Some day I will express a complete thought I promise.

Oh – it is time for the back woods. My fifteen minutes of fame before sleep. I am full. My stomach and my limbs. They are full of the heat from walking, and from food. Home made breads and pastries, purchased cheeses and fruits and wine. A meal fit for a snacking European.

I am highfalutin – don’t you worry I know. I’m getting out the utter tripe and exasperation that all people do – before they hit the wall of self importance and begin embracing the simpler things – like the thesis of 4th year paper. A simple sentence, proper grammar, small idea bursting at the seams with detail. Right now I have a hard time constructing the plot line. It is more or less ignorance – my will to ignore it – then it is a lack of understanding. Sooner or later – I won’t remember the definition of that word ‘plot’.

I’m sitting in a colder basement, a caterpillar in a new sleeping bag, finally having it out with the mind. The famous time at night – you know what it is. The beautiful time where your mind is free and wise, peaceful but not asleep. It is not the time of unreal dreams, but of seeming material liberation.

Bashfulness occurs when you admit dependence on someone, and then life slowly builds up barriers where you walk dutifully around these people, or dutifully right through them. There is no real definition of hate or love. Oxymorons in a single word – is it possible. I will expand upon that later it doesn’t seem relevant now.

But maybe an attempt to define the word material – as in materialism. If it is defined it is material – for a lawyer will vow that certain pieces of paper with ideas written in words is considered a thing. Something to be protected with rights – rights better defined than the rights of an 8 year old in any country, but especially the third and fifth worlds. Funny that we consider the “lesser” worlds part of another dimension.

Material – is another human being. They are explicit matter, not just computer ink communicating effectively an abstract and complex occurrence in someone’s mind that at some point became “the norm”. In must be so because some people think they own other people.

I don’t know anything about pop culture. I don’t understand the dimensions and seeming limitations of music. I cannot define the word “art” except using the words ‘context’ and audience’ which means that only the negative space of the word is loosely drawn. But of the thing itself – a simple void of explanation. I also cannot name a writer who is currently popular and avant garde. I am unfamiliar with titles of dances and theatres. I do not understand fashion. And as for the communication of a complex idea, in any form even silence – I am distracted.

I am almost entirely sure that all of it, this culture of ours is a game of whims. Everything all at once all at the same time. Does anyone notice this but me? Somewhere in the world a little girl is hauling water from a well in a long skirt while her father arranges her marriage – are we sure old Kings are dead and buried, or are they conducting other nations like complex orchestras play cat and mouse – oh and an orchestra can play that game well.

All genres, all histories, all facts all the time. The ultimate experience is it not – to be absolutely everything at once, and if you take drugs maybe a dinosaur will grace your presence, or perhaps a magnifying glass and an ant.

And am I the hyperbole of this? A capable student of all classes, a hard working artisan of life, willing to kill and cook a chicken, while trying to understand software, diddling on the piano while dreaming of some colours or some ambiance that someone else can dance to? Another material human being? Tell me – how am I to be selfish?

Perhaps this did at some point become a diary. And I masked good ideas in it somewhere – ideas because they are words representing what I think about my life.

I read a forward in a short stories compendium. How does the fictional writer come up with his/her ideas? That is something I would also like to know. Because then maybe I wouldn’t have to live one thousand lives. And I wouldn’t have to explain the rules every fucking single time.

Welcome back she says.

The fog is thick in the woods these days.

There are things of note: the obstinacy, the indecision and the aimless trajectory.

If all the reproductive organs in the world were defective I wouldn’t vote for artificial wombs made out of glass bottles. I also wouldn’t create straight lines of destruction. But I would help take down cities, block and beam and store them in neat piles. The ugly architecture especially.
I would chip away bricks and pile them so as to make a pyramid. A pyramid will represent every city – and the size of the pyramid will represent nothing. Just the size of the city – but after I die there will be no one who will understand or negotiate the power of association. So the pyramid will represent nothing.

There are things of note: the superficial expression.

‘Jesus Christ – Super Star – Do you think you’re what they say you are?’
Those who walk like see-through, beautifully molded plexi glass are made out of the same material as hockey rink windows. And they write simple sentences, containing powerless words, communicating a short thought. Short and shallow. Just keep swimming just keep swimming just keep swimming.

Don’t worry – a white and tan designer will pour a bucket of pink latex paint in the frame and hopefully they will be drowned. The air, that is.

There are things of note: a few guarded thoughts on what WHAT should be the freedom of expression.

