in the wintertime when i met you

you were gentle and i was rough
i didn't know what to do so i kissed you
in the wintertime
you picked me up on the corner so i wouldn't get lost
in your house, dark with red christmas lights
and those yellow lanterns in your room
i didn't know what to do so i kissed you
in the wintertime
everything was warm
and that's how it was when i met you

sadness in the new, sadness is the old

you know i come here to listen to sad songs and think about how to say whatever it is that i can't say

it's not words it's physical

enough talk let's fuck

our hearts out our stomach top of the roller coaster i'm going down

to the bottom


to lie here and think about

why bon iver's first album is still so good

and winter in a minnesota cabin

between the trees some frozen tears


i could feel them fuck between the walls

remembered what it's like to reach through and grab nothing

press yourself against the wall

like a magnet from a distance


how many ways to say whatever it is i can't say

i can't say but i know now

i mean i think i know     you guys    i think i know

i didn't choose this but i want it


nostalgia 101 - a hundred different things about love

a cold sky, drunk and crawling

all my stories started outside in the middle of the night. it was always cold. i was always drunk. they were always about other people and how i would crawl home at night, drunk and cold, needing people but needing loneliness too.

i'm not anywhere tonight. there is no moon. there are only christmas lights and a dim lamp in this cold room.

i imagined a perfect stranger and let it be perfect. i buried my face in her shirt. i let the sun stream through white curtains onto her back in the morning. i let myself kiss her shoulder blade and i let myself out the door. 

perfection is painful. happiness is the worst. i could make it all up, i could put it all in there. secret desire. that's what the writer does. the writer causes two people to bump their lips and stumble through the streets at night when it's cold and they're drunk. the writer writes the answers for two people. the writer creates warmth and places it in between two bodies. the writer makes the bodies sweat, the sweat slightly sticky and odourless. the writer makes sure the bodies stay warm.

am i a writer? the writer inserts themselves under the covers. the writer chooses the person next to them.

am i a writer? but the writer is alone. i'm not anywhere tonight.

the writer is just sad. the writer is unhappy with the world so she creates another one. the world is a room, rectangular in shape, with painted white walls. the window faces south. the world has a large closet and a double bed and a TV and a night stand with an alarm clock. inside the world is a woman with staticky brown hair which sticks to her wool shirt and her cheek.

but the writer hates what is not real. she apologizes to the woman with brown hair and lets her sleep peacefully and then she closes the door on that dream.

a writer is a dreamer.

all my stories are my dreams.

all my stories are my desires.

i imagined a perfect stranger and i kissed her on the mouth and i told her i never wanted to know her. i told her no matter how much i beg, to never love me, never ever let me bury my face in that favourite place, never lift my shirt and kiss my spine, never let me touch the skin which is as smooth as i make it which tingles when i make it, never let me feel what will consume me from the inside; the desire to touch again, to taste again, to kiss again and again and again, to be kissed again again again.

there was a real girl, once, who i wanted to kiss in the middle of the street in the middle of the night in front of the mountain under the cross under the moon and the moon shining off the just rained on street with my hands in my pockets and my heart kind of warm and i wanted her hands on my face and i wanted it to feel like how i imagined it feels to be in love but it didn't feel like that it felt like going home alone at night underneath a cold sky drunk and crawling and needing someone but needing loneliness too and needing to keep the illusion that love is out there somewhere, and it is real.

i'm not sorry for what i did. i'll rewrite it someday.

A Review of A Movie Which Came Out A Year Ago, "The Art of Getting By"

Since I've renewed my subscription to Netflix, I've been catching up on some Mad Men episodes, as well as watching at least a couple of movies a week. One movie I recently watched was "The Art of Getting By" (2011), a super cute movie about high school romance, and being young in general.

While I don't usually care for "teenage rebel falls for blonde chick while neglecting his homework but still being super smart" plots, I liked this one because Freddie Highmore's character is very easy to sympathize with. He's not an asshole. I would say he's less of a rebel and more just a shy kid trying to figure out who he is. He reminded me of a friend I had in Cegep who never did his homework just because he felt like drawing instead, or reading a book for pleasure, or just spending his time on things that mattered more to him. 

I guess I really liked this movie because it felt honest. It felt like it was written by someone who at least remembers what it's like to be a teenager. I hate TV shows and movies where the characters go to clubs because they always get it completely wrong, but "The Art of Getting By" actually did a good job with their New Year's Eve club scene. My favourite part of the movie is when George and Sally are having a "just friends" valentine's day dinner, and it's really clear to the audience that George is in love with her, but then this awkward/tense conversation occurs:

Sally: Have you ever had sex?

George: Yeah, tons.

Sally: No, really, have you?

George: Why are you asking me this? You know I haven't.

Sally: Well, I don't know, I'm just wondering. ... Have you ever thought about me?

George: What do you mean?

Sally: You know what I mean. Have you ever...have you ever thought about it?

George: Why are you doing this?

I just thought it was a realistic dialogue between two young people, one sexually experienced, one not at all, trying to navigate friendship and romance and growing up. I liked the feeling of him wanting to express his feelings, but not being ready to.

The only thing I couldn't stand is how obvious it is that George (Freddie Highmore) needs help, but his teacher's pretty much abandon him even though he tells them he's depressed. Maybe that's realistic too, sadly.

I also fully appreciated how much Emma Roberts looks like Dianna Agron who (whom?) I unabashedly love.

