my whines are beginning to sound like mosquitos buzzing in your ear when there is no screen to keep them out of the house.

"In its simplest form, a Molotov cocktail is a glass bottle containing petrol fuel usually with a source of ignition such as a burning, fuel soaked, rag wick held in place by the bottle's stopper.
In action the fuse is lit and the bottle hurled at a target such as a vehicle or fortification. When the bottle smashes on impact, the ensuing cloud of petrol droplets and vapor are ignited, causing an immediate fireball followed by a raging fire as the remainder of the fuel is consumed.
Other flammable liquids such as wood alcohol and turpentine have been used in place of petrol. Thickening agents such as tar, sugar, animal blood, XPS foam, egg whites, motor oil, rubber cement, and dish soap have been added to the fuel, analogously to the use of napalm, to help the burning liquid adhere to the target and create clouds of thick choking smoke."


"Molotov cocktails were used in Prague to express disapproval of the invading Soviet troops in Czechoslovakia in 1968 (see Prague Spring for details)."

YO ANYONE WANT TO CRAFT??

my thousand shut eyelids
all purple and swollen
my eyes are creeking, grimacing and sneezing
with every light that enters the green
the grey the blue the red
it has seen more than most have seen
than you have lived
and she hath dreamed
for him to lie
as she goes to sleep
my eyes they flash
spilling secrets they scream
and without recognition
we pass day by day
pretending not to notice
the creases in which we layed
and often rebuking ourselves we display
my eyes
behind glass
they shall always stay.

oh my GOD
SOMETIMES ITS A REALLY GOOD THING THAT I DONT OWN MACHINE GUNS
MANY FRENCH DRIVERS WOULD FIND THEMSELVES WITHOUT A FRONT WINDOW.
OR WITH HOLES IN THEIR TIRES.
I dont want to injure but I just want apology, I want people to look down and crinkle their brows the way I do when I say I am sorry and I mean. This doesn't happen often because I am unflinching and relentless and parfois un peu cruelle. mais sa va.

I feel troubled by all the stress and tension in my shoulder that needs to be soothed by hands that work their dark magic. I need my eyes closes permanently some days and there is always light coming in my blinds that feels like it is producing a hurricane in my pooling eyes. I dont understand why I am tired all the time and I could sleep for thousands of years, never wake up. I've been at my most unproductive as I have ever found myself.
its embarrassing to say all I do is watch things on my laptop, drink lots of hot chocolate from charming little cafes and go see a lot of movies with other french zombies who have nothing else to do in their lives.
ok, the charming hot chocolate is in itself, the most charming thing. its utter perfection those little steel teapots that will pour 4 china white cups full of frothy thick hot chocolate, flavored to any delight that you wish. they also have rows and stacks of beautiful tea.

tehehhe
bum tag.

i just sit quietly in my room and play with my hands, i play a lot of solitaire and win most of the games. I heard a trick once that said playing cards makes you better at math. i've got 3 bets going that they didnt mean solitaire.
i got so many wonderful presents on the 18th, which was a day like any other, 2 hours north of my birth place, a tuesday like the day i was born. birthday's are lame, but it was one of the NICEST DAYS EVA. I had delicious bagels, lots of chocolate, I saw a czech opera, I held hands and got kisses a lot, a lot of sappy delicious disgruntling things.
when I sit quietly, I dream of future furniture and clothing, dream sandals, I also think about cloaks and daggers, and how to start my own magazine, even though i've never even made a zine.
its going to take a lot of work, and a few years of patience, before i've got the neccessary resources and mostly EDUCATION to git it on wit it.
i want to go see movies alone, but mostly i wish I wasnt in the land of the fleur de lys anymore.

Every day I find a cigarette in the same place in the girls bathroom, on the right hand side of the toilet. I have a suspicion it’s a Korean woman in my class who is never seen without a smoke in hand and yet I have never encountered her smoking outside the residence. Instead her incessant habit fills the hallway down to my room. She’s nice; she got hit by a car the other day and chipped her tooth. I greatly fear tooth injuries even more than I fear the prospect of a French dentist who would rattle off to me a bunch of stuff I don’t know and don’t need and then charge me for it. I am a furious anti dentite and it would cause me grievances because I’ve refused to get my wisdom teeth out for years now and I recently found out I can get a tooth implant for dirt cheap in Slovakia. I will not be the sole sponsor of my dentist’s next Mercedes.
I’ve been living as frugally as possible, which is very possible with the prospects of eating goat’s cheese for next to nothing and delicious mousse, buying my chicken from the same people every week and pointing to the nicest looking fruit. My only complaint is the price of curry sauce. The delightful Asian grocer at the market sells my favorite brand of spicy soup as well, the one that makes my nose run and my eyes bleed but I greedily gobble every week so that I don’t have nightmares about the dry, tasteless “salmon” I was served tonight. That was also the better end, many nights I just shake my head and make a roll with butter and have some yohgurt. I’ve been bored with the prospects of my writing, yet my writing callus is formidable and truly shows my love of longhand and writing with the pens I buy because my ink so frequently runs out. I was discussing burning books today and it overwhelmed me with such emotion. I don’t know why, I can hardly call myself a writer and nothing I plan to do has anything to do with writing (actually everything I secretly plan does but this is my thought bank and not my word bank. I won’t say it, but I can write it)-anyhow, the destruction of books if horrifying.
I’ve shifted gears and cant remember what my life was like in Canada except it sounds like a really fun story I read as a teenager when I was wishing and hoping for my “early 20’s” to be great. I’m jealous of the characters and can’t believe the stuff they get up to. Especially the part where she moves to France, that’s awesome.
Not really. I lie, it is and I’m spoiled and rude, at least a little bit by this country. I go to Prague on Saturday as a present to myself ( I wont say which kind) and I am looking forward to partaking in a city that doesn’t glare and in a language that doesn’t judge so much. Actually every language does with its distinct dialects but I am tired of being ridiculed by my French teacher for saying “snob” words.
I go through many questionable moments of self doubt and my radio never seems to be in tune, I walk everywhere because I don’t want to bother paying for the bus when it could pay for candy and chocolate instead. I get excited about the future and yet horrible worried about my worries and I feel like the clock is just ticking and my clock emits the most horrible light during the night that always scares me when I forget to turn it away. Some nights I fall asleep in my clothes and some nights I forget to shut the window and I freeze quietly instead of doing something about it.
This is the first evidence of my real existence, and yet it feels terrible false and I look forward to being in the presence of people that bring out good in me.
Oh good golly.
My favorite adjectives are the negative kind, and I thoroughly enjoy using negative adjectives in a positive way.

