I first looked at it, there was all this dancing shit inside the bottle despite not having been moved at all, I was told that this was all the yeast still alive in the wine when you drink it. Its pretty tasty, very sweet, like very alcoholic juice, but it doesn't keep, and if you do bring some home, you have to open the bottle at least a couple times a day or it explodes from the pressure.
I'm not writing much more for now, i need to get out while its still sunny out.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Lost in Vienna (pt1?)
lost in vienna.
I haven't had a conversation with a human being in over two days (I think, I have no idea with jet lag or anything, my whole relation to time is askew). I also haven't been online in over a day, where normally I engage in the majority of my conversations. I have no phone, not only do I have no phone, but I don't know how to use the phones here.
I tried once, but it seemed kind of useless. Who would I talk to? A friend back home? Let them know I'm ok?
Anyways, now that I'm at a place where I can finally sit and use my computer, I'm going to write a play by play kind of thing...
I just ordered something off the menu point and nod kind of style.
It came.
Its Mozzarella, fresh, wet with a skin.
Pesto, and hot bread.
Oh,
and what I thought was a garnish, was actually a bowl made of shredded and deep fried mozzarella made to hold the fresh mozzarella.
My relation to time, and everything, is so different when I have no one to talk to. No conversations to listen to, in fact nothing. No language, no words, nothing.
I suppose its like being in the woods. But i haven't been in the woods all alone with no one to talk to. The white noise of foreign language is like wind in the trees, a subtle white noise that one eventually stops paying attention to.
On the train, for a moment, I thought I understood german (it is german, isn't it?), till I realized they were complaining about Kentucky Fried Chicken (no, complaining about Kentucky Fried Chicken isn't the universal language, they were using english words to describe certain aspects). This happened right before I fell asleep on the train. I was so disoriented when I woke up, i decided to get off at whatever stop was next.
Well, I didn't really "decide" it, i kind of just got off the train, and thought about it once I was off.
Once out of the station, lost for the first time (I have no destination, no direction, and no purpose), I decided to walk back along the tracks, but in vienna, the tracks are elevated, because no street is a straight line. To the right was decrepit posters, half peeling, pock marked with poor graffiti. To the left went under the tracks and towards a fucking theme park.
I decided i'd check out the theme park because at least the road towards it wasn't covered wall to wall with Matt Damon's face and "Das Bourne Ultimatum" all over it.
The path was nice, beautiful groves of trees. But the theme park itself looked ridiculous. Well, I guess it looked like most any theme park. From a distance, the only thing that didn't look recycled and borrowed from cheap american culture was the giant Ferris wheel that looked like it might have pre-dated any american anxious inciting paraphernalia. It was actually pretty beautiful, giant iron girders made up the spokes of this huge wheel, and what looked like old tram carts hung at intervals.
Instead of going in, I walked along the tree lined path until I came to a point where it looked like the path went on towards infinity in the same manner, trees and park benches on the left, a fence and river on the right.
Backtracking, trying to find some alternative route that ran the gamut between idyllic recreation and poster laden plywood, I came into some old streets with barely a sidewalk to roll my baggage along.
I followed it until where I am now; sitting beside the railway, eating cheese and hot bread (well not hot now that i've been here writing so long).
The best part is, I can smoke now that I've washed down the previous pack of cigarettes with a pint of some beer that I ordered by pointing at a coaster. This is the first real thing i've eaten in what feels like forever, and its only an appetizer (I didn't know what I was ordering, I thought it was a cheap entrée, I decided what i'd eat guessing at the prices on the menu, oh, and I think its an appetizer, cheese and bread, is that an entrée?).
Oh and I'm horribly embarrassed whenever I need to communicate with anyone and they speak english, because their english is flawless, and I'm hopeless with anything but english and french (and in french I'm even more embarrassed because I know I have the words in me). I said so to the bartender, that I'd felt embarrassed that he knew english so well, his response was simply, "you should."
5 Pints later...
It turns out the bartender spoke excellent english. Chatting him up, I made up a story of why I was in Vienna, made up a fictional love, told him anecdotes of this imaginary woman. Told him how things fell apart, how I, in a fit of absurdity bought a ticket to europe, then a train, fell asleep, and got off for no particular reason at the station nearest to his quaint patio. He was enthralled. Is it a lie to entertain someone with stories, true or false? To a stranger in a strange land, whom i'll never meet again, with characters whom he'll never meet, does it matter if I tell the truth?