Also the soundtrack was awesome.

Who am I kidding? This movie was a total guilty pleasure.

st laurent to mont-royal

When we climbed up to the top of the mountain it was like 4am and I was pretty drunk. It was cold it was sometime in November I think. No, it must've been October because Ryan didn't hate me yet. It was just me and him and Karen and I think Ryan liked her at that time. I liked Casey but she kept getting me down. That night I had seen her outside the bar sitting on some other guy's lap and ignoring me, well screw that.Why do girls do that. Let's go to the mountain Ryan said. You'll feel better. So we went up the mountain and I was feeling pretty down and Ryan and Karen were racing each other. Karen was so fast it was like they were so free and I felt heavy 'cause I couldn't run as fast as them. But when we got to the top the air was so fresh and I didn't care about anything anymore. Except maybe I was feeling down that Ryan and Karen were making eyes at each other. We stuck ourselves in a telephone booth to keep warm and wait for the sunrise. We must've listened to Bon Iver because whenever I hear "re:stacks" I think of running up the mountain and the view and the cold air. But later that song would come to mean something else to me and that was alright. The sunrise wasn't even that good I think it was on the other side of the mountain. But after that night I didn't care about Casey anymore. We went down the mountain and I was feeling pretty good about it and I fell asleep on the bus.

That was all before Karen moved to Thailand and I met Lainey who's a good girl. I don't get drunk anymore but sometimes I miss those days when it hurt to breathe. I guess no one's hurt me like that since then so I never needed to go back. Everyone changes I learned so we just grew up like everyone else. And growing up doesn't mean not fitting in telephone boxes anymore it means not wanting to or not even being there to do it. Shouting "fuck you Casey!" into the night doesn't mean anything anymore. When we were young we used to hear our voices ring around the city, now we just hear it in our heads. We don't let people get us down like Casey got me down anymore. But sometimes I miss climbing the mountain thinking that's what love is.

How To Cook Everything

Every day we wake up we promise to be better. We promise ourselves to make changes. We want to love more, love better, try harder. We can do anything we want to.

I will stop worrying about money. I will live better. Maybe not tomorrow, but today at least. That's all I can give. That's all I can promise. For today to be better, at least.

I am not growing in a straight line. I want to learn to love you more.

By now you're probably wondering why this is titled "How To Cook Everything" when there is clearly nothing about cooking here. The answer is that "How To Cook Everything" is a cookbook that is right next to me and I'm avant garde like that. JK.

The Easy Forgetting

"You never could have imagined

back then with the waves crashing

what the body could erase."

- Stephen Dunn "The Vanishings"

I stumbled out of a bar to a street I know too well. My shoes fell in dirt, a block of concrete removed to make room for a tree. I leaned against the tree, my head falling back in laughter. I'm so inebriated that I cannot see three feet in front of me. I want a cigarette to warm the tips of my fingers and in my circle of friends we create clouds that roll up to the sky and disappear. I hope she kisses me tonight.

We hang on to each other for support, because it's so funny I can't stand. I could swear we are moving in slow motion. Each laugh is like a howl, our heads thrown back calling to the moon. The ground doesn't hurt, nor do scrapes on my knee, ripped jeans. Stephen Dunn said too much doesn't hurt anymore.

She kisses me on the cheek, like I once saw her do in a picture with someone else. My stomach aches.

Our foreheads are pressed together. My hair sticks to my forehead. My mouth... The air is warmer between us. I have wanted this for so long.

I can see the freckles on her nose. I can see the flecks of green in her eyes. I can see each individual eyelash, closely stuck together, and the delicate skin on her eyelid when she blinks in slow motion. I smile into her mouth.

I can feel her sigh escape into the night.

Each breath is hot and I can see our breath hovering in the cold air. I kiss the edges of her smile and behind us the chaos of kids laughing and falling becomes haze and muffled noise. For one night I am in love and it ends too soon. She escapes into the night.

One day it will vanish, he said, how you felt when you were overwhelmed by her. Hurt, he said, how could you have forgotten? hurts.

we've been selected in this beautiful lottery

[bright eyes - blue angels air show]

a thing happened.

a person happened.

she was born, she grew fingers and legs and stuff. often i would wonder how something would get to where it did, like how did those little hairs on her cheek get to be in those exact spots. why were her fingers that exact length. why is it like this.

why is it like this and not like this.

we fucked up i guess.

did we?

i am pulled apart. my arms are stretched enough to encompass the whole world. but they don't. is that a thing that matters?

a feeling happened. there is a feeling... of ... love ..., of never doubting that you are loved. it's a luxury, for sure. it's a feeling that we have. it's a thing that was born. and it grew. and we are forever responsible for what we have tamed. we are responsible forever for what we have created. we made love with the tips of our fingers.

there are things we have to do. between now and then. there are things that need to happen.

i am reminded of things i've forgotten. the way doors can open and people just walk in. it's not unexpected, no it's just how you planned it. i'm beginning to think that it might never happen. but now it is happening.

a door it is opening.

there are things that i know to be true. like how love is a form of truth and we pull it apart like hungry wolves. we had it. and how is anything ever going to be as good as what we had.

i mean -- you said you needed time and you had time. i said i needed love and i had love. but we tore it apart like hungry wolves. we don't know our teeth are actually knives. now we know.

but what can we do? i feel like edward scissorhands.