Or rather – an explosion. What. Are. You. Going.
Asymmetrical isn’t it? Does it bother you? If words said themselves free impression escapes but lonely barriers are next to those water blur marks to expand simple notion jail-not is out. To get you.

I’m sure one could consider love the flawless truth because the pendulum of perfectly possessive emotion will swing left and right. Left and right. Just keep swimming just keep swimming. But don’t make that a rhythmic sentence.
It swings itself you know. The pendulum. Is swayed by itself. NOT What do I want. How can I get it. What stands in my way. Questions questions questions. Compromising humans aren’t bringing anything to the table except sacrifice. No such thing as offerings. Selfish. Humans sacrifice is easy because it alludes to goodness.
Selfish
Just quietly now.


I like clocks that bend time on nothing but a whim.
Just don’t snap it like a twig.

Should it be called News or Expansions?

She is addicted to the news you know.
The morning traffic news wakes her up but she has no car.
They play some Jazz. She hates the saxophone, so she changes the station.
But she’ll always set it back to the traffic report for her morning alarm. They are always discussing the DVP at 6:14 am.
She’ll listen with her eyes closed, her brain racing, only saying over and over again that it promises not to fall back asleep.
During breakfast she resets the radio alarm and turns off the sound. She’ll eat cereal to the news telecast.
Her concern is the weather. Never the Middle East. She’ll listen to the anchor’s jargon, stories about children, quips about people’s idiocy, or extremes, or luck, or accomplishments. Anchors are the sports commentators for the ants that we are.
I think she would like to be interviewed with a proud accomplishment someday. That way she’ll be a bigger ant. She doesn’t know what she could possible be good enough at, so maybe some day she’ll save someone from a fire. She looks for them you know: People in fires.
She leaves the news on until the moments she leaves. In the subway she avoids the paper-based tabloid of 24 hour news.
Paper is wasted because she’s not the only one who wakes up to news, eats with the morning news team, and stares at the online news reels for most of the day.
But words make the commute faster, and some people’s jobs don’t have internet and so it is excusable. It is not excusable for her.
She gets motion sickness anyway.
At work she opens her station, highlights important bits of information.
And then she opens the most liberal city publication. It’s because they emote in their stories, and tell lies, and use words to communicate exactly what kind of ants they are depicting. The Right paper she doesn’t read because it’s like staring at legal jargon, and she doesn’t like walls that aren’t biased, white walls, with white information.
Sometimes, every Thursday, she reads the online publication of a free radical arts journal. They’re depiction of the news reminds her of demonstrations in Russia during the wall episode.
The artists harangue local and non-local governments with witty statements and textbook ironies. They’re all liars anyway. They lie by any publication, even their own. At least that’s what she thinks. But someone once told her that was true.
Sometimes too, when all the publications are read, and the CBC website well expounded, she’ll turn to real tabloids. Every female publicist will love a gay, and every male publicist is. And so they all love each other and coin terms and discuss the bigger ants who drink a lot, and do drugs, and spend their money on the cars that could probably clog the DVP. She likes the bias. And reading about simple things like that is very easy. She could never live like they do. She doesn’t really like sex all that much.

I’m sure if she tried, maybe just maybe she could read other things. She is addicted to consuming facts though. It is a pastime, one in which she spends no money and so it is healthy and encouraged. She doesn’t discuss it otherwise though. She does have a few friends, but they don’t like talking about the news. They aren’t really good at talking at all. I think she probably replaced that conversation with things that are verbose all of the time. Updated every 30 minutes with news, and so she enjoys the words at half hour increments and she feels loved.

She doesn’t like fashion magazines though – they are costly and ostentatious.

At night she watches many reality TV shows, people competing in any number of contests that she wishes she could do. But she can’t sing, she’s not athletic, she can’t dance and she doesn’t like wearing bikinis. And none of the shows are hiring a personality to host.

So she goes to bed feeling like a very real person. She is considered very informed. Maybe just maybe she could be interviewed on TV for being the most informed person in the world.

Let us all wish her sweet dreams about the many things she knows until the next DVP traffic report.

Planets Not Actors. It is Kundera's Fault.

Have you ever put your hand lightly on your neck and felt the blood traveling through your veins. Flows then soft, flows then soft. It feels like smooth grains of sand traveling through a tube.

I imagine it would be exactly like feeling an earth worm pulse itself through its dirt tunnels if a hand touched the ground just perfectly lightly. That is why birds are successful fishers for worms. Because of the lightness.

It’s very interesting how one - specifically me is easily swayed by outer lives.