I am so tired and disinterested in pretending to like people I dont like.
I want my shows to load so I can go home and eat heaps and large teaspoons of caviar and think about what a bad writer i've turned into.
when you are bored, there is no creativity. its only when i lack the time to write that I create sentances.
I've got a formidable writing callus, however, on one of my fingers. the joys of longhand, of calligraphy, of perfect block letters, they are my sympathy.

I finally feel like these days haven't dragged on
and like my bones weren't so chilled and I could sleep with no clothes on, with the window open
for the fresh air that I crave in my nostrils at night
the punishment of course comes in the form of sloppy lungs and a sloppy wet soppy nose.
I feel good, maybe it was just the massage- but my feet are still tired and they wont' stop, I keep pushing myself to keep my thighs small
I am trying to be healthy and good, So I allow myself to smoke, and when I inhale too hard I end up choking on my words and replace another drag by a bite of my nail- that is by far my worst habit right?
I say mean words when I dont mean anything by them. I sound bored ( ABURRIDO IN SPANISH) and i roll my eyes- he says they still look beautiful.
I feel lucky yet my superstitions dont want me to say it out loud, because I've been sweeping dirt out of my room into the hallway. There is always crumbs and I have to brush off my feet every time I go get get into bed. I woke up this morning with circles under my eyes and I wonder if my constant vigilance is a sign of such. I dream about dream jobs that I am too scared to pursue, and when and how did I lose my confidence?
I wonder about train tickets to paris so I can get to prague. my bank wont let me take out money and I sigh at the machines and sigh at the line behind me. I've only got bills too big to break and I think about shopping. gallerie lafayette haunts me and I tihnk about succumbing to temptation- buying crystal apples and breaking my teeth on them- I feel more and more like Eve.

my joints creak when I try to do bicycling exercises at night
my head aches because I keep forgetting to buy water
the water here that comes from the tap is sick and sickly and now reminds me of bad hangovers and waking up drunk needing water and having the hot shit mess.
I am going to paris on friday with my boyfriend

i have been low and glum and cranky as anything with no hopes of writing anything decent.

I'm wearing new perfume ( Galliano Girl) and dreaming about sending poetry writing, musings to the New Yorker
After extensive research readings of what they DO publish I was absolutely appalled. the quality is far inferior to what I expected to find in an international magazine renowned for their quality of work
im fucking sending something in.

I see a striking amount of similarity between me and these girls
its like looking at two people who embody elements that I am very fond of-
did you notice that the redhead is smoking slims?
mmmmm
we have ben stalking each other for two years now, every parisian trip I make
I wonder when we will finally meet.

LIKE I SAID, I AM BEING TOO DRAMATIC.
EMAILS CAN CHANGE YR LIFE.
I LOVE TO YELL.

I feel as though my dreams could quickly become my nightmares- or my daydreams could turn into dreams- I forget them at the first crack of sun. I feel like I am preparing myself for this nightmare and thus experiencing one at this time. I have a hard time not living in the future. I need to remember the present, but all my tenses speak of past or future.
I enjoy singing at the top of my lungs in my dorm room. I am certain that my entire floor is well aware of my... talent. I enjoy songs that involve whistling, because then I feel like a pro when whistling along, in reality, I can barely call a dog with a whistle.
I am deeply afraid of what Paris will turn into for me, and I shouldn’t even be thinking about it because when I think, I speak and which is turn turns into THEATRE. Dramatics and such. I have studied Moliere and have no wish to participate. I would rather hang the curtains around my body, or hang from the curtains.
I wonder if we have outgrown ourselves. I wonder if our bodies will feel like we have growing pains. I remember thinking about myself as mysterious whereas now I am tired and so sarcastic.
That sarcasm is sweet of course. These days no one can tell the difference and my sincerity comes across with peals of laughter.
I rub my Labradorite, because it is said to “dispel depression and negativity.. light in darkness” and there could not be any other moments. I listen to songs on the radio that speak of hope in love. I wonder about purchasing plane tickets to the Czech republic. I check my pulse periodically and feel like both crying and displaying no emotion. I lose my appetite and drink liters of chamomile tea, I take long walks in order to smoke and listen to music that will create a new sense of the streets that surround me. I think about how I have developed a hatred of many cities I have failed to visit which leads to my failure in understanding. Sometimes I wonder if I understand all too well and that is why I am depressed. I am taking the shape of the birds with their frantic calls and I wonder if they understand- I wonder if they too are missing far away mates who don’t sing back. Or perhaps they do and they just don’t believe.
I want to believe in everything but my philosophical doubts stand in the way- reality takes away the heaven and I am like a spoiled Reblochon- a cheese I have never tasted. I believe in old Slovak superstition that says when you sneeze whatever you were thinking was true. I use these sneezes as a prediction and when I feel a sneeze coming on I change my thoughts and am deeply satisfied in my misery to find out its true.
I worry like an old woman and I worry about the lines showing my age. I worry about location and time.

i talk to much about nothing when REALLY I just want to stAY QUIET AND MIND MY OWN BUISNESS
I wish I took trips alone instead of offering to bring the useless with me
I wish I could keep my trap shut so nasty tidbits such as these did not leak out, but these are my thoughts and I should not be held guilty for what I think even if I am deeply considering MURDER
which I am not.

i have gradually moved into a routine-after only 4 days of school. It feels both real and unreal and foreign countries are not as magical when you are the best dressed person around.
i sit and quietly wait for my class- i am quiet only because I dont want to lose my voice. I eavesdrop on any conversation I can.
I am tired. and craving delicious things
france
france also makes you take slutty pictures. THIS IS BOREDOM.