"so this is my life. and i want you to know that i am both happy and sad and i'm still trying to figure out how that could be." - the perks of being a wallflower

(e.pic)

i was walking with a ghost

i walked up the mountain because i wanted you to see it. i thought maybe if i were there, you would be there too. i thought maybe i would find you at the top, as if you'd been waiting for me this whole time.

in the middle of the night we can walk in the middle of the road. we can run and jump and skip and it's just us alive. we can be the tallest city mark.

the trees are littered with gold and red and orange. the sunrise is kind of perfect. i know you'd be impressed, i know impressing you would make my heart swell. when i'm with you, i am a balloon on fire. it is the most wonderful feeling. and i think the edge of the world is on fire, which makes your sweater warm enough for the both of us. i'm in love with the way you see the world.

i am so, so, so.

i keep my hands in my pockets, as if i could shrug off the rain. i want to listen to re: stacks because it seems fitting, but i'm not quite sure i could bear it. i meant to leave my heavy heart at the top of the city, to burn with the sun, but it's right there in my pocket and it carries me down the road. you stayed at the top of the mountain to burn with the tops of the trees, and i? i am so. i am so, so, so.

truth about women

it’s the middle of winter. i think winter is perfect for breathing close to someone when you’re outside and hiding your hands somewhere. i wonder why it is always winter when these things start.

it’s the middle of winter and i don’t have boots on. i have shoes on and they are wet. my knees are wet because i fell to the ground to look at the sky. i thought it might answer some questions but i guess since the sky can’t talk it just snowed on me. it snowed on everyone else too.

i tried to make the place i live a home. i try to drink something warm every day. i’m afraid in the middle of the night my bones might freeze if i don’t continually stir the fires in my finger tips. i wonder how long it would take for someone to find my frozen bones and all it would take is another body in my bed and i might just melt a little. well, the truth was that i was waiting for somebody. i was waiting for her to come to the place i try to call a home because i thought maybe, well, i thought she said she would. but that was a long time ago.

it’s hard when you’re in love with everyone in the world. i want to say “you’re the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen” i want to say that to everyone i meet, ‘cause it’s the honest truth, every time i look at them, god, i think, good god, you’re beautiful, and you, you’re beautiful too, you’re all so goddamn pretty i can hardly stand it. i love them all. i love you all and you don’t even know it. you’re beautiful and you know it so you don’t hear me when i say it.

you’re beautiful and you love each other and you don’t love me and i love you, all of you, and i say, i love you, and you, well, you. there you are.

time is strange because it’s never quite the same everywhere. somewhere it is summer. somewhere on the opposite side of me.

you wore a white shirt and you said something in my ear and it made me love you. i said that i didn’t love you before but now i do. i like that shirt you wear. i like those black framed glasses. you have your hand on my arm and inside my head i’m like “yes!yes!yes!”

no, wait.

that was a dream.

i’m wearing these shitty converse with holes in them and my feet are freezing already. i’m walking home at night, in fact, it may already be tomorrow, and there is slush in my shoes and inside of my socks. i wear my collar high or else the wind might come inside too, and then my bones would shiver, and they can’t take a shiver right now, they’re just waiting for a shake. but no one grabs my shoulders and looks me in the eye and says “shake shake shake”. shake shake shake.

i thought i’d be home by now but i’m not home. and you know what, i’m mad because i can hardly take it, you know, i can hardly stand it, i feel like kicking concrete. i’m mad at all the things; the wind, my dreams, the height of my ceilings, her glasses, cold tea.

i happened to be there one night. i never go there but then i was there instead of being somewhere else. that’s how things happen. it starts like i was doing my ordinary thing but then something changed. so something changed. so i was there. you were there, surrounded by friends or just other people. i carried you home and laid you on my bed. i said “i’m here,”

and you said,

“i want to go home”.

and home it is. keys and stuff. asleep in the next room. i stay up because i think she might call me. i remember that time is different if you’re not in the same spot as me, and she’s not. but i stay up because maybe, just maybe.

i had things tentatively planned. i thought she could maybe help me pick some winter boots. i thought we could stumble home from the bars and it wouldn’t seem so long and far. i thought maybe we’ll eat dinner somewhere, or maybe i’ll cook her dinner, or maybe both, or maybe more. she could walk to the bus stop with me. that’d be a nice change from standing with the lonelies who have gathered at the same spot for the same reason but can’t connect ‘cause they were born with lonely in their blood.

she didn’t call.

i’m so fucking in love with all of you. i’m so fucking in love and it hurts. it’s a million heartbreaks and i can’t go back. i can’t ever go back. once i was on the outside and it was a dull pain, the inside was a real heart but i’m not there anymore. and i can’t go back to anywhere. i’m so fucking lonely i might shrivel up into blank paper.

i barely sleep at night. i wander through dreams of people that i know but not well enough. in my dreams they are my friends but in real life we don’t know each other well enough to call it that. i wake up confused about the time. i think it’s morning when it’s 4 am and i start to get dressed only to check the clock and i can’t fall back asleep again.

when she finally called i hated every word i said to her. i was a sad puppy child full of contradictions. i cried quietly so she wouldn’t hear but all i wanted was for her to hear so i could get some attention. but i didn’t know what i wanted. but i knew what i wanted. but i wanted to cling to her body, looking for some kind of primeval comfort that i’m too shy to ask for when i’m sober. i couldn’t ask because i knew she couldn’t give. i didn’t know if she would call again. but i wanted it, yes, yes i did, so honestly that my own honesty hurt me.

