31 January 2005


i was reminded today by a very wise man of my own personal love mantra of sometime back:
i want to share a world with someone, not a sofa.
yes, i concurred, that's True. and it's changed my life.
now i have a Great Big Empty Sofa to lounge on, All to Myself.

baby jesus.

Originally uploaded by steflenk.

late-night somewhat drunken melancholia.

the problem is Not falling in love with someone. that part is Very very easy.
the problem is How to fall out of love.
if that is indeed even possible.

30 January 2005

a momentary evaluation.

well, i first started this blog to turn my grievous surplus of email indulgence into a daily writing discipline, which will grant me membership (in some capacity or another) to the literary stream of modern-day writers.
(or, conversely, to the cyber-geek basement mixture of Untold Geniuses, closet sickos and downright wienies)
so anything i find pithy or even remotely eloquent now finds itself pasted into some multitude of trivial blog entries while the rest of the world (ah yes, always the rest of the world) produces produces Produces. so is This actually productive?
a moment to step back and evaluate...i have to say it's ten shades of Fun. Fun Fun Fun. where else can i write a short ditty about stylish poo and feel no remorse? my email time of late has been downsized by two thirds or more, my tendency to actually Edit (extraneous wordiness is my nemesis) is flourishing. (relatively speaking, of course). i'm on the eighth edit of a one page story, which i Tenaciously refuse to abandon, now that i have a clear recognition of the very moment when the self-doubt sets in. this "one page wonder,nary the epic" philosophy makes me feel dismally insufficient on some days, on others like i'm one step closer to the entire universe.

this is SO COOL.

i have little moments of nostalgia for the time before 2002, when i wrote ALWAYS AND CONSTANTLY. and nigglings of the return to that mind-set.

einstein said this: "There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."

EVERYTHING is a miracle.


my GODS. i think i have just heard the strains of the "coronation street" theme song coming up through my floor. This from my downstairs neighbours, whom i can (CLEARLY) hear snoring at night, as well as farting,cursing, playing video games and watching jeopardy.
coronation street!
there may not be a god, but there is at least one anglophile living in hell.

stylish poo.

(chuckle) we were introduced on friday to a book called "a year in the merde" about some poor tosser in paris, and i had a dream last night that one of my classmates was forced to redesign it and chose to put a small piece of poo on the front cover, standing proudly and wearing a small beret and a rainbow stripey scarf.

love of fashion can be truly horrifying.

the path to armageddon is peppered with bad design.

cris, design teacher extraordinaire brought up an interesting point during our computer lab the other day that Blew my Mind.
speaking of the gore/bush election ballot in florida, and an unexpected and inordinate number of votes which came in for reform party candidate pat buchanan, cris pointed out that buchanan's ballot square was directly above gore's, and the lines separating the candidates did not in fact extend between the two voting circles, making it such that it would be VERY Very easy to mistake the two.
googling it for a close up look of the ballot in dispute unearthed this small caption:

Why Usability Testing Matters: Palm Beach County Ballot Design Raises Questions about Election 2000
08 Nov 2000; Dennis G. Jerz

Image of the Palm Beach County election ballot (first published in the Orlando Sun-Sentinel)

The result of the 2000 U.S. Presidential race was so close that some Democratic Party officials argue that one Florida county's hard-to-use ballot may have unfairly decided the presidency.

Critics argue that some voters in Palm Beach County, Fla. might have accidentally voted for Reform Party candidate Pat Buchanan, when they thought they were voting for Al Gore. The Democrats are listed second in the left column; but punching a hole in the second circle actually cast a vote for Buchanan.

The significant factor, the crucial one, is that MOST PEOPLE DO NOT PAY ENOUGH ATTENTION TO DETAIL.

