Dreams and Postmodernism

It is 5 am. I can't sleep. I am as wide awake as the Pacific Ocean.

I had a dream that I lived in an ecclectic house filled with large over-sized house plants. Something was being stolen. A crime was being committed. I was never sure if I was the thief or the victim. Maybe both?
Ah the enigmatic world of dreams....

Time for the postmodern activity of blogging about blogging: My blog at first was an outlet for my creative non-fiction-esque (it is odd to have two hyphens in a word) writing. Now it serves as a journal of sorts. I was never able to journal before. Why would I write for my own reading pleasure? What is the purpose of writing without an audience? I think blogging functions on the perfect journal because there IS an audience but they are anonymous. This was an effort to justify this middle of the night post.

I think my title for this post is better than the actually post itself.
DAMN!

Of Pride and Prejudice

Pride and Prejudice is a love story.

Love only happens at the end of Pride and Prejudice.

Pride: 1) a deep pleasure or satisfaction gained from ones achievements, qualities possesions 2) an excessively high opinion of oneself.

Prejudice: 1) an opinion about someone or something that is not based on reason or experience

Love Only Happens When Pride and Prejudice Is Finished.

Drunk Post #2

I am smoking a cigarette.

On a night like this, it is appropriate.

(OH! Pride and Prejudice... I think it is a lost cause...)

I've obtained a number and an email address. I think this night has been a success.

He had curly hair, looked Mediterranean, was at least 5'11'' and was definitely cute.

I HEART my Toronto Life.
(Why don't blogs have those cheesy emoticons - I think I have answered my own question)

Geoff and John (my dearest lovers who are lovers) are time more than well spent.

I need a glass of wine. (I feel like Lisa Batson - She is fabulous)

God Bless The Last Supper: I have my glass of wine!

Mr. Alex Gates (the American): Call ME!

I don't know how much longer I can wait!

Pride is a lost cause. Prejudice is just a part of life (or at least when you've obtained the digits of somone who is a virtual (actual?) stranger.)

Someone is home!
The party continues!

Photo Exhibition #1: The Threat, The Jazzie, and The Hottie

The Biggest Loser is the Biggest Winner

I don't usually watch T.V. Especially with the new (O.K.! So it's not that new) reality T.V. fad that has emerged over the last couple years. Most of theses shows, following the lead from the hit "Survivor", show human beings manipulating, degrading, and insulting each other (and often themselves) for some superficial prize. They expose their deepest and darkest selves for our viewing pleasure. Not only do I think this immoral and a representation of exactly what is wrong in North American culture, but often I think it makes transparent thoughtless entertainment.
Tonight I watched the end of THE BIGGEST LOSER. A show that pits two families against each other in a race to loose the most weight.
THE BIGGEST LOSER IS THE BIGGEST WINNER!
In this reality T.V. program, the goal is a positive one that shares a positive message with it's viewing audience: Losing weight and living a healthy lifestyle will make you feel better about being you. Yes there is a $50,000 prize, but as many of the contestant repeatedly tell us, it is not about the money, but about an experience that will change their lives (lifestyles) for the better. Through the course of the show, they learn how to exercise and eat well, learn how to support their family members, and learn the benefits of a healthy lifestyle. Through the construction and editting of the show (which is an inevitable flaw of reality television), we are not left with shells of manipulative and malicious contestants, but are shown a family that, through the pressure and hard work of losing weight, grow into healthier better lives.
Thus far, this seems to be the only redeeming reality television program I have seen.

Wednesday Night?

It is not an uncommon occurence, but it still deserves some merit.

My apartment has accumulated over the past hour, twenty young men and women interested in boozin' it up. A random spontaneous party is taking place beneath my feet right now. I Heart My Apartment!

(I just wish I wasn't so sick I could enjoy it)

Being Sick...