I haven't had a conversation with a human being in over two days (I think, I have no idea with jet lag or anything, my whole relation to time is askew). I also haven't been online in over a day, where normally I engage in the majority of my conversations. I have no phone, not only do I have no phone, but I don't know how to use the phones here.
I tried once, but it seemed kind of useless. Who would I talk to? A friend back home? Let them know I'm ok?
Anyways, now that I'm at a place where I can finally sit and use my computer, I'm going to write a play by play kind of thing...
I just ordered something off the menu point and nod kind of style.
It came.
Its Mozzarella, fresh, wet with a skin.
Pesto, and hot bread.
Oh,
and what I thought was a garnish, was actually a bowl made of shredded and deep fried mozzarella made to hold the fresh mozzarella.
My relation to time, and everything, is so different when I have no one to talk to. No conversations to listen to, in fact nothing. No language, no words, nothing.
I suppose its like being in the woods. But i haven't been in the woods all alone with no one to talk to. The white noise of foreign language is like wind in the trees, a subtle white noise that one eventually stops paying attention to.
On the train, for a moment, I thought I understood german (it is german, isn't it?), till I realized they were complaining about Kentucky Fried Chicken (no, complaining about Kentucky Fried Chicken isn't the universal language, they were using english words to describe certain aspects). This happened right before I fell asleep on the train. I was so disoriented when I woke up, i decided to get off at whatever stop was next.
Well, I didn't really "decide" it, i kind of just got off the train, and thought about it once I was off.
Once out of the station, lost for the first time (I have no destination, no direction, and no purpose), I decided to walk back along the tracks, but in vienna, the tracks are elevated, because no street is a straight line. To the right was decrepit posters, half peeling, pock marked with poor graffiti. To the left went under the tracks and towards a fucking theme park.
I decided i'd check out the theme park because at least the road towards it wasn't covered wall to wall with Matt Damon's face and "Das Bourne Ultimatum" all over it.
The path was nice, beautiful groves of trees. But the theme park itself looked ridiculous. Well, I guess it looked like most any theme park. From a distance, the only thing that didn't look recycled and borrowed from cheap american culture was the giant Ferris wheel that looked like it might have pre-dated any american anxious inciting paraphernalia. It was actually pretty beautiful, giant iron girders made up the spokes of this huge wheel, and what looked like old tram carts hung at intervals.
Instead of going in, I walked along the tree lined path until I came to a point where it looked like the path went on towards infinity in the same manner, trees and park benches on the left, a fence and river on the right.
Backtracking, trying to find some alternative route that ran the gamut between idyllic recreation and poster laden plywood, I came into some old streets with barely a sidewalk to roll my baggage along.
I followed it until where I am now; sitting beside the railway, eating cheese and hot bread (well not hot now that i've been here writing so long).
The best part is, I can smoke now that I've washed down the previous pack of cigarettes with a pint of some beer that I ordered by pointing at a coaster. This is the first real thing i've eaten in what feels like forever, and its only an appetizer (I didn't know what I was ordering, I thought it was a cheap entrée, I decided what i'd eat guessing at the prices on the menu, oh, and I think its an appetizer, cheese and bread, is that an entrée?).
Oh and I'm horribly embarrassed whenever I need to communicate with anyone and they speak english, because their english is flawless, and I'm hopeless with anything but english and french (and in french I'm even more embarrassed because I know I have the words in me). I said so to the bartender, that I'd felt embarrassed that he knew english so well, his response was simply, "you should."
5 Pints later...
It turns out the bartender spoke excellent english. Chatting him up, I made up a story of why I was in Vienna, made up a fictional love, told him anecdotes of this imaginary woman. Told him how things fell apart, how I, in a fit of absurdity bought a ticket to europe, then a train, fell asleep, and got off for no particular reason at the station nearest to his quaint patio. He was enthralled. Is it a lie to entertain someone with stories, true or false? To a stranger in a strange land, whom i'll never meet again, with characters whom he'll never meet, does it matter if I tell the truth?
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Mme Ray part 1
White folds of fabric, disheveled, formless except for the contorted shape of a boy. His heavy breathing pauses for a second and changes into a barely audible whisper of nothing coherent. He turns over, feeling for a body that isn't there. The faint sounds of his slumber disappear and the room is totally silent except for the sounds of the street coming in from the open window.