26 January 2005

jeunet's latest, some living authors at last, and a dried up writing utensil.

saw "a very long engagement" last night and i must encourage all jeunet fans to make the effort to see this, his latest film.
the first ten minutes are DARK. unfathomably so. even i was questioning whether i could sit through them. and then the film and its characters began unravelling in "amelie"-esque colour and i found myself enjoying it greatly. was Very appreciative of the fact that mister jeunet has begun to temper this uber-idyllic picture postcard style with some genuine Grim-mery (sic), which actually Heightens the beauty of his magical narratives. YAY, monsieur jeunet. merci!

also am well into my first ever issue of "brick", a literary journal stemming from this modest city. Really really good. a melange of epistles, philosophies, bits of fiction, thoughts and other written sundries, from really Good writers. all in all it's been a humbling time of late, now that i've emerged from my library of dead white men to actually enjoy the living authors.

sigh. my story of a few days progresses slowly; i've done one edit, and am fighting off the "gods i'm weird" sentiment that accompanies so much of my work these days.
christ. writing feels so much like a shotgun wedding, 'xcept somehow i worry i've ended up with a sterile partner for a pen.
ah well, only Time and Tenacity will tell.


today's self-perpetuated anxieties were momentarily displaced by a short and glorious missive from the long lost sean dwyer, who is alive and well and living in australia.

which should surprise absolutely no one aware of the fact that australia is the land from whence he hailed in the first place.

sigh. yes, ladies and gents, sean dwyer.
allow me if you (all) will to wax nostalgic for just a moment.

ah mister dwyer, with whom i spent many an afternoon perambulating kensington gardens in london, england, in years gone by, discussing philosophy, books, and very probably beer.

mister dwyer, with whom i commiserated on the joys and consequences of working at a chocolate shop in covent garden, whilst dreaming of pursuits more apropos to our mutually literate natures.

mister dwyer, who, after one of our forrays into the matter, felt (and i Heartily agreed) that the act of taking LSD should be a controlled experiment, with variegated phenomena (such as jelly donuts) close at hand, in order to better understand the effect this strange substance has on the average (or somewhat taller than such, in his case) human form.

mister dwyer, who was once given strange religious amulets (by his parents? i Can't remember) to arm himself against preternatural spirits rocking the couch he was sleeping on at a friend's possessed dwelling.

mister dwyer, gentle readers, who proved a constant and compassionate bastion to my irrepressible 22 year old self-concocted dramas, which even then were incendiary, unexpected, and very likely proof positive of psychotic tendencies.

mister dwyer, whom i met up with in canberra years after our initial comradeship to discuss life's progression, the lack of charisma in australian government employees, the strange nature of pre-fab urban sprawl, and, well, beer.

you are for me the last remaining voice of an era, at this moment, do you realize that sean? YAY TO YOU, SIRE! why aren't you the pope or the president yet? or ARE you the pope, or, gods love us, the president? i can't tell from beneath my solitary rock of bibliophilic preoccupations.

sean dwyer marks the third (or fourth, not quite sure) of my confirmed blog readers, which means i'm well on my way to fame, fortune, and world domination. YYYAHAHHOOOOOOOOO!

what a Wonderful thing to read from you, sean. do come to one of my art shows or whatever some day, i'll save you a glass of red to toast time, timelessness, and beer.

enough nostalgia. Gods that was fun. we now return to our regularly scheduled blog. cheerio.

25 January 2005

martin sloane.

and can i just say that i went to bed the night before last leaving the last 15 pages of this Glorious book unread, so i wouldn't have to wake up having already finished it. in a mere day and a half. i have Not Consumed a book this fast and this voraciously in an AGE. a Feast, is what it was. an Utter and Complete Feast.

a greasy and humbling confrontation with the wonderful world of Business.

spent this morning's marketing class in a mire of nausea listening to a sales rep from maxim magazine talking his trade. he began with an admission that he had only agreed to this little lecture when he found out the class was 90% female. he told us he reads cosmo, and therefore "sympathizes with us girls and our dating habits". other transgressions against good taste and breeding involved shameless waffling about the insignificant politics of having a us. military ad on the back cover of their canadian issues, and a marked avoidance of any discussion of the Walrus, one of his company's other (and Much Preferred, if i may be so bold) clients. christ. here's this guy making over ("remember that, girls, OVER" he says) $62K/year, and he Isn't Worth A Bloody Thing.

my Amazing Amazing classmates made him Squirm in his greasy looking suit though, until he was more afraid of us and our merciless questions than we could Ever be of him. maya, on whom he very probably had his lascivious eye, puts up her hand and makes an apt observation about the psychographic of maxim readers, with their love of sports, toys, and Objectifying women. non-accusatory, Completely off-the-cuff tone of voice. there was a silence, a nervous chuckle, and a "woah, i guess i'm a psychographic!" from mister maxim himself. he kindda went downhill from there on the confidence front.

talking to people about it afterwards, it's so Cool to me that our class is this microcosm of observant and erudite people, diverse as we may be in our interests, and that was a pretty exciting moment when i realize we're gonna all be publishing in some form or another.