Being sick is only good if:
1) You can skip work because you get sick pay
2) You have someone who you don't mind having around when you look your worst to come and treat you like the ill little princess you are!
3) You are in highschool and you want to watch the soaps!
4) You are Ferris Bueller (and you're actually faking it)
5) You have something more interesting to write in your Blog about.

I don't have much to write about, I am not Ferris Bueller (or faking it), I am not in highschool, I am not comfortable enough with any of my intimate friends for them to see me like this, and I don't get sick pay.

Being sick sucks!

17 Words For Love, But It's All Greek to Me

"I don't think anyone HAS to say anything. And what does it mean anyways? I say it to my mom. I say it to my cat. How can it mean the same thing when I say it to you? The Greeks have it right, they have seventeen different words for love." he tells his girlfriend after she demanded that he reciprocate her emotional articulations.

------------------------------------------------------

Why is it that those three words seem to mean so much?

Are the acts of love more meaningful than the words of love?

Why do we need "I Love You" when we know it to be true when our lover gives us the last piece of the Chocolate Bar, or offers a massage when we are sore, or sends a postcard, or goes down on us without asking for reciprocation?

Do not actions speak louder than words?
(Or is "I Love You" the anomaly?)

Maybe the Greeks have it right?

What are those seventeen words anyway?

(It sure beats the Inuit. They have something like 70 words for snow!)

Correcting My Stream of Conciousness ?

Should one re-read their blog posts?
Discuss.

Moving on... (I Wish!)

After re-reading my last post, I feel I should clarify. I don't just irk my ex in order to get a reaction out of him. My intention is to only communicate my honest thoughts and feelings. I am aware though, that by doing so, I irk him. (I like the word irk - what a great combo of three letters!) I do not maliciously aim to annoy or frustrate or irk (There it is again!)

Moving on... (I WISH!)

Can one correct their stream of conciousness? It would be intuitive to say "no". One's concious thought in the moment exists in that moment and it is pure and untainted. I think one can aim to correct the linguistic expression of that thought though. But then again, there is more to a thought then just that thought. After analysis we often are able to understand our thoughts more clearly. But then again, that wouldn't exactly fit under the exercise of "stream of conciousness". But then again, can a thought exist outside of the realm of language. Would it then be relegated to the position of "emotion"? But then again, I think this discussion has gone on too long.

Stream of Conciousness

I am procrastinating.
(Why does boredom always accompany procrastination?)

Maybe I should sleep. It is One AM!

I'm not tired.

Pride and Prejudice is feeling abandoned laying on my bed.
"You will be read in due time. You MUST be read. Just please not now!"
Oh, this emotional conflict energizes me. I figure that's bad news. I continue to feel betrayed and dismissed by my ex. I express my frustration to him most everytime we communicate. By continually bringing up this contentious point, I am able to provoke some reaction out of him. He still wants to talk to me, despite how I irk him consistently, so he must still care. Maybe if he would just shower me with his love through emails, phone calls, postcards, and sweet nothings, I would feel the need to provoke these less than positive reactions out of him. He claims he loves me, but a lover does not leave his loved one. Does he?

NOW I REMEMBER WHY I WATCHED ALL THOSE OLD MOVIES LAST WEEK!
(If only Queen Video was still open...)

There are things to be done. Homework. Cleaning. Homework.
I need to edit my play. I think I fear it. I think it has the potential to be a really great piece of theatre, but I fear I do not have the capacity as a writer to reach this potential. I should try, and if I fail, just not tell anyone. That isn't my style though. I'm not that guy (I love saying that). I make art to communicate. I make art to share. I make art to bring me closer to this world. FUCK! I need to edit that play.

I like to make lists. It helps me feel good about getting things done.
Oh! The Satisfaction of Crossing Out an Item on My TO DO LIST.
OH! THE SATISFACTION OF A COMPLETELY CROSSED OUT TO DO LIST! I have made my list of things to do (complete with a schedule in which I have give time to do these things) already. That is usually my prime source of procrastination. NOW WHAT?

Love is born of idleness.

My love is in Korea.