Scott lays there for a moment, awake now and his eyes open, but seeing nothing but blurry shapes through the sticky mucus on his eyes. Taking his time to clear his eyes, he pieces together where he is. Where he has to be, who he has to meet, what he has to do, are all questions that come after, where he is. He's temporarily homeless in a strange bed alone.
Tired, he pieces together the night before. Another waste of money he should be saving, gone, spent celebrating his upcoming self-imposed exile. Recuperating, he wheezes from one cigarette too many, but none the less, fumbles with his lighter to to light up another. No breakfast to satiate his hunger, no drink chase away the hang over, another cigarette will have to do.
He remembers he has to wake up, he can't carry on like this for too long, responsibilities. He's being visited by an angel today. A beautiful black haired and fair skinned girl with the all grace of a pixie floating through Pan's orchards. A soft muse, a piece of something nice, a reason to wake up.
Much more alert than he was, he races to jump out of his clothes and into the shower to rinse off the night before. The unfamiliar soft soaps change the routine scent he's so accustomed to, but the subtle fragrances of dove's exfoliating body wash are quickly replaced by the familiar smell of the clothes he was wearing the night before.
Dashing out the door, a spring in his step, the day is beautiful and his hang over is forgotten with his heart full of anticipation. In the elevator down to the lobby, he uses the reflective back wall and a bit of spit in his palm to smooth out the tangle of half curling black hairs that hide his ears. Even after his self-conscious fidgeting, by the time he'd reached the first floor his appearance had already returned to its original state.
Outside of the foreign apartment, there's an unwatched parade filling the street. Songs of equal payment and jingles of the benefits of unions echo through the mouthes of disparate voices. Scott slips his way through the parade to the other side, each person he makes eye contact with seem inconceivably distant. The shared moment with a stranger is nothing more than a simple acknowledgment made to ensure that he wouldn't be marched into. His mind is a block away waiting for him.
Walking through the park, Scott payed an uncharacteristic amount of notice to the play between the leaves and the wind. At the other end of the park, his face flushed for a moment when he found her waving at him from a flower store across the street. She had made friends with the store owners, and hadn't been waiting at all, but instead had been drinking jasmine tea that they had made for her while she looked at each plant.
When Scott arrived, the owners seemed delighted to meet him. As a friend of hers, they must have thought he was part mythical by association. The store owners looked so consumed with her presence. They smiled widely, not knowing how else to keep their faces, feeling so close to an angel. They had put together in their minds a world in which she lived, and had become so enamored with it that her grace was carried on to Scott, and he would be remembered in their eyes.
A thin sparkle seemed to always shine from the corners of her eyes. A warmth radiated from her mouth each time she smiled, which was frequent and always sincere. Her hair was always perfect, even when she complained about it. She had a deep voice, not mannish, but something more akin to a loud whisper built with the breath from behind her small but perky breasts, and never from her nose or throat. The only thing that keeps him from repeatedly saying "I love you" is his fear that the words are reserved for con artists.
Eric Satie:
Four Gnossiennes 1-Lent 3:34
Four Gnossiennes 2 - Avec etonnement 1:53
Four Gnossiennes 3 - Lent 3:00
Four Gnossiennes 4 - Lent (sans presser) 3:12
Musiques Intimes et Secrètes - Desespoir agreable 0:53
06 Musiques Intimes et Secrètes 2 - Caresse 2:05
07 Musiques Intimes et Secrètes 3 - Songe creux 1:43
Musiques Intimes et Secrètes 4 - Fâcheux example 1:09
Musiques Intimes et Secrètes 5 - Nostalgie 1:02
Je te Veux 4:46
Gymnopédie No. 1 3:06
Petite Musique de clown triste 2:18
La diva de l'empire 2:36
Premier prélude du nazaréen 5:20
Les pantins Dansent 2:06
Scott lays there for a moment, awake now and his eyes open, but seeing nothing but blurry shapes through the sticky mucus on his eyes. Taking his time to clear his eyes, he pieces together where he is. Where he has to be, who he has to meet, what he has to do, are all questions that come after, where he is. He's temporarily homeless in a strange bed alone.
Tired, he pieces together the night before. Another waste of money he should be saving, gone, spent celebrating his upcoming self-imposed exile. Recuperating, he wheezes from one cigarette too many, but none the less, fumbles with his lighter to to light up another. No breakfast to satiate his hunger, no drink chase away the hang over, another cigarette will have to do.