after she called my eyes broke and i ate a half-cooked half-dinner. no, it wasn’t even half-cooked.

it’s not about you this time, i guess. it’s about me. it’s because i tried really hard. i mean, i really tried, i tried so hard that you didn’t even notice because everything i did was perfect. i was so fucking perfect. and i still lost.

i felt the fabric of your shirt, your white shirt. it touched my fingertips. i put my face to your chest and it touched my face. your arms were a blanket. i liked the way small parts of my skin stuck to your skin and the way you smelled and the way you breathed like it was a normal thing to do. you know i was still learning how. inside my heart i breathed a steady “yes, yes, yes”.

it was a dream. sometimes waking up from a dream is harder than other times. i can’t help myself for wanting it, for wanting you, for wanting her, for wanting everyone. time is hard, but time is not the same everywhere. somewhere else there is good time and the truth is that we will get there, all of us, every single one of us. because we’re so beautiful, we’re the most beautiful people ever made, and that’s the honest truth, i think, good god, we’re beautiful, and i love you, i really do, every single person, and all the doubles too.

inside my heart i breathe,

“yes, yes, yes.”

if this, then this

when i say shut your eyes, shut your eyes. okay. now shut your eyes. do you hear the piano through the open window? it is our neighbor playing erik satie. now when i say open your eyes, open your eyes. yes. good. open your eyes. do you see christmas lights and birds and stars above you? they are blowing in the wind. yes, even the stars. they move like static to the wind. i am wearing your sweater. it is wrapped around my body and it smells like you. i feel safe and sound and sadder than i have ever known. i cannot cry because it is inside of me like a giant swell of a wave, like a sigh, like a... like a... like sigur ros on a sad day.

i am afraid i am bad at this dance we are doing.

why does it hurt like this. i shut my own eyes, very tight. very tight so no light can come in. i shut them tight. if i can't see this maybe it is not happening. it hurts to be near you. everything hurts so very much.

i see christmas lights and stars. i think briefly of russia. white walls and red sheets, red carpets. this time is not that time. my hands and feet are numb and i want.

i crawl and i am slow. i am slow and i am shy. i am afraid i am bad at this dance we are doing. i'm afraid i will not let myself get better because i think i have sewn my mouth shut. i can't tell you where to turn. you will never get there until i tell you how to get there and i will never go anywhere now because when i go without you i just cry [everything makes me cry] so now i crawl and i am slow. maybe because you are listening i am embarrassed for you to hear.

and i keep expecting you to walk through that door.

it's hard to find it when you knew it

[bon iver - re:stacks]

this song used to remind me of being drunk at 3am on st. laurent. it used to remind me of a skinny bitch who wound my heart in circles. it reminded me of the top of the mountain, of walking home alone in the morning and feeling like nothing. just feeling nothing but [there is no ending to this sentence]

everything that happens is from now on.

okay, so what, i cried on the way home. maybe it was because i was thinking of the rejection letter sitting in my inbox, or maybe it was because the lady who stamped my ticket at penn station was mean. maybe it was because i hate penn station. it was probably because i had my period but it was also because my heart was unwinding slowly and falling loosely at the sides. i’m sorry it’s the most useless thing in the world.

now this song makes me think of sitting on the kitchen floor with a can of pabst blue ribbon and a bottle of gin, singing to a girl because she listened.

this is pouring rain,
this is paralyzed.

my own resolution was to stop being so afraid of having what i want. it wasn’t a new year’s resolution, it was a life’s resolution; to live with no regrets because i had to at least try to achieve everything i wanted and stop being so damn scared of everything. but i’m always so terrified of moving because then the earth might move with me. everyone else is terrified but i don’t know of what. i thought too much about it, was too much like prufrock to follow up when she lay down next to me in the sun. now our feet won’t touch the ground and it’s a big scary leap. it’s too much for me to lean over two inches and kiss you on the mouth. i felt stupid, thinking of all the people who might do it better than me.

you were right, you were right about everything. the best parts are the ones that can’t be talked about. i can’t explain it to anyone. you have no idea what you do to me.

the fountain in the front yard is rusted out

all my love was down

in a frozen ground.

++

the first time i left new york the world seemed so big. penn station loomed above me as i stepped out of the cab, fearful and exhausted. the morning seemed wet and dry; everybody knew where they were going and i trudged down the stairs, down to my doom, the 11 hour train ride away from the iconic days of summer 2009. a mark on the calendar for everyone.

my eyes were open those few days. my mouth was open too, with laughter and wine. other things happened that i’ve already written down, memorized too well. i can’t talk about them. i can talk about them. i didn’t know [redacted] at that time. i just thought i did so i let her and i let myself go. i was surprised by her move. i can’t talk about it.

time, later; months. outside with itchy lips. i wanted to but it physically hurt. i can’t talk about it. itchy lips. we discussed instead.

++

time, later; now. wednesday, thursday, friday, saturday; in arms but not the kind that kill you, just the kind that wound and invoke heartache. i said i wish i had kissed you in the kitchen. i wish i had kissed you on the roof. i wished i had kissed you on the floor in the sun. i wish i had kissed you when you said “everything” and i wish i had kissed you everywhere.

the wait/weight is really quite too much, it's really very perfect it felt long but that's how it was different from every other time with every other person. it was really quite too much and now i know why you said "everything" because sometimes it really just feels like "everything".

it was just different because it meant something. because i waited, because you waited, till there was no other option but to ignite fireworks, finally, and fear and trembling at your touch.

that was it, you totally had me, you can have all of me.

this is not the sound of a new man

or a crispy realization.

it's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away

your love will be

safe with me.