PARIS IN TWO WEEKS WITH MY BOYFRIEND.
la vie est sympa, vraiment.
totally being non sarcastic,
but I do have to pee now.

I’ve been in the land of maccarons for over a week now, and boy does it bring back those infinite memories of broke boredom. I feel like I could never have enough money here, no matter how deep my pockets were and how well my stockings were stuffed. This town is one of interest and one of small proportions making it easy to maneuver and pleasant to walk at the brisk pace I so enjoy. I feel like there is a sense of prehistory here in regards to the internet- my only point of access is at the campus, which is by modern architecture standards a bit over. It feels like it was very much built in the 70’s and is stark and out of the city center. No matter, because there are plenty of windows and it’s a pleasant walk when I do not find dead cats on the sidewalk. I’ve been stealing a lot of fruit from my cafeteria as it is one of the few edible and recognizable foods it offers- endives should never be boiled nor should chicken. As far as French cooking in Bourgogne goes, I loosely assumed a quality of edibility at the least instead of terrible smells and unattractive mystery. My food classification has become- mysterious or OK.
I feel the same loneliness I once felt in France and it has hit me hard again. I am having no problems adjusting to life here, and I feel no sense of regret for leaving, but but but all things considered my friends here are small numbered and many can only say bonjour and the rest of the time they smile at me with their adorable Korean faces and wave happily. It’s a bit of an idiot friendship but almost one I prefer to the others who pose little interest to me. I sometimes feel like Nova Scotia produced 2 kinds of people- one type who are classifiable within seconds (the whole batch of cookies here) and the others that take some time. I am fast learned.
I have however, been keeping my face straight and my vampire smiles (the one where I smile with 13 ounces of sarcasm boiled with sugar but garnished with lemon rind) rather low. My efforts are there but among my fellows I feel not out of place in France, but amongst the ones who are supposed to be my nearest! We have little understanding.
I am trying to keep some optimism in my glass half empty- perhaps I will forget it outside someday soon. Then it will rain and it shall be full. Forecast is teasing me with 40% shower probability. ON VA VOIR, BIEN?

I guess that I just always assume that people dont like me too much. I am quick witted with my assumptions, I make them and change them on the dime and am convinced in my conniving mind that eventually I am always right. My assumptions, may I add are always negative. I thrive on negativity because then when I am surprised by the results of my interaction with someone, I take it with more joy than one usually would.
on this note, I feel loved- I feel like I dont have friends. IN reality, I have just because so tenderly close with my co-workers, that I realize tonight that work has brought me to them via fate ( if I would dare announce) rather than just being friendly with them because they are always around. I keep getting these displays of their affection and I just want to bawl my eyes out at every single one of them because I just dont understand why anyone would ever like me enough to put all that effort into me.
48 hours till I leave.

soon there will be no more infinite bus rooms where I doze and my chins drop and dribble down and I smash my head on every curve and bump. There will be a lot of things that I miss about Halifax, but it seems silly to say they will be small like reading the psst's in the coast, and wandering into the bookmark. I will miss the smell of the ocean and just the smells that make up the city.
I find myself missing LAST fall, which in retrospect I am always missing time and maybe not places. Fall in Halifax is always this sort of completely sensible pleasure, with scarves and mitts and red cheeks. Its the most perfect time, but alas, I will experience it plenty again. Last fall just felt so sensible and easy and like I was just happy and things were in place, with my busy schedule and bed time sleepovers.
We shouldnt dwell too much on the past because it doesn't open any doors to the future and I look forward to weekends in paris and weekends in Slovakia, and weekends in Istanbul perhaps. I plan on doing a lot of reading, perhaps purchasing a bicycle, taking a lot of pictures and trying to smile as much as I can at everyone.

I feel so fucking uninspired and angry. I get bouts of anger that creep in like bad cold fog on summer days that I just wanted to spend at the beach. it creeps in and my mood shifts to anger and doom and gloom and I want to pick fights with everyone.
its like one mental shift can carry the outlook of the whole evening. and tonight is the night that I hate my hair, and body and face and mostly my mind which does not feel filled with intellect, but rather oppression, the same pattern over and over, shifts of images that have already been done, illustrations already carried out to resemble words and lost direction, lack of maps, lack of money for GPS. this is not the night where I feel good, but where I feel obsessive and taunted.
Sleep only holds hazards these nights, just as something psychedelic would. its holds the power to harness my thought and turn it into a variety show of nightmares. I suppose I am obsessive with the things dark, yet perhaps I only hold such regard due to my imminent and infnite fear of all.
god help and hold us all.

someday I dream about giving back to the sea what i takes from me
the cold air that makes me lungs gasp and my head instantly pounds
but i long for the quiet inside that makes me bide my time below

cocaiiiine

some music just makes me want to fuck everyone.
BJM right now is doing me.

she found him hiding under her grandma's quilt
one that was bought at a fair long ago
he was hiding and outside it snowed
she had never felt so cold,
despite the heat of the burning wood floors.
he couldnt apologize
he knew it would be right
but his reasons for his actions left her mystified
and all this time she could only think
to turn his heart the cold granite
she felt
not even growing warmer in the hottest sun
she felt no emotion
wouldnt speak to anyone
of her 6 sisters while they turned down their cloaks
in shame in the village where they had all grown
into ladies who were shamed by the youngest one
who had followed her hearts misery and shrouded herself
into the walls on the well from which they all drank
and they could taste her blood every morning and night
it would never dry
yet the well stayed cold
thanks to the cold granite that was jammed in her throat.