24 January 2005

discourse on Love and a Bicycle.

i've figured it out. Love, that is.
tomorrow it will be the meaning of the universe, but for today, this will suffice.
after two days of Hideous slushy and unbikeable roads, and kilometres trekked on foot from home to school to work to home etc etc, i've hereby determined that Love is a Bicycle.
pray, dear reader(s), let me explain.
the loyalty between us is Unbreakable. i can imagine NO other alternative in getting from one place to the next than on my Bicycle.
that is, i Can imagine alternatives (my head suddenly fills with grim odious pictures of the ttc during rush hour), but these alternatives Always come up Wanting. even the occasional infidelity with public transit leaves me unwilling to shed the emotional fetters tying me to my two-wheeled wonder.
bike riding never stops being new and potentially dangerous and negotiable and adrenaline-inducing and solitary whilst being coupled (so to speak). i'm always going somewhere and it's always going with me (except for when its going into a pothole and i'm going flying into the middle of sherbourne street) and yet even then we are never far from each other. my bicycle is a fellow machine in need of support, security (albeit triple locked security), occasional repairs, and, of course, Frequent Rides. har har.

22 January 2005


write everyday, write (sic) ?
that was the point anyhow.
finished reading "the fuck-up" by arthur nersesian the other day. "catcher in the rye" meets "on the road" meets a very lucky slacker wandering the east village in nyc. gold star to nersesian, who knows how to weave fortuity into entrancing scenarios.
moved on to "martin sloane". within moments joseph cornell's art comes SHINING through the storyline, like running into an old Best friend thought long dead. YAY YAY YYAAYYYY! glorious, Glorious, mister cornell. YAY!
the whole novel is Fantastic. i'm a third of the way through in but a few short hours. GLORY BE THE AUTHOR OF LITERARY FICTION THAT KNOWS HOW TO WRITE DIALOGUE. HONEST DIALOGUE.
HOW UUUTTTERLY CRUCIAL. seems so many authors engage in the passive act of description, like we really need to hear it all. characters exist alongside each other, but never relating to each other. in "...sloane" you can tell is a person who has written for the stage.
unwittingly end up at a staged reading of one of redhill's plays on wednesday. that is, Quite Wittingly end up there, but for the purpose of seeing volcanoe's latest undertaking, oblivious beforehand to michael redhill's involvement.
good. Confusing. well staged, Talented crew, great story. but VEERRYYY convoluted. tired out my tiny brain.

what else?
trying to sift through old school notes that are no doubt moot and excess...find a few interesting thoughts in an article entitled (wait for it) "9 secrets to blow-their-socks-off service writing".
CHRIST. am i really doing the right thing in this program?
who knows.
"if you don't like your reader, it will come through in your copy. if you don't like 'em, don't write for 'em. condescension isn't pretty."
and how much of my time today, (and the last couple of days in fact) have i devoted to potential logos and grid plans for this magazine for a community our group has determined to be "yoga yuppies"...
here's another little tidbit, pretty self-evident, but worth recapping: "fall in love with your readers...what motivates the readers...you're pitching to? what are their problems? what are their secret desires? what are the things they wish they had, or wish they could do, or fear they'll never be able to do again? what keeps them up at night? what do they daydream about?

wrote my first one page story (in Forever) two days ago. that's right. beginnning, middle, end. all in one page. SHORT. i can barely believe it. it may show up here, if i can get up the gumption, i'm kindda afraid to look at it again.
next objective: ILLUSTRATE IT.
next objective after that: KEEP FUCKING DOING IT. NOTHING OVER A PAGE.