Montreal, My Hands Are Getting Cold

Holy shitfuck guys, it's December. I wrote this on November 14th. Obvs I had just read 'America'. I don't know what I want.

Anyways, urgent matters to discuss before you read this poem. Remember when Maine happened? Ironically I used a line from 'America' as the title of that post, and today America, more specifically New York, fucked up again. The NY senate voted no on gay marriage, which is incomprehensibly lame. Read about it on Autostraddle and share your feelings.

Basically I just like to write about cities a lot, now read this about Montreal.

++

Montreal, do you hate me?

I can't figure you out.

I don't think I can talk to you right now.

I might cry and that would be embarrassing.

Montreal, I'm writing your name down.

Montreal, I'm making this real.

Montreal, you're ignoring me.

Can you hear me, Montreal?

I can't figure you out.

Would you like me to wave?

Would you like me to close my eyes?

Is this a game we're playing?

Montreal, you didn't tell me.

Montreal, should I stop asking questions?

I can't stop asking questions.

Is this too unbalanced?

Am I tipping the scales?

Montreal, I'll never be able to refine this.

Montreal, you're never going to read this.

I'm going to make you read this.

Montreal, I'm going to make you care.

I can't make you care.

Montreal, would you like me to leave?

I tried to leave.

Montreal, you wouldn't let me.

Who are you, Montreal?

I can't figure you out.

Montreal, I'm making this real.

Montreal, I'm ending this now.

I can't end this now.

I can't start anything either.

Montreal, I'm stuck.

Montreal, I want to cry.

I'm going to cry in front of you.

I'm going to smoke next to you.

Montreal, would you like a cigarette?

Montreal, would you leave me alone?

Leave me alone.

I'm tired of you.

Montreal, I never see you.

Montreal, you're everywhere.

Montreal, are you ignoring me?

Montreal, I want to leave,

but you left first.

Montreal, it wasn't fair.

I gave you chances, Montreal,

you didn't take them.

Did my opportunities come up short?

Montreal, am I good enough for you?

I'll never be good enough.

Montreal, I'm better than you.

Montreal, I'm stronger.

Montreal, my hands are getting cold.

I'm tired of waiting.

Montreal, you never came.

Montreal, you never met me.

I walked home in the morning.

The morning made my hands cold.

Montreal, do you have pockets?

Do you want a cigarette?

Are you ignoring me?

Montreal, I swear I saw you last night.

I swear you saw me too.

You looked right through me, Montreal.

Between St. Laurent and Mont-Royal,

Montreal, the sidewalks are full.

I walked the sidewalk down St. Laurent.

Montreal, you were on the sidewalk too.

Montreal, I broke the rules.

Montreal, I came outside and you were gone.

Where are you, Montreal?

Are you ignoring me?

Do you want me to leave?

Do you want a cigarette?

Montreal, I don't think you care about me.

I care about me.

Montreal, this is never ending.

Montreal, I'm trying not to cry.

Did you see me last night?

I was trying not to cry.

I walked home in the morning.

Montreal, my hands are cold.

Montreal, I don't think you're listening.

Are you listening?

Montreal, you're no good for me.

Montreal, give me a fucking chance.

Ask me a question, Montreal.

Is this too much?

Montreal, I'm stuck.

Montreal, I cried.

Montreal, I tried.

You didn't try.

Montreal, you ran away.

You left me standing here.

Montreal, my hands are cold.

Answer me, Montreal.

Montreal?

Don't wait up for me, Montreal.

I'm staying out late tonight.

fiction about women

I wrote this in August. I mentioned it once here and once here. I've been scared to publish it because I think it's good but I'm worried that it's not. This story doesn't apply to me anymore. It might have been true at one point, but now it's taken its place in fiction. Anyways, here we go. Deep breath.

"It's the daydreaming that does it. I'm doing the usual thing -- imagining in tiny detail the entire course of the relationship, from first kiss, to bed, to moving in together, to getting married (in the past I have even organized the track listing of the party tapes), to how pretty she'll look when she's pregnant, to names of children -- until suddenly I realize that there's nothing left to actually, like, happen. I've done it all, lived through the whole relationship in my head. I've watched the film in fast forward; I know the whole plot, the ending, all the good bit."

- Nick Hornby "High Fidelity"

++

all i know how to write about are the women i’ve loved. there’ve been a lot. every woman i’ve ever seen i’ve fallen in love with. the ones i’ve met for 5 minutes or less or more, but not much more. There’s the woman i met for a day and then i loved her for a month. there’s the woman who came up behind me on the escalator, then i wrote an entire love poem where every other word was ‘love’ prefaced with ‘i’ and ending with everything you do. these women break my heart. they destroy me. it’s only the ones i’ve missed that tear me apart like this. you know, the missed opportunities. all i can do is write some kind of fiction about women, all the women i’ve loved inside my head.

what i really mean is there’s one woman i want to talk about right now. that’s it, right? it’s never women in general, not for anyone. there’s always someone specific in mind. well, there is here, for me.