the summer has passed-quietly is such and I can only recollect a few nights of misdemeanors. Sometimes I think that may have been a mistake but my liver is grateful as is my mind because its better for me to think than just to merely act upon nights and grow tired and weary faster.
I feel full up to my brain through my nostrils with cotton dust.
I leave to move to france in a short 23 days. This is both exciting and I hope it will be culturally stimulating. My worry over funds is great however, and my lifestyles requires a great deal of tweaking and momentum. I require a great deal of books to read, and I hate to borrow because I never want to return. My library fees are out of this world and skyrocket whenever I lack the funding to purchase my addictions with their beautiful covers and vellum pages.
I've been writing in the same little red moleskin all year, for over a year now. i think I will abandon it at home and carry my new journal, brown leather bound and beautifully embossed- made in Italy- with me to France. I feel like whenever I make a change for the positive forward thinking I require a new writing development to take place. I hate to complain, I want to observe, and objectively at times. It bothers me that the book is lined but we shall make do with what we have.

my head is dense- full of thought and action. I feel like i am being squeezed by a vice, like my hair is growing slowly in and not out. I feel like stress and intolerance ( the first word to come to mind) and milking inside of me, festering, growing like tumors.
I had a bad nightmare last night where the walls were leaking suspicious liquids and people I love were stabbed in places that I hold high and speak of safety to me- my catholic upbringing worships the church. I felt afraid and panicky and lost. I felt lost when I woke up as well, and out of place, frantic even and as though I just wanted to feel him beside him.
Truly not as though however, like I did. That's one thing of which i am consistently certain.
However my mind if full of aggravating melody and the migraine wont go away when I still hear percussion in my ears and mainly my jaw that feels like I have grinded down 89 bricks of gold. The dust has settled inside my eyes that tear up and my worry makes me clench my teeth harder and picking only provokes bleeding.
I've had a hard day, and a hard week to come.

There is a feeling of being faint
Unrealistic and unfathomably so because to be the greatest pessimist
you expect the least.
There is a line being drawn between what I expected and what I would want that I did not notice till
it cut my wrists, in a place one could hardly miss.
and here is am bandaging with smiles, hopes and
the faintest of laughs
but what could that be worst
if its all surpassed
by secret lives i do not know and by wonders that I dont want to see
this is not a part of me
its plain and boiled with no salt
and I want lavish deviled and spiced
you didnt have to be so nice
as to pretend to be here for me to want me
and above all that desire you created
for me
in my mind
how did you find yourself so kind?
because I cut as well, and I find the spots where no one else can tell
where only you can fear and judge
yourself to frightened to discuss
we shall see in this game for three,
who will be the one deceived.

I am scared of losing out on love.
I leave in a few short weeks and though time seems to be standing still, its also going so fast. and Days that feel like yesterday also feel like last year. I can't remember what comfort feels like, and i feel as though I am constantly itching in my own skin. my hair feels funny and its too short now when I did want to grow it so long. I just get antsy and impatient all the bloody damn time.

the more books I read the more I want to write on my own accord. Write books of my own delusions and treat them like fictional characters. I worry that one day I will write something and it will end up in the fiction section of the bookstore and not the literature. While the literature section is pretentious, they have the loveliest colours, the best velum pages that will never run if you drop them in the tub and the most myriad selection of words. The fiction books are flashy and easy and have no substance. It doesn't matter if they run because those words leak out of ears and minds fast enough anyhow.
I quietly collect my thoughts. I realize that I often love being alone and feeling slightly lonely. Often I am my own best friend and I have chosen to forge through this not to be more social of a character, but enjoy my alone time. I feel like for a year I didnt have nearly enough and my life was consumed by yards of multi colored fabric, books I didnt want to read and papers and many languages. Language is a beautiful aspect of my life, because how many people can swear and tell you that they love you in as many languages as I can?
words are my biggest turn on.

sometimes I am consumed by the overall feeling of melancholy. It could be understood in the form of the black plague, eating away at your systems and rotting your flesh, forcing your eyes to leak excrement's, which are random singular tears in reality.
I always found swans vain and shallow, posing with their delicate necks in photos with their madeup eyes full of egyptian kohl. I had not idea that they mate for life and their crude rudness towards the rest of the world is just undying love. When one swan dies, the other emits a horrible sound like a constant shrieking for a few hours, similar to what a phoenix sings when he is turning to dust and then being born again.
So these large white birds who mask their eyes and emotion behind toils of mascara ad kohl are just protecting themselves from the world.

I have 3 days left before my day dreams take place in real life.
writing is dry. abandon ship.

goosey says she would love to play the piano
but tinckle tinkle only goes her trinkle
when she goes to the bathroom
or flaunts her wrists charm bracelet
the only charm she has
everyone knew that to go to charm school you had to play the piano
but goosey could only trinkle in the loo,
what might have you
say who
it all rhymes like diarrhea coming out of my mouth in the end. in the end i feel like a failure and in the end I am not ready to write and in the end there is a period, always.
there she be.

I can't write till I just write and poems come and go and how am I supposed to ever succeed at writing, when I often mispell the word and can't put a pen to paper anymore, can't make my fingers work.
sometimes I feel like an artist and sometimes I just want to describe things, but tonight is not the night to shake myself dry.
even the cacti need a bit of moisture to replenish themselves with.

I AM FURIOUS AT THE ENTIRE WORLD.
sometime I wish I could create hurricanes, mostly to destroy myself
oh bother

jour de bastille tomorrow
i wish i was celebrating with pints of 1664 at the galway pub in paris. putain de merde. i miss charlie and the old crowd and singing and smoking for hours upon hours. soon enough.