21 January 2005


my mum has pneumonia. i only lost a few years off my life in anxiety before realizing that it's only my brain that still lives in the 20's, the medical industry has taken substantial leaps forward and it's not as big a deal as i think.

18 January 2005

post-traumatic bike disorder.

it's two days later and i still can't believe my own stolen bike experience.
i have to say,
dear reader(s), my account of it sounds Much more heroic than it
was....i was completely uneloquent, to be frank: holding the guy's arm
with one hand and my bike handlebars with another, and just repeating
"this is my bicycle GET OFF my bicycle" over and over again. i think
the only reason he didn't just kick me and ride off is we were both in
COMPLETE shock and he was a bit of a dishevelled ratbag, who obviously
just got lucky when he managed to break the lock in the first place.

but it happened. i have my bicycle still, when at 8pm sunday night it
was but a fond memory.

what a Weird thing. suddenly "stuff" (in this case, a red bike light)
takes on so much significance, 'coz it's the only proof i have that
anything at all happened. that and my missing fenders, but, they
could well have been removed and the bike left untouched.
material nostalgia is suddenly a very real thing to me.

if a tree fell in the forest and then disappeared, was there ever
really a tree?

i was up 'til 4 am sunday night shaking with disbelief.

of course now i'm touting around Both my u-locks which weigh more than
the bicycle itself. (grrr)

a single moment.

barker:"when you are ready, and when the world deems it time, cupid will skewer you once again"

me:"whatever. i've put on a kryptonite snow suit."

barker:"heh heh- well that might keep superman away in any case."

me:"if he's anything less than superman he does well to keep his distance.
anyhow, i always thought superman looked like a raging ponce in those silly tights."

17 January 2005

A TRUE STORY THAT WILL BLOW YOUR FUCKING MINDS. (for any and all that have had their bicycles stolen)

it started, as many great stories do, at the bookstore.
i had been in there for 2 1/2 hours.
surprising? no.
excessive. Of course.
i had finally decided to spend my christmas gift certificate, walked out with books in my bag, spring in my step, glee in my future, and.... MY BICYCLE WAS GONE.
i stood in front of the empty bike rack for at least 4 minutes in (yes, i know more than a few of you have been there) UTTER DESPAIR.

i was off to meet jp for hot chocolate, and there was nothing to be done. i walked along richmond, up some little street past spadina towards queen, called jamie to arrange getting my old gary fisher back which i had loaned him, Burst into Tears, and then kept walking.

queen and bathurst. i'm about 20 steps from the lights and someone rides by me.


i'm SO not kidding.
but i'm also, at this point, in shock, in tears, and not all that positive about anything.

i run up behind him...all i can think is be quiet and don't move fast. i reach his side, the light turns green, he puts his foot on the pedal, and i put my hand on his arm.
s: "excuse me..."
sob (that's Son Of a fucking Bitch to the uninitiated):"WHAT?" he says.
i grasp his arm firmer, swing around to the front of the bike, see the skull sticker.
s: "HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK YOU ARE ON MY BICYCLE." he starts biking, sort of, not really, but my hand is on his arm and i'm not letting go.
"You're on my bicycle GET OFF my bicycle"
sob: "what do ya mean, man, i just bought this bike off someone up the street for 40 bucks"
s: "i don't give a shit man, this is my bicycle and i'm not letting go of you, i'm going to call the cops, it's registered, i have the serial number, and IT'S MMMMYYY BICYCLE".
we're standing in the middle of bathurst street and the light has turned red again but he won't get off.
s: "we're gonna walk across this street so we don't get run over, and you're gonna get Off my bicycle or i'm gonna call the cops!"
we cross, he's still on it, we stand for another two minutes or so and finally he says "Fine, take the fucking bike, can i at least have my light back?"

s: "i don't care WHAT you do with your light and if you want your 40 bucks i can probably cough it up, AFTER you get off my bike."

so he's off, i'm holding my bike now, i'm holding his arm, and i say (truthfully) "i don't know if i even have 40 bucks" (i confess i was in such Utter shock that i was ready to fork it over...i mean, Really. MY bike or 40$? i know what my priorities are)
to which he looked at me for a minute and said "forget it, i'm gonna go get my money back from that guy" and runs off down the street.

