Labels: jargon, passages

• The Ship On His Arm
• Pink Slip
• Naked With Tie

...my forgetting could have damaged something that is still very fragile. I often do forget it, how strong one can look and how delicate the ice is around them.

So for all the people who are not me out there, this is for you: HUG.

This post is a hug for everyone who wants it and for all who need it. That is my little part of warmth for you today. Take this hug and carry it with you wherever you decide to walk to today. Transform it into a hand if you want. If you see someone who needs it, hold their hand and smile. It can work wonders. It has healing tendencies. This is a hug for all of those who stood next to me waiting for some time and attention and saw me walk away with a busy crisp jaw. This is a hug for my grandmother that I missed on the week-end due to my cold.

Human contact is a superpower that is in everyone's reach. Offer a hug to your loved ones this holiday season. Write a song about it and sing it while you wrap your arms around someone you care about. Sure this may sound silly to some. And to them, two hugs. And to those who think that that is stupid, three hugs.

Labels: artform, experiment, smile

Now listening to: DNTO on cbc.ca

Whenever I feel like a cycle is slow to end or, if I feel that a new cycle needs to begin, I change something. In the past, it's been nothing but expected moves such as a hair cut, new book, different room or web layout...

Which brings me to this very blog. This page either needs a stroke of colour or needs to be put down. The other blog I'm working on is almost done and it feels good to know that I can still design something of interest. But that is that, a serving of a different blog buffet. This is my venting area. This is where the ramblings come out.

So I guess, on a personal level this is good and for me to tape this up might have uglier repercussions... so to end my thinking out loud: back to the drawing board.

Labels: graphic journal, header

I keep forgetting to talk about it so here you go:

One of my favourite radio shows is Vinyl Cafe with Stuart Mclean.

It's like waking up to the smell of home made bread.

Music, stories and always entertaining.

Sitting in 3 layers of clothing, with a head that feels like a water tank, I'm watching Storytelling.

I've just finished the first part, Fiction. Up to now, I think I picked out a decent movie.

Quotes:

"I don't know about what happened, Vi, because once you start writing, it all becomes fiction."

"I'm not an idiot, man. I watch TV." (holding a gun to his head.)

"I need to see this with an audience."

I've just finished the second and last part, non-fiction, and still think I fell on something worth my time.

I think.... I think reality TV is really sad. I think, the term "reality" is a broken vacancy sign above the TV screen. People tune in to see characters, not actors, being manipulated by script writers and sometimes by the audience. They are the new lab rats.

For your listening pleasure, we will pull and poke them, if that is what you want to see. We will be the evil hand in this, you need not feel guilt over it. Deus ex machina. These are real people dealing with real issues, we are just there to push them in the right direction.

Fiction is the new reality, isn't it?

If we take a daily tragedy, and televise it, we stare and what? We understand what we see but what difference does it make? Nobody will win an oscar for delivering that information. If you spin that same tragedy in a made for television movie, portrayed by really great actors, then it becomes a touching and compelling story. Maybe it gets noticed and then is turned into a full blown hollywood blockbuster... and then we can all remember and relive that sentiment whenever we have time to pick it up at the video store.

Reality isn't cutting it anymore, is it?

Second Life is a website I found on a blogbar. Welcome to the Matrix. I did not get around to signing up but I read it's presentations and saw a character create a guitar in the virtual world. It was interesting but I'd like some feedback from anyone who has tried it out.

What I understood is that some programmers created this virtual world in which you can create your image, your house, your job, your relationships and even invent things that are covered by their IP terms. You can go out on a date, go dancing, get a cup of coffee, buy land, sell land... Most activities you could do right now, except without the hassle of moving, or speaking, or getting wet.

Scary how addicted some people may get to this web. But...

Light Bulb.

If you can somehow harness the power of Second Life tools, if you can meet someone or create something tangible or even revolutionary and hold that element in your human life, then maybe it's worth the investment.