WHY WON'T MY LOVE DIE?

I would murder nothing but my love. Then make the time to be idle in order that my love would be born anew from a different divine conception of a man.
I indulge him too much.
Pride and Prejudice is more important. At least Pride and Prejudice is here with me lying in my bed.
I would rather not spend my time with you at this moment, but something is better than nothing. And the sooner I finish you, the sooner I cross you off my TO DO List!

A Beautiful Invasion

It is ten a.m Saturday morning. The apartment is serene and the hall is filled with sunlight from the skylight in the ceiling. I quietly open my room mates door to throw some laundry into her room. I suspect she is sleeping so I am careful not to disturb her. I open the door and look down upon her futon.
There is a boy in her bed.
His shaggy brown hair has fallen into his face. He is unshaved and rugged, despite his small olive-skinned frame. I can tell immediately he is Italian or Mediterranean. He opens his eyes slowly to look to see who has entered. He takes me in for a moment (Oh, I wish he would take me in!) before closing his eyes to return to sleep. He is beautiful.
I close her door. Stunned.
Who is this boy? Why is he here? Did they have sex?
Hours later, Monica is awake. To my relief she tells me they didn't have sex. Francesco (that's his very Italian name) is "like her little brother". He's gay. The good news makes me smile.
He is here again today. He slept over last night. For two days in a row, I have stood above Monica's bed as he lay there, in nothing but a pair of plaid pajama pants. His patch of curly hair on his chest is beyond sexy. I pretend to make conversation with my room mate, trying to sound fun and attractive, but I am preoccupied with the stranger in lying there in bed. (Why isn't this stranger is my bed?)
He has invaded where I live.
He is unattached. He has no loyalties to any lover. He is up for grabs. My apartment is often occupied by strange men, but these men are either straight or usually claimed by one of my room mates.
Francesco is an invading army of desire. (Invade me!)
There is no escape. There is no refuge.
I aim to attract his attention. To subtley make my intentions known without being too offensive. I preen. I pose. I want him to want me. I can not hide. I must seduce at every moment. My own home has been take over by perpetual desire.
I invite him in, but will he come in close enough?
As I write this, he is downstairs watching television.
I am always willing to accomodate the armies of desire.
Conquer me!

Buddies Is Good Times

"Since You've Been Gone" or "Hollaback Girl" or anything by Madonna or Britney is heard. The crowd screams. Their arms are thrown in the air and, if the music wasn't so loud, you would be able to hear all the voices in a drunken unison singing all the words as loud as they can. In this case, at this moment, the DJ is blasting "Since You've Been Gone", a Kelly Clarkson classic. Andrew and I hold our palms parallel to the floor and monitor the bouncing crowd, moving our hands up and down when the mob jumps. It seems, in this drunken Dionysian euphoric state, the world is dancing and singing in unison.
This is the Buddies in Bad Times Experience.
Andrew and I, in a mockingly sarcastic tone, make up dances, reminiscent of a pop culture sign language, to the shallow and vapid lyrics of the top forty tunes. It is ridiculous and makes us laugh. The music is basic, and so are our dance moves. Anything extrenuous is irrelevant.
This is the Buddies in Bad Times Experience.
Anthony Collins is making conversation with me. I think he may be hitting on me. It is cordial, clever, and entertaining. I am flattered. I can not sleep with him because he had dated, broken up with, and is currently not talking to the American I am having intimate relations with. It is ultimately harmless. He will not be upset when I go home without him. Even the drama is worthwhile and frivolous.
This is the Buddies in Bad Times Experience.
The Top Five Moments of the Night: (decided between Andrew and I)
1) The man's breath who smelt like a racoon who had died upon a pile of hot hot hot garbage comprised of rotten milk from a dead woman's breast.
2) "Your hair is like Michael Hutchens from INXS. And Richard Simmons." (This tranlates to "You are so hot. AND not hot!")
3) We performed "Since You've Been Gone" as if a dramatic monologue. As we spoke the lyrics we mimed dowsing our exes apartment in gasoline before lighting it afire. The music highlighted the gasoline being poured from a can, the wee little explosions that occurred after we dropped the lighter, and the exit from the burning apartment building.
4) I can't remember what #4 is.
5) "What's with this good music?" As we check our coats, I am annoyed that they are playing good music while I do not have the opportunity to dance. The coat check women interprets it as if I am surprised they are playing good music at all.
This is the Buddies in Bad Times experience.
Frivolous. Long Lines. Guest Lists. Vapid. Peter Knegt. Witty. Physical. Hot. Ridiculous. Pop Culture. Andrew Kushnir. Good Times.
This is the Buddies in Bad Times experience.