it would make sense to start the story from when we met. that would be logical. but the real story starts when i was born, because this is my story and that’s when i begin. so i guess meeting people and women comes in somewhere in the middle. or ‘late start’ since the story’s not over. there’s no real start to anything actually. i mean this whole life is like a circle or something anyways. there’s no starting point. the important part is this: there’s this woman, and then there’s me.

if i knew how to explain it, i would. but i don’t, so i can’t. i’m making it up as i go along. i don’t know what i’m talking about, but no one really does. if they tell you they do they’re lying and the world is full of liars and believers, and you need one liar and one believer and that’s how you get the truth. are you listening to me right now? are you believing this? what did i just tell you? pay attention. this is about love which doesn’t exist except inside your head.

so this is some kind of story about something. this is my story within a story. it’s about a woman or women or love. (it’s about the love i created inside my head).

let’s make a list. the list is called “things about you” but it’s not about you, it’s about this woman i’ve been talking about, you know? the woman in the story. see if you can figure it out. i know it’s a boring name for a list but it’s late and i don’t think the name is very important right now. i mean, it doesn’t matter. the list is still the same.

things about you: a list
blonde
crooked thumbs
distorted
low
round eyes
small teeth

i could be describing anyone right now. if you know who i’m talking about maybe it’s obvious and you are probably thinking i’m crazy right now, you’re making a mental note, suddenly you think differently of me. that’s fine. i’m fine with that. either i’m in love with everybody or i’m in love with nobody.

so i’ve written stories in my head. stories about this one woman, this blonde with crooked thumbs, a distorted sense of perception, low low sweet n’ low, round eyes and small teeth; one of them is about how we fight all the time. this is the beginning of the story, i guess, if there was a beginning. the beginning is in the middle because we’re already fighting and i’m making it up.

it’s the middle of winter. i think winter is perfect for breathing close to someone when you’re outside and hiding your hands somewhere. see, this woman, i shout at her in the snow but she never shouts back and that’s very frustrating. and i tell her that. i tell her she’s a robot and she has no feelings. she tells me i have too many feelings. i just shout a lot. it’s okay to shout in the winter because the world gets bigger when it snows. all i need is one believer now to turn my lies into truths.

in this shouting scene she’s wearing a hat and i’m not. but i have a scarf on. we’re on the sidewalk near a main street across from my school but there’s no one around because it’s winter. the world is bigger so there’s more places to hide and that’s where the other people are. or maybe someone is walking by but they just keep going. i don’t know because i’m too busy shouting. she’s not answering me, really. you know why? because this is a one sided conversation because it’s not real because it’s happening in my head because i live there. and i can’t think for someone else. not even for this woman that i love but don’t know at all. we just go to a hotel and drink wine. red for her, white for me. i know that much.

on the way there it starts to snow. i can tell we’re not really mad at each other, we’re just mad at each other. there are red patches on her cheeks but it’s from the cold not because she was shouting. that was me. that’s why my face is red. i’m not wondering if she’s going to hold my hand. it’s like we’re pretending we’re not going to the same place. i know she is just waiting for me to apologize.

either everything is true or nothing is. how much of this are you believing?

inside the layers of clothing come off. i never really thought about it but i guess i’m wearing a jacket and a sweater and a shirt and probably an undershirt because it’s really cold. (i want to say more about the cold and this woman but i can’t because that would give it away. i’m only giving some things away, not little truths, just little lies. stuff that makes up a story, you know? it doesn’t matter because i’ve already classified this as fiction, turned this into something that exists on the fringes of life, the edges of my mind. and maybe it’s based on a real person (blonde with crooked thumbs, a distorted sense of perception, low low sweet n’ low, round eyes and small teeth) or maybe it’s not. whatever you want to believe, i guess. whatever you choose to think about me. who am i trying to convince?)

we undress each other and make peace – i mean love – and then i take a shower and we order chinese food. we eat chinese food in the boxes and drink cheap wine and time sort of fast forwards. i can just skip this part. let’s just say that we’re both quiet and she’s been quiet since she got here, since i shouted at her in the snow, and i know she’s going to say something soon. i can’t say what because i don’t know her very well even though i’ve known her for a year. it’s amazing what you can talk about when you don’t talk about anything. we lie in bed and hold each other and watch the news but i’m not really watching, i’m just looking. i’m looking at her and thinking and knowing that we’re probably going to fight again soon, except it’s just going to be me by myself. i’m always shouting at the wall and she’s always calm and quiet until she gets her word in and that’s it, i’m defeated.

we walk around in the fresh snow again outside the hotel. i’m wearing these shitty converse with holes in them and my feet are freezing already. this is based on real life, this is actually a fact. the one truth i’ve told is about my holey shoes. i guess it’s better than nothing. i already said this was fiction didn’t i? it’s all about love which only exists in my head, and barely

there

at

all.

i’m making tracks in the ground, walking in a circle around this woman. she’s talking now, about worldly things. i touch her here and there, kiss her here and there. if we are puzzle pieces we don’t really fit together, but at least we’re in the right box, part of the same picture. we never tell each other lies because we don’t need to, instead we just say things and i don’t know if that’s worse.

i imagine our friends talking about us, saying we’re crazy for each other. they say that i’m crazy and i show it and she’s crazy but she won’t admit it and that’s why i’m always shouting. that’s why she’s never shouting. they say that we’re two extremes and i’m not talking about ‘opposites attracting’ because we have a lot in common (we also have nothing in common but that matters less), but we work because we need each other. it works on this paper because i wrote it, i made it, i’m the writer who turned fiction into fact. fiction into truth. this works if you believe me.