Because it is my body I’m in the centre of my life. There will be no other centre, even if the skin is switched it is still my body – and dreams, drugs or alcohol experiences aside I am always inside of the shell – and everything is seen and understood from the moving body that is me. I could have been an ocean.

People are like planets – not actors. (To be considered an actor on a stage for all of one’s life is such a limiting notion.) People are at least geographical in nature. The moon pulls the tide. The sun pulls the masses. Other things follow paths that are seemingly indirect. Some people have direct courses – but everything is swayed by something else. So it is not a necessity to act differently but to be pulled accordingly.

Books and movies are culprit masses that move. They are worlds of a different light. A different composition or species really. The pages the dirt – the letters the people, the words the institutions (as words are never a singular idea) The chapters the countries. Maybe the cover is the UN – if the UN represents the total human interest.

How could an astronaut landing on a different planet not be easily moved by the understanding of a whole new life? Not even the understanding – but the ephemeral feeling that a brand new place creates. The ambiance of a different colour.

And if you take that planet as a whole – how interesting to take down the words to their first original cellular concept. Lightness and heaviness for examples – when taken to the extreme detached emotion of each word is an interesting singular event. Each journey that is – you could imbibe a word 800 times, but each is a singular journey with a separate reason for existing. A repetition yes – but not one with mundane, forseen, and yet nonsensical conditions. A word would make an interesting human being – yes limited but aren’t we all in some small way? It’s called skin.

But it’s interesting – as much as I want to build the planets, they come straight back to the animal beginnings. To the human mind, to the human definition, to the human intention. All of them are mine. Each person a lover or a hater or a specific word.
It makes me wonder what kind of awe would be inspired by something beyond scientifically unique. Or existentially unique. That is most important.

Morning Speeches

My abdomen feels like tar when it’s “pure” and hot and viscous. A science word.

I feel like a philosophical teenager when their emotions don’t sit on their shoulders like cliché arguing facets on a sitcom, but a teenager that is full of hope and roped into obligations, while yelling at their parents to treat them like an adult.

I cried at thirteen at being caught in school yard between two hayfields. I do not knit because I was on a farm. I knit because I left. I feel like a Steinbeck novel sometimes, it’s true. Maybe East of Eden. Migration to bigger cities to find “better people” or lofty ideas. It’s a push actually – to find a job, to find knowledge, perspective. The sightlines change in the cities, it’s not even the landscape it’s the motivation.

Politics take place in big cities and their words make farmers weep. “Infrastructure” “Leadership” “Growth”. The word Growth is a death trap. Growth means: more, accumulation, gluttony, theoretical responsibility. Growth to some people is an exciting word that builds bridges, glass buildings and ideas that become so lofty and so big we are responsible for carrying on paper “like a living breathing document.”

Growth means more. And that’s why a teenager pushed out of limited towns runs to places where everyone can dance exactly the way they want.

I was a lofty painter it seems. A speech maker. My history teacher told me to can it in class once when I tried to speak on the responsibilities of families and children. I’m sure it was just that my voice was loud. A person naturally born to talk. I am immature. I know this every day of my life and as much as I fight to keep it I see the passing opportunity for a grown woman to say something intelligent and insightful.

So I thought maybe I could justify speeches by appropriate words, just like a novelist will justify insight with doctorates. It turns out that one should justify life only by living it.

The mean-spirited gossiping Betty’s of the 1850’s, while making quilts and boiling water for complicated births – they too were constantly immature. It’s not the progression or “growth” of the human mind, the development of the toy, the acceptability of morals, the responsible government, or the availability of food. We are still alive doing work with a different ease, and a different difficulty than those building cities in the years 100.

Corporations rot spines in seats in attempts to quell the effective man, in order to grow their business like diseases. They are the mechanization described by Orwell in which words become such fancifully disguised points of intellect that the truth is buried in an ethics bored and people no longer know how to communicate an authentic feeling.
Factual statements are represented in numbers, not words. Actually it’s just me.

I’m just the whiney teenager here, hating the similarity and the complete unification of the human breed. Incest ideas are the bane of my existence. A long time ago it was the need for unified messages, a clear path of ideas. An understanding of desire and goals. Do territories want to make a country or do they want to fight?

Ease of communication has hung out the complexity of the human mind like an awkward naked picture. So here we are.
What I want – as the moody teenager with the tar stomach at a desk – I want a simplified circle of specialized ideas. A human being is not ultimately a collective spurred for “Growth.” That’s why Shakespeare survived posterity. Who will survive it now?