Labels: experiment

“Au-delà de toute sainteté règne l'innocence astucieuse et cruelle des bêtes et des fous.”
-Anne Hébert / Kamouraska

Labels: jargon, passages

I am back from a very intense voyage in time.

I have been witness to elements that have changed me, burned my skin and filled the holes in my eyes.

Someone very dear to me has passed away and I spent these past days going through his remains...

I did not expect to come out of it this way.

Lighter.

Labels: To a person who never returned to the world

Just because I am vegan does not mean that I am a health freak. The truth is, I love sweets. Tasty treats, lacking any kind of nutrients, like Twizzlers (which are vegan), are my weakness.

So for someone like me, who needs to load up on protein in some alternative way, not by pills (can't swallow those things), or by shakes (they taste aweful) and not by simulated meat, it gets a bit complicated.

But as I was browsing some new products in my favorite natural foods store, I found This. It's something like chocolate milk and a fruit smoothie. It's called a Protein Warrior (Antioxidant Superfood Smoothie) and it tastes awesome and is full of organic goodies.

I recommend it to anyone who likes chocolate and omega fat.

Here are some of my quotes you may use to your advantage, put them in any context you want:


“Thanks but it’s getting late.”

“Wow. Really? I did not know that.”

“Ok well that is not a cell number so if you call leave me a message... I screen.”

“Oh yea? Your face is late.”

“lol again @ FAK YOO boaday”

“Everything is linked in some way.”

“He’s my little little. My sweetie, pookie wookie. My little guy. My kitten cakes.”

“Your face didn’t call you.”

“I don’t like the taste of fermentation.”

“Is that chocolate?”

“Above all, no harm. I heard that somewhere and it burned into me.”

“I like how he never discriminates.”

“I always skip the beginning now. Sometimes, I go straight to the end.”

“Monday weirdos.”

“Seriously, I don’t remember. I have no clue what you are talking about.”

“It’s like a reminder of what I cannot forget.”

“That is exactly what I needed to hear. Incredible. I wouldn’t have thought of it. Thank you.”

“I am in love with everybody.”

Labels: confession

Or, How to work around death

With fall comes the glimmer of the beginning of the end. The start is where we launch our hopes out of the fog. The end, where a moment pulls at our toes, slowly turns our head with a warning, a warming of parts forgotten to launch our hearts through the crevices.

Maybe the soundtrack of Our Endless Numbered Days has made it easier for me to accept the leafless bodies that slowly appear from the sidelines. These past days have been filled with family faces, struggling to pull some strength out of their definition of a family tragedy.

I was looking at the shadows on the ceiling of my bedroom the other night and wondered what my father could see at that same moment. But I was actually thinking about my grandfather, I just slipped in the thought of him being my father figure for a split second. But what can he see from his hospital bed? Don’t ask me how old he is. My grandfather is ageless. All I know is that he is younger than my grandmother and that this does not exclude him from the constant ticking.

When I got the news, I was at home, not dressed, not warm, by my mother, trying to deliver a message that still had her stunned. Not blinking, I stared at the shiny floor as I heard some technical words and a shaking voice sink into my skin.

Later, I found myself beside him, holding his hand that was held back by a fuzzy wrist belt. What do I say? Can he hear me? What do I say? What do I say to make it better? I whistle. A faint, vague blur of my breath trying to find it’s way to our memory of his renowned half-whistling while he worked. It sounds like the fall wind through the naked branches. Yes, that is how he whistled. It drove my late uncle Ron crazy when they worked on some garage project together.

In and out of consciousness. Our thoughts bounce back and forth as people who are unaware of the shadows look at us and use this talk that passes by like white and yellow lines. I have to build that database. Is my grandfather still alive? Intensive care is a fancy term for expensive monitoring machines. I can’t build the database without her list. I have to work on the website. My grandfather likes pancakes. When he was able to talk, he told my grandmother, after he woke from a long sleep, that he made pancakes, “the good kind, the kind we like”. Apparently, his mother, before she passed away, also made pancakes.



P.S.: Isn’t Times New Roman the worst font?