the truth (or...?) is that i can’t not be in love with anybody. right? either i’m in love with everybody or i’m in love with nobody and the latter can’t be true, it just can’t. i’m in love with every woman i know and i’m writing the same story over and over again. i’m rewriting my life over and over again.

we’re rolling in the snow and my jeans are wet. the snow is a good kind of cold, you know, that kind that you can hold in your hand and you won’t get shivers. i’m chasing her and shouting and i’m cold and hot and happy and warm. we lie in the snow. she’s wearing her hat, i’m wearing my scarf. some snow goes down my neck and i shake and giggle. the rest of the world is hiding, somewhere in the white spaces where we haven’t walked yet. i’m not wondering if she’s going to hold my hand, i know she’s just waiting for me to kiss her and i do. we lie on our backs and watch and feel the snow cover our faces and bodies and they’re just like white falling stars. tomorrow our tracks will be gone, replaced with something clean, a fresh new hope.

we go inside and make love – i mean peace – i mean tea – and we sleep and dream of space and snow and each other. and it’s warm inside these blankets and her body’s warm and the tv’s still on. i can hear it subconsciously. in the middle of the night i wake up and turn it off. i kiss her shoulder and bury deeper into her heart and into the sheets and it’s still snowing outside but not in our bed.

so here’s what i’ve learned: either everything is perfect or nothing is. and the answer is both at the same time because they’re the same thing, you know? everything is perfect, and nothing is. so she’s either everyone you know, or no one at all. believe what you will.

Read, Recycle, Write Poetry

So I know I just wrote a post about how people shouldn't write poetry 'cause they suck at it, but here I am writing some poetry and hopefully it doesn't suck and then I won't be such a hypocrite. For the record, Riese is currently not in New York, but on a fucking boat in Mexico. Since New York is where she lives that's how it happened in the poem. This all started because Laura wrote me an email about being stuck inside because her transit system thing was on strike and she was cuddling with her dog, then I had too many feelings about life so I had to write words.

Also I'd just like to point out that I think writing things down fictionalizes them. Once it's written down it takes on a life of its own, whatever 'it' is.

++

Do you think I'm a jerk because I answer harshly sometimes?

I've been taught to be defensive.

I get sad too, you know.

I get sad when it's midnight

and Riese is gone (she's in New York)

and Laura is lonely (she's got a dog).

Do you know what it takes to look in the mirror sometimes?

I've been taught to be obsessed.

I get tired too, you know.

I get tired in the morning

and my dad is gone (he has a job)

and Tina is asleep (she has time).

Do you know how it hurts to see you walk by sometimes?

I've been taught to stay away.

I get desperate too, you know.

I get desperate after school

and Esmé is gone (she is smarter)

and Val is gone (she works).

Do you cry on the way home sometimes?

I listen to Bon Iver and it hurts.

I get damaged too, you know.

It's all this time I spent alone

when Riese is gone (she's in New York)

and Laura is lonely (she's got a dog).

++

Congratulations.

I hate you.

Yes, I'm bitter.

Yes, I'm jealous.

Yes, I'm mad you're seeing someone else.

Yes, it hurts.

Congratulations.

Was it easy?

Yes, I'm sad,

yes, I'm foolish,

yes, I realize I'm just bad at it.

Yeah, it hurts.

Fuck off.

I hate you.

Yes, I'm bitter

and jealous and foolish and sad

and, yes, I'm miserable

'cause you're happier now.

So yeah, it does hurt.

Congratulations.

++

I'm thinking of investing in a sign:

"I don't know".

Don't ask me why.

I don't know.

Knowing hurts.

++

I noticed you got a haircut last weekend.

It's nice, I like it.

No really, it's cute.

I like it when you wear canvas shoes and plaid shirts

and black framed glasses.

They're cute, really.

I look for you on de Maisonneuve sometimes

but you quit smoking the day I started.

My chest hurts.

++

I have this urge to quote a song

but it doesn't sound as good when I say it.

Listening hurts.

++

I cry on the way home sometimes.

I listen to Bon Iver and it hurts.

And I miss all the people that are gone.

++

And loving hurt,

so I took a nap.

And a nap was all it took to forget your face for a while.

I woke up and it was very clear:

Shower, study, drink tea.

Read, recycle, write poetry.

Love.

And I miss all the people that are gone.

If You Want it to be Real Come Over For One Night and We Can Really, Really Climb

No attempt is made to explain away
the things that really, really, really, really, really are behind.
You can't hide.
- Okkervil River "For Real"

++

I found out on the metro, I mean -- I realized what I already knew -- that you're never going to call again. I figure that's okay, I guess. I tried/didn't try/didn't know what I was doing. But this is what I want you to know: no one knows what they're doing. It was my first time being born, my first time being 6, and 7, and 8, and feeling death -- my first time having a dead mother -- I don't know how to react -- does anyone? -- my first time in high school, first time learning the history of quebec, the geography of other people's bodies and mouths and hearts. It's my first time being 18, my first time living this day -- october 14th 2009 -- I'm never going to see this day again -- but how do I know what to do with it? So when I walked past you in the hall, so when I gave her that note, so when I avoided him on the way home; I was just living in my own weird way. I don't know if I'm doing it right. There's no instruction manual. I don't know if I should've said something else, or if this gets easier or more vivid. I don't think living gets easier, it just gets stranger. If I'm confusing it's because I'm confused.