(chuckle) "that guy" yeah Right. "that guy."

and as i bike off i realize that, tho' the s.o.b took the fenders off it in some lame attempt to make it inconspicuous, he left his rear flasher on before booking.

i would think, sitting here now, that i dreamt it all in my mind of constant chaos and delusion, but, i now have my bike (hovering quite snugly behind me) a new rear light, no more fenders, and a conspicuous absence of lock.

friends, citizens, bike lovers amongst you THIS REALLY HAPPENED.

for those of you who've lost a bike in this city, this is for you all.
just know that there is Some justice.

for those of you who had the privilege in days gone by of seeing (or filming :) ) "teef", in which i played a character enacting the very same trauma, here it is. (albeit without the tighty whities and the goggles.)
art IMITATES life? HAH.

a caveat to you all, the moral of my story even, before i bid you fond adieu: NEVER leave your bike at richmond and john for any length of time unless you have a small team of mafia bodyguards to watch it.

later, all.

15 January 2005

saturday traffic.

Originally uploaded by steflenk.
i'm doing a Really cool illustration for a magazine cover at the moment. it's wretchedly dark, screaming people and highways writhing in and out of an anatomic heart. yay.
what was i saying yesterday? something about happy citizens and roadways?

13 January 2005

a sad and insignificant interview.

had an interview to do some design(possibly illustration!?!?) work for one the indie theatres in toronto today. sigh.
it started off fine...the publicist was, as foretold, a Lovely jovial person. he liked my stuff, and i successfully curtailed the temptation to explain away all the sad innocuous covers of non-profit annual reports, all insignificant sneezes on the grand canvas of creation.
( "insignificant sneezes on the grand canvas of creation.")
in fact i felt confident enough, and pleased enough with all my work (yay!yay!yay!) that i offered to, NAY i was Asked if (!) i would show my art/illustration stuff. so i brought it out, with the old familiar caveats, you know, a bit on the dark side, just here for a sense of scope and skill, yadda yadda...
i had been warned that the general manager, also a very kind lady, is a bit on the conservative side. still i was unprepared for the terror i instilled into her very heart at the sight of my stuff, people unzipping themselves out of their skins and whatnot. Curses!
things sort of ground to a halt, although i think they were still impressed with my skill (shrug), i conducted myself with shameless aplomb, and walked out with my head high, before i sunk into the doldrums of melancholy and pessimism a few hours later.
i know i know, leave the personal work at home under the bed. this is True, and worthy, and yet i truly believe, selfish and ignorant that it might be, that the world is ready to have alot More personal and intimate work enter the public domain. i'm sick to death of all this innocuous and flaccid stuff i see in the visual material gracing our streets and public spaces. it's supposed to Effect people, to Sway them, but it's nothing more than watery gruel simmering on the visual stovetop of life.

11 January 2005

god's replacement.

google. as in, oh my google, oh, for google's sakes. okay so it sounds Ridiculous, but i'll tell ya what google has been more enlightening than god ever was, and it answers my pleas for help and enlightenment more than daily.

10 January 2005

aahhh, anxiety.

what better bedfellow to fetter myself with in this dreary month of january?

the national anxiety foundation states that one of the symptoms of a panic attack is when "familiar things feel odd"

like oneself?

then again, when was the last time i actually felt "familiar" to myself, even. oh mope.

although i must confess to the beginnings of familiarity with this shell of mine reacting when anxiety starts, in a real physical way. i'm usually running around so much that i can't feel any change, but now i can, kindda. it's like a caffeine rush, without the caffeine. weird wonderful bodies, even Weirder, not-so-wonderful but Definitely Powerful thought, that can treat us like a triple expresso on a most nominal whim.

but enough about my trivial worries.
i was looking for your everyday "calm down" mantra collection, but, courtesy of google i found this "national anxiety foundation" website, with its following categories as alleviation treatments for americans experiencing terrorism panic attacks.
i post this for your re-evaluation, dear readers. i mean, REALLY. sounds like a bloody "keep shopping" advert.