The Boat

The Boat is a "venue". Even it's purpose is random.
I went to The Boat last night. It was a dark, dank, ambiguous feast for the senses.
I would assume it is named "The Boat" because of it's decor. It is fashioned as if you are were in the belly of an old sailing barge, complete with porthole mirrors on the wall. If I were to prescribe some sort of categorical label to the furnishings, I would call it 1970's Cheap Novelty Chic.
It smelled. Not one consistent smell of scent, but as you wandered the large low ceilinged space, there would be a wiff of body odour here mixed with a wiff of bad breath there and a wiff of a mixture of far too many B-rated colognes and perfumes.
Much like the combination of human and laboratory scents, the music was an odd combination of beats as well. Violent and rhthymical, yet often melodic. They music sounded as if it were the soundtrack for a ballet about putting a cat in a bath. Erratic and frantic, but, being music from a ballet, somehow easy to dance to and enjoyable.
My friends and I determined that The Boat was the mothership for the Toronto Arty Stylish Indie Young Crown, which is inevitably sexually ambiguous. (There was an even distribution of those couples making between straight and gay)
Point in case: The Man in the Yellow Sweater. He,at first, would dance very close to my girl friend. Then, he would dance close behind me. We were clearly in each other's personal space (which admittedly is much smaller on a dance floor, but even dimunitive in size, personal space does still exist at such a club, and we were clearly in each other's space). Most straight men oppose an obvious homosexual (or often any man at all) in their personal space, but The Man in the Yellow Sweater, was either oblivious to it, ambivalent to it, or just plain too high to care. Despite my efforts to make eyes at him and attract his attention, he was unresponsive. Gay? Straight? Bi? Who knows? This is the enigma of the Toronto Arty Stylish Indie Young Crowd.
The Boat was an adventure. Random. Unusual. But ultimately enjoyable.
If you haven't yet, it is time for a cruise!

I Suffer From Vertigo

I am a cinefile. I have become addicted to watching old movies. Spartacus, Psycho, Dr. Strangelove, 2001: A Space Oddysey, A Streetcar Named Desire, Cleopatra, and this evening, Vertigo.
Much like the hero of the the Alfred Hitchcock classic centered around the most common phobia, I desire to be both audience to and creator of fiction. Scotty (I feel I know him enough to refer to him by his nick name), both indulges in the fantastical schizo-psychology of the ARTificial Madeline. The outrageous and unbelievable qualities of her madness seem to attract Scotty. I am attracted to the dramatic and theatrical (or in this case cinematic) as much as Scotty is.
Scotty and I both share the inclination to (re)create these fictions in our own lives. I do so on the stage; either through direction, choreography, or writing. Scotty attempts to blend his reality with his fiction to such a point he is unable to differentiate, but by attempting this impossible feat, he realized the truth in the fiction and the lie of his reality.
This is the power of art.
We watch, read, and listen in order to escape our own life. And by experiencing a fiction we understand ourselves and our world more than we ever could by examining realtity.
I suffer from Vertigo, but let me look down upon the world. I will eventually focus and see everything for what it really is.

Drunk Post #1

Let me in.
Don't Shut Down.
At least not with me!

P.S. A D+ on an exam. The World is Not Right!