Im just feeling a tad bit frustrated and all over the damn place. like i cant keep my veins from twitching in my arm, like i cant get my bang off my face not matter how many bobbypins i use, like no clothes fit me, i havent got an appetite for any food, I cant find any interesting books that put me in the mood to read for hours.

love is a fucking drug.

if i had money pouring from my pockets
and gold bricks laying hot at the foot of my bed I would, I really would
yves saint laurent:
/Users/nataliakvitek/Desktop/ysl-dress-M.jpg

the water was cold today and looked velvety from afar. I would rather it looked like a wierd kool-aid flavour and was as warm as my bathtub water. my nose is brown like a muffin with my freckles being the poppyseeds in the lemon batter. my finances are worse, student loans are difficult and i want to scream out to the entire world that I AM NOT DEPENDENT. I AM INDEPENDENT. veritable idiots!
this is not nearly as poetic as yesterday or maybe the days to come. I am bringing my camera out of recluse, I VOW, but who really has the time.
I've been feeling sulky.

my life sometimes feels like a transition between light of the day's reality and the darkness of nights dreams and nightmares.
in september I am chasing and no longer waiting, I am impatient and already packing my bags. I have two suitcases arranged with various items and am as ready as ever to take off into the wild, or rather, a well known country to me. what i wont forget is my leather journal and watch, last summer I forgot my watch and had to drag around my alarm clock never knowing what time it was. I narrowly escaped missing trains and flights. but it felt delicious to disconnect where it didnt really matter what time it was at all ( except at those many crucial moments)
often i've felt like my writing is dreamy and quite frankly useless to everyone but i. i suppose poetry is such and i am more prose than reality because I am describing things that are perhaps real to me but unreal and dreamlike to all others.
i have such bad bad grammar anyhow.

well, I said to him
can you hear the call of the north west?
because I, I said, I did say
that I hear the call of the east, I can smell it in the flowers I pass
in the early morning breath of fog,
when i trot off to catch a bus
driving down a desolate lane
and i board it again and again,

the moon was slacking last night
with his yellow teeth
smoking the last of his cigs down to the filter
like the father of the 1960's alberta I picture
he was polluting the entire ocean that stood so still
underneeth his waveless, his breezless skies
and the hike up that hill was high
but ike made the time pass by
he carried me, a stick in his hand,
a horse beside him
pawing at the ground
his eyes rolled yellow and he was afraid of the water he saw
because still water runs deep
and he did not know
that all the sea urchins died because of the smoke from the moon
and we ate smoked salmon all night
on crusty rolls bought at 2am from the grocer who bakes
till we rolled onto my lawn and grinded our hips and teeth
bashing together because we didnt know better
sharing last drags that the moon passed to us with a smile
black holes where his teeth should have been
do we never learn our lesson?

i felt so assured and well rested
and any lack of communication makes me wonder about lack of thought..
i have not been so busy yet, i have not been so ignorant.


the lilacs hit me again tonight, along with the fog
the foggy lilacs that invaded my lungs and tried to suffocate me
with their delicious smells
and the lovely delicate shapes
like a charged murder mystery
i can feel like plankes of the earth shifting below me
the stars shifting above
and the moonlight casting his eerie glow upon the pale purple flowers
the lavender lilacs seeming so morose
as to decorate my own grave-
-a coffin full of lust despair and shaking hands

the smell of lilacs hit me
like an elvator from 1930 falling 9 floors from the top of the building
my stomach expirienced the same sensation
and i staggered to run up the hill


it was supposed to be so easy?

bzzzz hmm hmmp, concerned with bees and their lacking populations.
i have yet to save any bumblebees this summer, those grateful handsome men, nor have i seen any queens,
i wish for a beehive to love and adore and the sweetest honey to be absorbed.

this is the rhythm of saying no no no
sometimes i just dont want to talk, sometimes i am spitefully ( spitting indeed) sometimes forgetful, sometimes i like revenge.
i have a problem overcoming myself, and learning to adjust and accept
i am alone, i have no lovers, i have no friends, no posts to lean on, no feet to cry on, except my own, which are getting dreadfully moist.
i dont thrive in this habitat, in any way, and i know its not working, maybe im just scared to say so, maybe i dont want to say no. i am dreading the coming fall, dreading my 22nd birthday, and i am most dreadful myself.
"i dont like it when you dont tell me you dont love me on the phone. i hate the fact that you never think to call me when your drunk. i feel like i invade your life with my anti social attitude and thats not you, how could we ever work? we shouldnt be making such sacrifices, oh my god, i love you so much, but i am torn. maybe i am just jealous that you are doing stuff and I am never invited anywhere. maybe i just resent myself lately, and am beginning to resent you for being too far to watch a movie with me. i want a real boyfriend in my life for once, unlike usual when i dont want one. i dont want to be alone next year. i wish i wasnt such a snob, and see in the end, this is my problem and not yours, so its better to keep my mouth clipped shut, cut out my tongue and stick it in a pretty jeweled box, like a pharaohs heart.

we are too different, we are not the same

sometimes i get my feet lifted off the ground gently with the strange smell of jolly ranchers and the roll of thunder and the trash of water, i am not scared, i remain calm.seeing lovers
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OH ROMANCE, MY MELTING HEART, I FLEW BEFORE I FELL APART!!!!
out west, following hoofprints, bunny prints, all sorts of animal prints and HEARTBEATS.


i cant explain the last week, but i never wanted to leave without him.

yves saint laurent died today, the one fashion genius at the very top of my list of people i wanted to meet. he revolutionized fashion in a way unlike anyone else, he created the wearable ART FORM and created some of my favorite pieces in the history of fashion. for me he was more than just a designer but a personal style icon who generated appeal to both men and women. his iconic glasses are forever immortalized in mine and i feel a great sadness sweeping over the community of fashion all over the world for this man.

skirts and t shirts, looking good, summer is springing, or spring is like summer here? the wind smells good to me, and sod does water evaporating, but who can smell water? aye i say, because i can smell anything a mile away.
theres a cat that comes to visit everyday, and i think my entire family is thriving on the fact that something may indeed need us. we are all so cold and unlikey and i almost feel like perfect strangers. i am more open in a confessional booth with a priest than with my own mother and she too with my father.
i anticipate all these seasons, but not for the change, except the change in weather. i wonder what its like to live in beliz, where its always warm and sunny. or marrakech, to hide in stone houses. i wonder what their attitudes on life are.

yeah cheers, thanks.