"listen to a Carl Hurley tape"?! who the Bloody Hell is carl hurley?
enlist in the armed forces"? "buy a PET"? Unbe-fucking-lievable.
oh, and Here's one:
"Allocate only a reasonable amount of time to each of your stresses" GOD OF COCKS WHAT'S A REASONABLE AMOUNT OF...(ahem) i mean, What is a reasonable amount of time to allocate for each of my stresses?

read it all below, folks, Unbelievable.

oh, and i would also like to point out the primary recipients under the "give to charity" section, namely "church", followed by (drum roll) "national anxiety foundation". how clever they are.

* Fly airlines again
* Travel on business and for pleasure
* Invest in securities
* Enlist in the armed forces
* Fly or display an American flag
* Register to vote (and vote)
* Run for public office
* Read a novel
* Engage in a hobby
* Paint the house
* Buy a pet
* Get back to your everyday routines.
"Hope for the best. Be prepared for the worst"
* Have 3 gallons of drinking water per person stored.
* Have food that does not require refrigeration or cooking.
* Have a flashlight and batteries, matches and candles.
* Have some currency cash on hand.
* Have a weeks supply of regularly taken medications.
Decrease stimulus
* Turn off excessive TV news
* Change the topic in conversation from catastrophe, doom and worry
* Exercise
* Go to bed early
* Take a hike in the woods with your family or friends
* Do something that you enjoy like going for a drive, or playing with your dog.
* Put your feelings into words
* Talk to a friend about your fears. Listen to their fears.
* Write a journal to express your thoughts and feelings
* Allocate only a reasonable amount of time to each of your stresses
* Go to church
* Donate to Charity (church, National Anxiety Foundation, Red Cross, Salvation Army)
* Prayer
* Listen to a Carl Hurley tape
* Watch a comedian monologue about terrorism
* Read political cartoons
Reason and Logic
* Stop expecting the worst
* Think of how very unlikely harm is to come to you or your loved ones
For Children:
* Tell them that they really are safe.
* Keep to your usual routines.
* Keep them from seeing too many frightening pictures of the events.
* Teach them repeatedly not to play with white powder as a joke or prank. It is not funny. It is illegal. It is disrespectful to their country and their fellow man.
* Teach them to respect all people including Muslims and those appear to be "Persian".

09 January 2005


today prepared my humble donation to the propeller arts fundraiser for the tsunami asian relief effort. a drawing actually completed in january of 2003, much to a few peoples' unexpected surprise.

08 January 2005

interior design sonambulism.

i was, no doubt, feeling nostalgic for company last night.
above my bed, amongst countless other postcards and whatnots, hangs a framed drawing of my ex-boyfriend's hand and a picture of richey manic with "for real" carved into his bleeding arm from some nme article some years ago.
well, either somebody broke in and took them down from the wall above my head, or i did so in my sleep, because i awoke this morning to see both pictures, face up, by my pillow on the empty side of my bed.
no recollection Whatsoever.
strange strange.

post opening blues.

 christ. i am so assailed by self deprecation and anxiety it's a wonder i actually manage to get out of bed some mornings.
my art show went well, flawlessly even, and yet still i feel like a freakjob imposing my defective tastes on an unsympathetic populace that just indulges me with the occasional nod and grin. How, with such Fantastic artwork such as mine :) , do i sustain this attitude? sigh. it's a temporal thing, i think. no sooner to i complete anything when some new project's imperfections begin weighing heavily over my head and with the profound doubts as to whether any of it is worth a sodding thing, i begin to feel like a piece of poo.

welcome to productive thinking 101.

"maybe that's what my illness had been about; not knowing where i was going, or what to want when i got there. or maybe, as i suspected at the time and still do, it was about nothing i could possibly understand except the work of being alive and not being very good at it"
-michael redhill.

someone asked this afternoon if it seemed plausible that people who look alike (stylistically) seek each other out. as i sat at the pub table with 15 people in jeans and fleeceys and bob cuts and wholesomeness, i had to disagree.
i bastioned my opinion with the comment that, until about 1 year ago, i only knew one other of my clan of friends/acquaintances with dreads (my locks being presently on the cusp of a 6 year anniversary).
one of my classmates stared at me. "what on earth possessed you to dread your hair then, if you don't know anyone else with them?"

and you know, it was a very good question.