He remembers he has to wake up, he can't carry on like this for too long, responsibilities. He's being visited by an angel today. A beautiful black haired and fair skinned girl with the all grace of a pixie floating through Pan's orchards. A soft muse, a piece of something nice, a reason to wake up.
Much more alert than he was, he races to jump out of his clothes and into the shower to rinse off the night before. The unfamiliar soft soaps change the routine scent he's so accustomed to, but the subtle fragrances of dove's exfoliating body wash are quickly replaced by the familiar smell of the clothes he was wearing the night before.
Dashing out the door, a spring in his step, the day is beautiful and his hang over is forgotten with his heart full of anticipation. In the elevator down to the lobby, he uses the reflective back wall and a bit of spit in his palm to smooth out the tangle of half curling black hairs that hide his ears. Even after his self-conscious fidgeting, by the time he'd reached the first floor his appearance had already returned to its original state.
Outside of the foreign apartment, there's an unwatched parade filling the street. Songs of equal payment and jingles of the benefits of unions echo through the mouthes of disparate voices. Scott slips his way through the parade to the other side, each person he makes eye contact with seem inconceivably distant. The shared moment with a stranger is nothing more than a simple acknowledgment made to ensure that he wouldn't be marched into. His mind is a block away waiting for him.
Walking through the park, Scott payed an uncharacteristic amount of notice to the play between the leaves and the wind. At the other end of the park, his face flushed for a moment when he found her waving at him from a flower store across the street. She had made friends with the store owners, and hadn't been waiting at all, but instead had been drinking jasmine tea that they had made for her while she looked at each plant.
When Scott arrived, the owners seemed delighted to meet him. As a friend of hers, they must have thought he was part mythical by association. The store owners looked so consumed with her presence. They smiled widely, not knowing how else to keep their faces, feeling so close to an angel. They had put together in their minds a world in which she lived, and had become so enamored with it that her grace was carried on to Scott, and he would be remembered in their eyes.
A thin sparkle seemed to always shine from the corners of her eyes. A warmth radiated from her mouth each time she smiled, which was frequent and always sincere. Her hair was always perfect, even when she complained about it. She had a deep voice, not mannish, but something more akin to a loud whisper built with the breath from behind her small but perky breasts, and never from her nose or throat. The only thing that keeps him from repeatedly saying "I love you" is his fear that the words are reserved for con artists.
Eric Satie:
Four Gnossiennes 1-Lent 3:34
Four Gnossiennes 2 - Avec etonnement 1:53
Four Gnossiennes 3 - Lent 3:00
Four Gnossiennes 4 - Lent (sans presser) 3:12
Musiques Intimes et Secrètes - Desespoir agreable 0:53
06 Musiques Intimes et Secrètes 2 - Caresse 2:05
07 Musiques Intimes et Secrètes 3 - Songe creux 1:43
Musiques Intimes et Secrètes 4 - Fâcheux example 1:09
Musiques Intimes et Secrètes 5 - Nostalgie 1:02
Je te Veux 4:46
Gymnopédie No. 1 3:06
Petite Musique de clown triste 2:18
La diva de l'empire 2:36
Premier prélude du nazaréen 5:20
Les pantins Dansent 2:06
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
A Writing Exercise
"Once upon a time," Sophia repeated to herself after scribbling out the first lines of what she wanted to be a simple writing exercise. Uncomfortable guessing how to start it, she had decided to start on a cliche. She thought thought that she could always back track later and compensate for her inadequacies, maybe close it with with an ironic cadence. End it with an equally tired cliche to close the parable, maybe her pretentiousness would elevate her simple writings above the timelessly tired words that it began with. Reading and re-reading her first couple words, she couldn't help but shake the thought that what she'd begun, what she hoped to achieve, were just hopeless attempts at wit.
Sophia sat there a while, but still, these four words were the only ones there to mark the acid washed papers that she'd bought earlier that day with the serious intent of producing something, anything. Sophia, already somewhat resigned to feeling that nothing worthwhile would follow, alternated between a strong impulse to crumple it up or to vainly work at writing what she'd already decided would be crap.
She repeated the line in her head, "Once upon a time" assuming that the rest would follow, that maybe, if she could just write one whole sentence the rest would follow. "Maybe its the pen," she muttered dejectedly, "maybe its the lighting, maybe its the cliche, maybe, maybe I'm just making excuses." As she went on her muttering into a sharp complaint, agitation marked on the inflection of the last to words. Her disposable fountain pen was leaking on to the page without any effort, staining a few pages that were lying beneath the first.