I'm craving french cheeseburgers, good baguette, among a million other foodproducts. sometimes i think my love of france mainly stems for my love of food, and smoked, and sarcastic jokes. a part of me wishes i was there right now, and not here in halifax, not here in the north american hemisphere, this time zone is draining me.

when did I stop drinking whiskey sours?
oh and ps, heading out west? to pursue love affairs? catastrophic? remind me to follow up.

Job?
student, american apparel

Best Sartorial advice from your parents?
wearing all black

Style Icons?
chloe sevigny, jane birkin, yves saint laurent

Describe your personal style?
it changes every day but i would say- classic, modern, upbeat with a ghetto twist

I build my daily look around?
the weather!

Personal Style quirks?
i have no eye for matching colours, which gives me a very interesting pallet to work with.

Most cherished item
my chloe belt, my sneaker collection

I feel best wearing?
leggings and a sweater

The first thing I look at in another Sartorialist’s outfit ...
shoes, tights, pants and the hair.

I always break this fashion rule.
matching colours! there is beauty in the random

I never break this fashion rule.
ill fitting clothing

Never caught wearing?
anythng that looks cheap, skirts that are lower than above my knee

Most underrated item in menswear/womenswear?
stocking/socks

Dress to impress who?
me, however who doesnt' enjoy a good compliment from a well dressed stranger

Shine your own shoes?
ive never had a pair of shoes that needed to be shined!

I skimp when buying ...
flats, because I go through them so fast

I splurge on.....
bags.

Guilty pleasure?
the same item in several colours, a pleasure only exhentuated by the fact that i work at american apparel.

Cologne, skincare?
sothys and for makeup i dip everywhere but my perfume of choice is trouble by boucheron

Most stylish city?
paris, always

When I was high school I wore?
very different clothing fmor everyone else

Sports?
horseback riding, volleyball

Favorite vacation spots?
SLOVAKIA, italy and the south f france of course

You confuse me infinite amounts with your uncertainty that I willfully chose to ignore yet I feel small and weak and I just want to migrate away already. I know this is hard, I knew it would be, but I miss you even just as a friendly face and I keep telling myself to keep some of my wants at bay because in the end I will end up crying in my bathtub regretting mistakes I didn’t make. Despite all your charms, due to all your charms, my dreams haunt me and I find myself in doubt, a dubious emotion I hap not much experience. What use have you got for my old English slang anyhow? Our lives are different, my paths are crooked and hard to find amount the dreams that grow into trees and weeds, shading the paths from visibility. You end up in writing being of such importance that my stoic demeanor would not reveal, why make vulnerability a trait you can see when you will only exploit it. My comforts are gone and so is any feeling in my limbs, my stomach is mercifully shedding its remaining pains.
We are not one but two, you see. Now more than ever you are changing in front of me and I don’t know if this experience will bring as much to me as to you. You want to taste all the apples in the orchard while I rot away with my worms and shading myself from the sunlight. Or perhaps I am wrong and I am just too high to reach, this is the impression I at least wish to create. Every song plays the tune, we are done, perhaps too soon.

I suppose we are all the most frightened of crippling emotional pain, that creates voids and tears, because I am too old now a days to cry when I skin my knee on the pavement or bruise myself.
I suppose I fear the day when I am caused pain, which in turn i create a sensation of 'mal a laise' in the world.
this morning when I left the apartment I felt that familiar feeling of being alone and the air looked like 2 summers ago in Paris and my stomach was gurgling last nights beer and I felt like I hadn't left that moment, or perhaps simply had not returned to it in a very long time.
I wonder how long of hours and days pass before time makes us quitters because time makes us forget too.
I am trying all I can to create an illusion of happiness but here is the weather and here is my headache from every possible source that usually stirs them up. here is my headache full of woe, here is my stomach ready to empty itself on your feet. I feel like a vile source of evil and bad energy, here is the emotion of shiva the destroyer, the one who creates to destroy.

I'm in love with a boy who's eyes are sparkling knives slitting through my body, ripping my stomach to shreds, like a guitar king, like every boy I have ever loved.
the distance is increasing and I feel it increasing in my mind, but in my heart, whenever i think of every mole and freckle, every hickey i stained his body with, i feel an incredible sense of warmth, like i was being held the same way as a month ago.
the times he called me after the ladies I most admired he knew how to give me those subtle compliments that amount to more than just you are pretty, albeit i heard that one often.

i get wheacvy boots when:
- you dont always tell me you love me. actually you dont say it anymore at all unless I say it first.
- i realize i wotn be in the south of france this summer.

up and leaving me to this cold foggy city alone.
i feel constricted in my breathing patterns, in the tightness of my chest, i know i am loved, i feel so abandoned, and like i know I cant have you, which i cant and this makes everything so much harder.
i can't decide between two philosophies, well truly between choosing my own destiny and choosing what is meant to be and between the fact that everything has been written on a big scroll of papyrus in heaven and that I have no control over what I am doing. and who is to say that perhaps it is a mixture of both? perhaps i speak my choices and thus my destiny is formed.
all i know is that last september i met him and today i left him, for a world alone, for time to think and write. it's a different emotion than i have felt, because i feel so close, joined perhaps and at the same time, the distance is infinite, theres a time difference.
what hurt me the most is that we are not trying, yet we are, just maybe not fighting. i suppose i am a fighter as much as anything and i am not used to not getting my way. my stomach is a mixture of acidic fluid that tempts in waves that say "oh he loves you so much, he will do anything for you" when in all reality when they crash it ends it in sarcasm and laughter.
i feel nervous to face the next few days, to face the music i will hear and to face every place we have kissed, i still remember them all.