06 January 2005

tattoos and novels.

two kindred commitments in ink.

corporeal flight onto sherbourne street.

south from queen on sherbourne, zooming along at a nice steady pace, turn my head slightly and wonder at a pylon perched on the edge of the sidewalk...turn back to the road to see a black gaping hole, a foot deep, over 2.5 feet wide, in the ROAD, not a foot in front of.....BAM.
tire goes down, i fly Over the handlebars, land Smack on my front in the middle of sherbourne. there's a bus behind me, slowing to a stop. Sweet God of Cocks and holy shit.
i get up, grab my bike, and get onto the sidewalk. bus pulls up, door opens. "ARE YOU ALRIGHT!" yells the bus driver, in a visible panic.
i burst out laughing.
i can't help it, it's what i do when things shock me.
"i didn't see the pothole" is the only explanation i can offer.
he stares aghast. "you were completely actually Flying"
i'm still laughing. "i KNOW!" i literally felt my body airborne.
i check my tires, stand there for a second, and then get back on my bike and continue down to my skating rendez-vous at harbourfront.

astonishing. :)
i'm made of Fucking Steel.

crack and cable housing.

i came home and looked out my window across the alley courtyard to see a very large man standing on a ladder leaning on the phone cables...i called my neighbour who's in the building across from me and asked her if she knew of any cable work being done. there seems to be a cable guy there Alot. she doesn't know of any and says "hang on a sec", and a minute later i hear her yelling out the window to find out what he's up to.
rogers guy.
she comes back and says i needn't worry. she then explains that the frequency with which the cable guy is called for has to do with the cable housing stuff. because it's hollow the crack heads clip the cable so they can use the housing for pipes.
"it's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood, a beautiful day for a neighbour...."

04 January 2005

ever-present paranoia and the beginnings of physiognomical enlightenment.

it's So easy to hibernate when it's january.
there's an unavoidable shift of one's synapses to that of an insular basement-dweller. borderline paranoiac, out of touch, etc etc. scary, really. as your brain gets rewired to accomodate the stasis, moving gets harder and harder to do. so today i took the plunge, down my stairwell, out the door, and a 15 minute bike ride westward to install myself at a coffee shop with a book. FREEDOM!
yes, dear readers, broadening my horizons geographically, if nothing else. and so the day is spent, gleaning knowledge on the physiological functionings of the human heart. hmmm.

03 January 2005


there is, as most may know, a Huge floor piano on the second floor of the infamous toy store f.a.o schwartz in new york city, that is played with one's feet by jumping up and down on keys that light up accordingly. it's bigger than most of the children transfixed by it, one of the few toys they can't pick up and take home. it was staring at this piano last week that prompted a few ruminations on the nature of proportion.

for the most part, the strange thing about being a kid is being so much bigger than all of your toys. it's the only time on earth you have control over the cars, the trains, the highrise buildings, the houses, the landscape. to tower above so much during a single-digit age is truly an accomplishment, and one made so effortlessly. the gargantuan hand of a 6 year old propels the train through the mountains, crosses the planet with the spin of a globe. take the driver out of the car, throw him across the room, put a new one in, voila! no more drinking and driving!
if a little lego man could drink, that is.

no wonder we get so cocky by the time we are teenagers. we've been ruling the world for a decade or more already.

then it hits. we keep getting bigger, but so do the buildings, so do the cars, so do the trains. suddenly we have become our own toys...the cars are big enough to step into and drive around in, but also big enough to break our bicycle in an unfortunate collision with them.
and the larger toys are expensive. mum and dad were there to finance the doll house, but markedly absent in meetings with the real-estate agent. blood and hunger become realities. jack and jill never bled, but when i tumble down a hill i skin my knee and break my own crown. there's no supranatural hand to propel me onwards, it's been replaced by the cravings of my stomach.

suddenly, despite our growth, our toys tower above us, breathe their own toxins into our lungs, re-organize us, run us down...

— yet so many of us run around like we're still in control.

how odd.

