maybe a day like tomorrow

snow in june and b.y.o.p

this fine fellow brought his techno-blaring laptop to the park and danced, wooped, and djayed by himself as we quietly enjoyed gelato one bench over.



the fluffs have taken over my neighbourhood. they blow in my door, float round the lamp posts, and settle wherever they please. delicate carnage.

pristine daydream

i dream crisp, cool, white, clean, clear, uncluttered and unfettered.
all the way, until the end of this cigarette, i swear i do.

sights of sherbrooke

Note that Jesus offers UNLIMITED incoming calls, but what about outgoing?

critter love

who ever said the best companions have to be alike was wrong and these adorable mismatched pals prove it.

afternoon in westmount

I found this poor death-heavy beheaded flower abandoned to the oblivion of Sherbrooke sidewalk traffic on my way to the library and took pity. So far I've managed to soak it in coffee, as well as drop and almost lose it 3 times.
Clearly, it's proving a fruitful distraction from essay induced psychosis.
Also, check out the creepy childrens party I'm lurking above...There is something forever unnerving about the idea of adults dressed in disarming costumes luring children to their laps.
But hey, not my problem!

the women

silly stoned and the underwater documentary just wont load.
so instead here are some images i have ratted from the depths of the interwebz,
stick these bitchez in yo pipes and smoke them.
(i've had too much, it's time for sleeeeep)

"Insanity hovered close at hand, like an eager waiter at an expensive restaurant (lighting cigarettes, refilling glasses.)"

erotic vulture

may day-may day. hopefully now that june is coming full swing i'll be out of the thick of it soon.
my typewriter has finally returned-beautiful blue olivetti, how i treasure thee.
i'm discovering the joys of homemade iced chai tea and pressing flowers.
also, these polaroids by dash snow are a visual treat.

Poppies in July

Poppies in July
By Sylvia Plath

Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?

You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.

And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a
mouth.

A mouth just bloodied.
Like bloody skirts!

There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?

If I could bleed- or sleep!-
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.

But colorless. Colorless.

The Moon and the Yew Tree

The Moon and the Yew Tree
by Sylvia Plath
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky-
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness-
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness- blackness and silence.

(photo credit to Constant Anee)

I'm currently in the thick of a plethora of Plath analysis for my 20th century writing by women class. Its been a slightly surreal experience finding myself becoming so submerged in her psyche. It is after all, a little unnerving to see in print what felt like 'confidences' of my subconscious.

In My Little Town

my little weekend jaunt back to halifax has been a relaxing treat.
amazingly enough fog city has been sunny two days in a row, my laundry is all done, the cats are cuddling, and the lobsters are boiling for dinner tonight.
this landlocked life is harder when i remember my maritime roots.

sunday monday happy days

winding down from this weekends thrashcore tour with a book, a trip to st.micheles for pretty new jewels and relics, snuggles, and a screening at cinema du parc of woody allen's manhattan.
plus my favourite new indulgence: dark chocolate with lavender!

q: what does falazing mean to me?

in a nutshell.

Tout Va Bien

"they'll say your books thrust you into life, from them you learned to unlearn."

More Memories of Russia