here i am slavng underneath the moon and thinking of romance, romantic songs, last kisses, last dances, last days ever straining.
i am moving back to my parents abode, to which i say hurrah for today. the bus rides are long dark and sweaty but my thoughts are plentiful a many.
i am dreaming about turkey, and colourful mornings,and the cultural rich sad state of russia that i want to see and expirience.

you are smacking your lips SO HARD and slurping like theres no tomorow. perhaps it is just stomach jealousy perhaps i wish i had a bucket of fruit as well. sometimes i feel like being the tattletale. but no one likes a snitch. the clouds are moving faster than any summer day in early july when they just dont want to budge, they are on summer vay-cay too. thats when the grass is sticky in paris and the metro crowded and yo cant even pull shirts over yr face because the sweat makes them stick to you.
right now i was i was there and now here and diping my fingers into my own sweaty armpits.

sometimes i feel like calling on the witching hour
to honorably expel all the worst attributes of myself, yes i always have your back
but how does it make me feel? i quit making excuses for you a long time ago, and i wish i never had to think about you in the present tense
this is something i have already explored, and like any good french scholar, i would prefer the passee compose rather than imparfait, some events are not meant to go on long and sound.
BUT YOU a delicious creature of all trimmings like christmas, like anything, but rather i hate on holidays with too many expectations. and here you deceive mine and make me realize i have undermined everything and i would give it all up, again and again, for a clear well, for a clear answer and an honest response.
and here is the witching hour and i wish for charms for magic and meddle. i am meddlesome like any old witch but i am young and i am just trying to prevent creases and stains in my white laundry.
ms tiggywinkle if you must or may, you can take chances and you can be crazy and that is how i chose to be. but at your word, i spin around, sometimes life is just a merry go round of choices of animals as exotic as the countries that they hail from.
and i keep picking different ones ut they keep being replaced, and i wish it would just stay still sometimes, for a bit.

sometimes i feel like i will rot in my jealousy and my provocations. like a child playing in dung, i rise, all stained, always, which is no surprise. what more could yo expect from somewhere who grovels and stoops so low as to be jealous of others, while she herself is the bearer of the most charms?
often i feel like jealousy is my most theatrical and consistent attribute, and what an attribute to have! not one at which others are jealous, but rather one that is wholly despised and connived. so is sit in my harmonious state gritting my teeth about events which havent even happened!

the bathroom is down the hall, a long daunting hall full of offices that are full of books and intelligent men and women who all cast their eyes on my as i shuffle down the hall because i need to pee so badly that my jeans are getting tightter by the minute.
sometimes everthing seems as daunting as this simple task, because at the back of your mind and on the tip of your mothers tongue, you know that it is as simple as not thinking about it and raising your butt cheeks from the seat and making your way down that long dark hallway. However, oftentimes among ourselves, we single ourselves out because we think too much. you know you are the person I speak about when you are. when you spent your 16th year trying to think of intelligent witty conversations to perform with boys who werent listening to the sounds your throat was making, or the way your tongue was forming, but rather your throat and tongue circling their penis. i certainly never knew a different kind no matter what they insisted. However long i spent imagining and lusting after their conversations i never felt ill prepared, embarassed or frightened around these boys. rather i made jokes and found it all easy after which i think i convinced my precocious young self that boys were just girl with larger pants and i stopped thinking about speaking with boys.
instead i focused on lying to my parents to get to those boys, i would think about wonderious excused and stories to get out the house mainly i focused on avoiding the word party around my father. my mother too because the two of them were a gang, a real team that snitched on each other like a gang member would. so i spoke of "get togethers" with pop when really we were rolling joints and drinking rum straight out of the bottle and sleeping on someones floor, anyones floor because nothing was worse than going back to your house late. I would more likely be allowed to sleep elsewhere than actually come back late, which never made sense to me. I suppose i shouldnt inform my parents today, perhaps it is the secret of teenagers everywhere that their parents dont actually think about what they are doing. some friends had "cool" parents who would drive us in their min-vans and let us drunkenly sleep at their house, serving us breakfast the next morning to cool the stale smell of hard liquor and pot that was reeking from our dirty mouths.
I comfort myself with the notion that my parents never really asked. they would ask where i was going and i would answer "so and so's house" consistently failing to explain that between my house and so and so's we were hitting up 3 parties, stealing booze and killing peoples joints of pot we certainly did not pay for. this should not give anyone the impression that i was popular during high school; i had a great group of friends indeed, who spent most of our time making fun of everyone that was not us, including the "popular" kids while we smiled at the lonely kids. never too wide however, because we didnt want anyone to get too attached.
this period passed as well and suddenly i wasn't thinking about mundane activities but telling anyone that would listen for long enough that i was going to university. university for PHILOSOPHY. that was a sore subject indeed because as soon as i actually started attending the school i spent more time trying to find friends who werent in university and had jobs lax enough to call in sick and have friday afternoon beers with. my parents stopped worrying about me coming in late because by 8 pm i was already past my drunken prime and feeling the effects of a hangover. that year i thought about making the most of the little of the very tiny paycheck i got ( most of it went towards my tuition, especially after i threatened to drop out and after which is was threatened and sentenced to pay my own tuition anyhow). that money was spent wisely on quarts of green apply vodka which eased my throat and my dance moves at local bars we snuck into, the art school dances or really anything that was going on which comprised of a drummer, guitarist and hopefully a synth player. I met my first real boyfriend that year, before that it was just slutting it up with boys who would bore me within a week.

i feel innumerable amounts of guilt when I dont do my work, I feel guilty when I dont study enough, I feel guilty all the time, with every word and sigh that escaped from my mouth. I wish I could concentrate but its too hard with everything that goes on around me, i wish I didnt have to chose minutes to work on things, but had indispensable hours.