02 January 2005

art that will scare your children.

opening this thursday! at bobby five in toronto! works from "inside sylvia plath's oven" along with bronze works by the Amazing julie campagna. exhibit runs 'til 6 february at 1239 queen street west, ste.3 (second floor)
free drinks! 8pm and beyond!
come one come all!
(All thanks and utter Respect for rob coutts (aka bobby five) for hosting the exhibit and opening.)


fascinating to me that the uproar began when kinsey began research for his volume on human *female* sexual behaviour.
"you're telling the nation that their grandmothers and daughters are masturbating, what did you expect?"
i guess the addiction to the pre-adolescent waif as sex object comes from that stereotypical disassociation from culpability. innocence through association. prostitutes still damned for being liberated or oblivious to morality. legalizing prostitution would be like removing the collective chastity belt on the western world, but all of us really burn in hell? would Any of us, if consent was the guage?
the more interesting question to me, which will remain untouched until the majority can actually feel comfortable with sex as it IS, as it was presented in the film, was the emotional one.

emotions can't be measured, kinsey says, so there is no science.
does that make them any less real?
and if they are, how does one address the things that can't be measured?

01 January 2005

december 31, 2004.

hit by a Ruddy great car.
ok, nudged persistently by a car, but prone to histrionics as i am, it should be No surprise to anyone that i was Just as angry as if i had been hit by one.
left my house to bike down to the distillery to be one of the stiltwalkers in the first night new years parade. i admit to feeling somewhat apprehensive as i contemplated the cobblestones down there and melting patches of ice due to warm warm weather. it's been a while since i've been up...jack of all trades that i am and master of...sigh...none.
could this be the night that i fall shamelessly from my high sticks? make that fateful tumble, rendering me incapable of my bartending duties at passe muraille to ring in the new year?
i pictured myself for a moment, lying prone in the middle of the cobblestones, papier mache hat askew, shiny fabric from my cape soaked through with blood, leg bent at an angle grievously contrary to my delicate frame, moaning slightly but steadfastly optimistic as the paramedics make their way through the revelling crowds to spirit me away.

green light.
north-east corner of parliament and mill streets. a woman in front of me ready to turn north onto parliament. i have the right of way but i decide to be magnanimous. i stand and wait...she's looking in the other direction. tick tick tick. i'm standing still, she's standing still, the light is mine...sod it, deary, it's but hours before the year is out, let's get on with it, shall we? i put foot to my pedal, and CHRIST ON A BICYCLE SO DOES SHE. inches forward, hood of her car over my foot, my wheel MY WHEEL FOR THE LOVE OF GODS STOP WOMAN!
it was Really strange. i started, she started, so i stopped, she didn't. as i stood there, too stupid to jump back (well, jump back with my bicycle?) all i could think was to lean my bicycle towards the street, so that it didn't get crushed by the hood of her car.
i think the wheel is fine. i was so in shock i yelled "THAT'S WHAT GREEN LIGHTS ARE FOR, LADY!" and biked away, but if the wheel is out of true, she will wreak my bloody vengeance in hell.
when i get there.

the parade itself went fine, ironically enough...Complete trepidation as i was rallied around on three-footers by the Tempestuous winds, but when the samba squad started playing somehow it was all fine, and we danced our way through the distillery, ushering in the new year at 7.30pm.
ever ahead of time, i took off before the countdown to make my way to the bar.

which also, i must say, was a glorious success.
what Good Awesome human beings i'm surrounded by. people drink, they sing, they play music, they revel, they discuss their projects in the corner with adrenaline and excitement like they've got Something earth-shattering, and, in a very real way, they Do. the schedules are made, the technicians and space are booked, rehearsals start next week. everyone speaks in verbs here. verbs and mutual respect.

there were a few crashers this year, as obvious as the bruises on a redneck's wife. the only Assholes there. one was so drunk he Threw his empty cup over the bar.
"DON'T throw things at us" i said, LIVID.
he paused, discombobulated.
"it's NOT a clever thing to Piss off the people serving you drinks."
he stood there and stood there, his entreaties ignored, until he pulled out his wallet and started emptying money into the tip jar.
"THAT'S MORE LIKE IT." i said, clearing the counter and pouring Myself a shot of tequila.
happy new year, miz lenk.