"Once upon a time... fables..." she said absent mindedly. "Am i writing a fable?" she asked aloud rhetorically, not quite caring if what she said meant anything, more just fidgeting with her mouth and mind. "Why am I writing this?" this time, as she spoke these words, her lips puckered into a sharp crease. "Don't question your purpose or motives, you've barely even begun," she interrupted, trying to keep from losing focus. "Its just an exercise, just write it, don't think of your relationship to your words yet, just write," as she repeated these last words, she lingered a moment, stretching the vowels. "Its just an exercise," she concluded, guessing that just saying these words would provide some serenity.
"And, and what? I repeat these self-help maxims dug up from some cheap book to help me write. And for what? I still haven't written a god-damned thing of my own, all i have is a few recycled words scribbled on a page, the same words I penned out nearly an hour ago. Fuck, fuck, fuckers, fuck faces," Sophia nearly shouted, and would have if she wasn't worried about her neighbors sleeping only a few feet away, separated by a thin dry wall, cheap plaster, and a few coats of now chipping paint. Even though she hadn't vented as should would have liked to, the first hint of conviction could be heard. "Fuck, fuckers, asshole, fucker," echoed through her mind, and she was at once filled with frustration and a sense of futility, and an inner self-sarcasm dancing in the absurdity.
"OK, I'm done now."
She had a bit of a wince, and a bit of a grimace as she put down her pen. Sophia's leaking fountain had but to leave her fingers for a look of relief to spread across her face. The tightened lines of her contorted face smoothed out. A sigh was carried out on her breath as her chest and lungs relaxed beneath her unwashed shirt.
---------------
And, for a moment she she felt as though she might be happy.
/or/
And for a moment,she thought that she should be happy.
Sophia sat there a while, but still, these four words were the only ones there to mark the acid washed papers that she'd bought earlier that day with the serious intent of producing something, anything. Sophia, already somewhat resigned to feeling that nothing worthwhile would follow, alternated between a strong impulse to crumple it up or to vainly work at writing what she'd already decided would be crap.
She repeated the line in her head, "Once upon a time" assuming that the rest would follow, that maybe, if she could just write one whole sentence the rest would follow. "Maybe its the pen," she muttered dejectedly, "maybe its the lighting, maybe its the cliche, maybe, maybe I'm just making excuses." As she went on her muttering into a sharp complaint, agitation marked on the inflection of the last to words. Her disposable fountain pen was leaking on to the page without any effort, staining a few pages that were lying beneath the first.
"Once upon a time... fables..." she said absent mindedly. "Am i writing a fable?" she asked aloud rhetorically, not quite caring if what she said meant anything, more just fidgeting with her mouth and mind. "Why am I writing this?" this time, as she spoke these words, her lips puckered into a sharp crease. "Don't question your purpose or motives, you've barely even begun," she interrupted, trying to keep from losing focus. "Its just an exercise, just write it, don't think of your relationship to your words yet, just write," as she repeated these last words, she lingered a moment, stretching the vowels. "Its just an exercise," she concluded, guessing that just saying these words would provide some serenity.
"And, and what? I repeat these self-help maxims dug up from some cheap book to help me write. And for what? I still haven't written a god-damned thing of my own, all i have is a few recycled words scribbled on a page, the same words I penned out nearly an hour ago. Fuck, fuck, fuckers, fuck faces," Sophia nearly shouted, and would have if she wasn't worried about her neighbors sleeping only a few feet away, separated by a thin dry wall, cheap plaster, and a few coats of now chipping paint. Even though she hadn't vented as should would have liked to, the first hint of conviction could be heard. "Fuck, fuckers, asshole, fucker," echoed through her mind, and she was at once filled with frustration and a sense of futility, and an inner self-sarcasm dancing in the absurdity.
"OK, I'm done now."
She had a bit of a wince, and a bit of a grimace as she put down her pen. Sophia's leaking fountain had but to leave her fingers for a look of relief to spread across her face. The tightened lines of her contorted face smoothed out. A sigh was carried out on her breath as her chest and lungs relaxed beneath her unwashed shirt.
---------------
And, for a moment she she felt as though she might be happy.
/or/
And for a moment,she thought that she should be happy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