i pick my gums hard to get out all the pieces in all the cracks of my formerly glossy veneer. this summer i will have to scrub extra hard to whiten but dont forget that my tan will make them seem brighter than ever.
i casually lay and think and love, but this is not casual, yet nor is it forever and that is a contradiction in itself, sometimes making me feel like a paradox, like a desert rose or something equally pre-judged and corny. it will be hard to forgive you and forget you and i have such a bad habit of nihilism that has always taken its place and that cheerful optimism certainly always loses the fight between them. I cant help the way i've alwways been, but you can and do, quietly making me feel better. however quietly it may be.
come quickly and leave quietly, but i know its not in your habit to, nor is it in mine. it is my habit to float into polluted oceans, staying with the current because with tentacles its hard to navigate.

there is snow and there is hail and together they make my hair take the apperance of a drowned rat
i wonder what its going to be like to live in france
again
curiosity killed the cat and i guess it takes more than one mistake to learn your lesson

I've never wanted winter to never end. I've never had a desire to see everything frozen and cold and dead. this year i am alive and happy and full of a body warmth that glows.
i feel like the white witch of narnia and i feel like calling upon all possible powers to forget the end of winter but have it continue forever. i just want to keep you forever beside me and not have you run off into the world to live your life. i just want to be selfish and pout and cry until you say you'll come back for me next year and take me away. and that wou'll come back this summer and that you'll come visit me next year, thats all i want. its not a lot. i just want you to love me like theres no point in existing without me, even though there is. i have to let you know, and its so painful to know
and to believe that for once, i am doing the right thing, and its you.

there is a stillness to chance, there is a stillness in me when i think about whats coming in a few months.
ive had a lover, a real lover, something i always wanted. now i want more, i want that lover to love me, so much that i will see him in 2 years and it was all fall into place, ad. hoc.
maybe I am just tired and settling for less than the sky can offer me, but i am humble, and happier than i've ever been, to be with someone. i wait for phone call at night and i am reached by tin can telephones that stretch far.
I wish i could just have you forever and the night following that, because i feel ok, and i am not scared, i am patient and kind.and i feel like there is purple horses galloping around my mind.
my creativity is shot, but i think i would give it up today. sometimes i just want to open my eyes wide and have you understand the beats of colour that you see mingling.
i want to run around the world, i want to LISTEN LISTENING IS NICE. for once i dont feel its necessary to babble incessantly about things that have no concern to you, i just like to listen quietly. i like to fall asleep, i like to feel you behind me. i feel like its okay to get sappy, to feel happy and full of sap, like a maple tree sprouting sugar in early spring, late winter.

lovers heartbreak

some nights things sink in
- i am officially going to go live in france for a year. well 10 months, but its good and plenty and maybe i'll finally get the french thing out of my system and think about something else. that or i'll get married there.
- me and drew are completly different people. sometimes i think that this is for the best and other nights i wander home alone because he wants to hang out with people. boring people. people who cant further my career. i think. new blood is nice but honestly, i dont have the time to pretend to be friends with people seeing as i dont have the time to like my actual friends.

on cold nights i find myself without tissues and just blow my nose into my sleeve
everything is feeling sharp and the cold weather is like stepping on pine needles, well not at all because my nose clogs up and I cant remember the delicious smell
when i was 3 and lived in Kirbger austria, i climbed a tall pine tree one day and couldnt get back down because i was scared. i am still sitting on the top of the strong branches glancing down and pitying my ankles that will forever break my fall.
I dont have time, and i suppose i strongly resent those who have enough time to indulge in thoughts of themselves because selfless poets and writers are bad poets and writers.

queen clovis
buried in a tomb in paris
laying on a marble slab
in st denis
she doesnt move still as can be

Today I got spicy sushi on delivery from someone who is so dependable yet I can see disapearing from my life quickly and quietly.
sometimes though only, sometimes I feel like he will be the one leaving a trail across continents.
darling, please dont use breadcrumbs because they will be eaten by the birds,
dont leave diamonds because someone else may snatch them up quickly.
rather use piles of leaves from every season., because they are always easily replaced.

this is a week of mild weather, I am hopeful of spirits being boosted because spring and then summer are around the corner. January is a dead month, and I feel liker perhaps since Ive always had a negative attitude about it, it will be a month filled with negativity.
he fills me with promises and manages to keep them all. I chant " I am not worthy" and walk with my head down, and I am consistently surprised at his demeanor in regards to mine. he is like a bloodhound, he is a sport dog, always there, while I am just a flighty bird. Oftentimes I play dead and allow him to take my gently in his mouth, as to not crush my bones, and I'll rest in one spot, but only for a minute before I fly away. I am cunning and he takes it as my wit, I am dark and he makes me smile so that you can see the blood stains of the last person i sucked out.
I am wrapped in my mist, or I try to be. REally its just a pathetically rented smoke machine but I ned it for undercover protection. I often feel like people are following me. I carry around many mental disorders and their definitions loom behind me, as do the shadows of sylvia plath and virgina woolf. I am tired of holding up, and really nothing bad is happening,
I am making an approximation, I should really begin to write fiction. It seems to better withstand my interest than my charming life that so many people say is more interesting than theirs. They are wrong, I start with a blank slate and I end with a blank page.

oftentimes I hear voices talking to me, ghosts of the past and they say
"now why must you be so strange?"
"why must you be so insistent?"
I have strange habits of walking and counting, stepping and dancing to tuns that are not playing in my ear.
and I pronounce bagel baaaghel and not beigel and pasta paasta and not peysta. I feel like I am surrounded by idiots, i feel surrounded by people who i have no interest in whatsover.
i wonder about underground metros because i love a good metro and i miss the orange tiles, the strange lean on seats, the strangeness that is paris and that I am such a willing participant in.

well, hello 2008, new year
last year new years was pretty wonderful and i dont know if it will ever compare again to that, exhilarating feeling
a bottle of champagne later and i feel dizzy with everything and not just because of the hangover.