I started reading the first couple of pages of this book and on page two I was told "love and ideals are not actually real". Oh, okay. I see it now.

Maybe it's because I have neither that I think this is untrue. Maybe I've read too many books, seen too many hollywood movies with romantic endings. Maybe I've been listening to too many songs that tell me love is the best sensation hiding in the lion's mane. I want love to be real, I need love to be real. I need ideals to be real because I idealize love in the worst way.

I slipped her a note in class, sat back and thought My life is a joke. After class she turned around, "Was this you who wrote this?"
Yes.
"Is this real?"

++

I'm just using you so I'll have a story to tell. So do your worst and I'll write my best. That's all I could ever hope for -- an experience so brilliant it will lift the words off the page. I'm running low on gas and I've kind of given up on you -- you, you'll never call. But now I'm asking you, come on, make it hurt! You're not killing me the way I want you to.

Come on, idealized love. I know you're real, I've felt you moving in me before.

And now I'm a walking contradiction. I wrote some days before -- notes in my phone -- But you're like, a real person. And I'm not. You're the kind of person who won't call back. And I'm not. I'll make you larger than you are. I'll write you into fiction, make you beautiful and smooth. But you're still real, you're just somebody else. I'm real too, but to other people. Maybe I passed you once before, before I knew you, and we slid by each other -- our worlds so close to touching -- your eyes straight, my head turned -- I didn't know you'd be real to me one day. Am I still outside your line?

++

I spend my days learning. I learn the curve of the hallways -- where the A wing is, the elusive F -- which bathrooms to use and when -- where to go when I'm alone -- and where to get on the metro so the doors open right in front of the stairs.

And when someone asks you if this is real, the answer is "Yes. Yes, of course it is." Because if this isn't real then I have nothing. If love isn't real then I -- we -- truly have nothing. You may call, or not. We might brush so close to each other again someday, maybe tomorrow. But I'll never have this day back, or that note, or this particular feeling walking home in a frustrated sorrow. I'll never be 6 again, or 7, or 8, my mom will never die again, I'll never be in high school for the first time. I'll learn new curves -- elbows and shoulders, lips -- meet other 'you''s and write other stories -- but I still won't know what I'm doing. It will still be the first time, it will still count, it will still be real. And I'll be here, taking notes.

Yes, this is real. This is very, very real.

I've Waited a Lifetime Now Maybe I've Learned

(Before you read this I want you to know that today is the first day of October and therefore you should go eat many candy corns and also there is no real point/profound meaning to this post. Enjoy.)

++

"How do you know if it's worth the risk? I haven't learned my lesson. I can't tell the future. I will make my own choices and take the blame."
-journal; april 5, 08

"This is neverending. I'm the same person I used to be. I haven't learned, I haven't grown. I'm walking in circles."
-journal; sept 8, 08

"should i
should i
should i
call
you
if i do --
crying, stupid, fumbling, no words
i.e idiot
but i'm 16 again
and this is the same
i will not learn."
-journal; may 21, '09

++

So this is what I know: I know very little. I'm unsure of the things I'm sure of. I doubt my memories, wonder what is real. I wonder who the hell are these other people and what it means to exist. And I know I'm not alone. That's the terrible irony about being alone, though, is there are 6 billion people who all feel the same way, standing next to each other, not talking.

It's easy to feel alone. All you have to do is just .. be alone.

I've learned how to deal with loneliness in a way. I used to truly think I was the only sad person on the planet. It seems ridiculous now, but then, everyone was smiling and I was broken. Now I know better. Now I know we're on the verge of breaking, alone, together. I used to think the only people who understood me were far away.

They don't understand me.

But then again, neither do I.

I've learned not to think about it too much. The simplest way to move forward is to let things go. The heavier your heart, the harder it is to just do things. It's hard to breathe sometimes. If you just shrug your shoulders, if you sigh and take a nap, maybe you'll feel better. How do you grow up? Grow up. You just do.

"There's no way to grow that don't hurt."
- Iron & Wine "Sacred Vision"

++

I never felt like I learned much at the time. School seemed kind of pointless. There other things I would've liked to learn, things I was confused about but didn't know how to ask. I had feelings I couldn't put a name on. I wish someone would've told me it was okay. I wish I would've had the courage to stand up for myself -- if you think the only kinds of people who get picked on in high school are the shy, overweight kids, you're wrong.

"It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies,
but just as much to stand up to our friends."
- Dumbledore "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone"

I read Harry Potter in elementary school but so did that "overweight, nerdy" type guy so I never told anyone. In high school I found out that half my friends were reading Harry Potter secretly. We just didn't want to be "uncool". We didn't want to be associated with that guy we made fun of every day.

I would hate 2001 me now. But that's just how life is, right? There's no way to not grow.

There is no such thing as uncool. The people I love are all different. I'm proud of the way I've grown. I never want to judge another human (as hard as it is) for the rest of my life, because I know what it's like. I always felt like I was on the outside looking in on something so much better than whatever I had. This is what I've learned: there is nothing better on the inside of someone else's life than what you have inside yourself. Being myself is the only way I've ever found happiness, if that's what I have at all.

"Though we say goodbye and wonder
what's to know and who's to blame
but to be myself completely I will love you just the same."
- Belle and Sebastian "Be Myself Completely"

++

I hope you learn humility by being humiliated and honesty by being cheated.

I can love you better now.

love goes a long way..

++