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Lies Just Pouring Out Of Your Mouth

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Sunday, June 18th, 2006
10:10 pm - The City from the Sea

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Friday, June 2nd, 2006
6:37 pm - There are millions and millions of people around, on my TV, walking my streets, making sounds

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Friday, May 19th, 2006
12:16 am - Downtown

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Friday, May 12th, 2006
1:48 pm - Chinatown

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Thursday, May 11th, 2006
6:20 pm - In The City No. 1
In The City No. 1

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Tuesday, May 9th, 2006
11:53 pm - The Commute

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Wednesday, May 3rd, 2006
12:44 am
I hate how it's May and I'm still writing exams. Today I wrote an exam, the second in two days and I walked across town. It was so beautiful I nearly crapped myself, what with the trees and the leaves bursting like green acne across the blue, blue sky. I walked across the green lawns of campus with everyone hanging out or moving out or whatever and I walked down the sunny avenue lined with hospitals with the hot dog stands and the smoking doctors and bike couriers and it was all so beautiful! And what a feeling it was feel all the dread in the world sublimate into fat blue air, despite my runny nose and watery eyes, and what a feeling it was to not worry about the day when it all comes crapping down again in torrential, depressing rain. And the women! The womenfolk in skirts like wads of tissue paper, those cottonelle maidens, each one a chance to blow the nose! And all I want to do is eat fried chicken and drink beer at the ferry docks and get on with May!

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Sunday, April 23rd, 2006
1:28 am - Saturday, Saturday night
Saturday night comes blowing in like the wind off the lake, desperate to be cool, coming off as cold and ragged instead. Cold and ragged and the taste of beer in the mouth, the foaming and frothing youth like packs of wolves down bouelvards and avenues and intersections, sauntering to bars, to make dart displays and to practice that cunning poker face. At the bars, and the bars to step on, with the worn out shoes or the frayed boots and the flipped up collars to cheeks and the hands on the backs of women with their chests bound in handkerchiefs, and the jeans and the rips and the strategic overtips. All the while, the paraphernalia, the pictures of the Kennedys and the Ramones on the walls act like witnesses to the plans made, the summer pacts, the trips and traces on the map and the brotherhood and the blues and the booze for blood, and brotherhood! And I've been here before, composed hard before the subway doors, with all the rigidity of Soviet bones, like an imbecile with his eyes rolled back, like an imbecile, or a sleeping doll with blinking eyes. And I compose myself before the subway doors like a swaying palm to the rhythm of the subway, with the other drunks slumped against the democracy of the highway, snoring like the churning of the life pursuit: and at the end of this freedom and striving is the right, no, the need to puke.

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Sunday, April 9th, 2006
12:51 am
When the parade of effervescent drunks
and show horse women
have made their way
home safely and the street reverts to
back a Wild West nowhere, where
there is only the howl of the highway,
the sigh of the broken button moon,
and a dandruff starfield
set against the midnight blue suit sky

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Saturday, March 18th, 2006
12:44 am
Gray fog hangs over the bridge over the valley,
obscuring the parkway
and the procession of modern horsemen
rushing out to the suburbs,
that noose around the neck of the city.

And in this fog, it is easy to imagine
that nothing here will ever happen,
and that nothing ever has

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Wednesday, January 25th, 2006
10:52 pm - note
"It is easier to be a lover than a husband for the simple reason that it is more difficult to be witty every day than to say pretty things from time to time." - Balzac.

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Saturday, December 31st, 2005
12:52 am - The Last Day of The Year
The city is not a story and there are no heroes. Instead we have millions of little rush hour ants scurrying about through their various ant mazes to get to their commuter trains to get to ant hills. We have little ants for people with their little scrunched up faces in the wind, clutching their collars to their throats and coats to their breasts to keep the warmth from bleeding out between the buttons on their funerary winter coats. We have furious little ants waiting for late trains and telephone calls on their cell phones. There are little ants and rats that cheat bus fare, and none of it matters to anybody except the little authority ants that drive the buses, man the tolls, guard the gates, etc. There are little disasters that befall our little ants, little inconveniences and frustrations to fill the minutes on the evening news, little outrages and anecdotes to fill the winter nights and conversations. Sometimes they notice but usually not. We have little ants in diners with similar ketchup dinners and ants gathering later in bars with their Christmas lights and retro soundtracks to drink similar beers, or rum and cokes or whatever, and maybe play pool. At bars and places, have little ant reunions between ants who have lost touch over the little ant years, and in the tables next to them we have other little ants who make heartfelt pledges to keep in touch, little ants who promise to see-ya-soon, and it's all a little sad. Across the room we have clever little ants ordering sex on the beach and orgasms, little ants who wonder if the bartender is hitting on them, little ants who pay the cheque everytime and other little ants who are fed up with these deadening scenes of crap. But these are scenes and one acts, not stories, and there are no heroes.

All over the city, you have your little people who miss the colour bled out from life, who miss the colours of the last days of April and the bright ones in May, sunny Banana Republic ads in Tribute magazines from the movies and striped t-shirts at the mall. You have sad little people sleepwalking through the gray city who miss the blue of the sky, the green of the parks, the rash-blush colour on the cheeks of their co-workers and other signs of life. But for all the desire for all the colours and all of life, the city is bled white. For example, the death white of the snow banks, the stove, the refridgerator humming in your kitchen, your computer, toilet paper, your ipod, grocery bags and the milky white bathwater you've stepped out of and let go of.

And that is all there is in the city, no stories and no heroes, but millions of intersecting routines and needs and coma white lives everywhere, living for the schedule and oblivious to all the stupid little things in the city, and to the gathering storms beyond the little city.

current mood: bored as fuck

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Tuesday, November 15th, 2005
10:43 pm - November Rain
We've come to the ass end of the year where everything is not alive, where nighttime is the colour of banker's suits and the street is glossed with rain and lined with mausoleums for houses and sentences go on and on like a march of words to the drumming of grammar, like sleepless weeks and desire and German words for numbers. All through town, people stumble through the days like fuel guzzling engines just leaking life and idling for paychecks and warm baths and afternoon breaks and lucky breaks, game updates and first dates. So I sleep through the day and sleepwalk through the afternoon, all bound to tasks while cranes and waitresses and policemen downtown are bound to theirs. And the day has its own tasks, painting rust on high schools and dust on window sills and floor boards and spinning library fines for wincing fools too busy nursing grimancing hearts to abide by due dates and petty library fines.

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Friday, October 7th, 2005
11:45 am - Bittersweet Symphony
Last night I had this dream that I was doing cocaine with Richard Ashcroft and a bunch of weird kids from high school. I took a snort of blow and I was blinded and all I could hear was this weird funk music and I had to do a thumbs up to let everyone know I was cool. This morning, I found an umbrella walking down a ramp in the rain. Fuckin' awesome.

current mood: weird

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Sunday, July 24th, 2005
11:36 pm - Summer sucksss
Whereas spring moves with the urgency of a world changing, a city blooming, and colour retutning, summer is, for all intents and purposes, a dead end. Summer is oversaturated sunshine, muggy heat, boredom and mindless routine that turns the days and weeks into nothing but Fridays, and there is no Clementine on this coastline on Saturday. Summer is droning baseball on television and the pitches don't come. Summer is the mud that turned to dust and beer gone warm and acid reflex after half price wings and heat strokes in the museum, where the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo. Summer is the lakeshore melting into a haze with the sailboats and the treelines on the island, and it's all too hot to enjoy. Summer is the sizzling sidewalk, and the sizzling hot dogs on the grills on the sidewalk, and summer tastes like the salt on the end of your straw from the finger tips of your waitress. Summer is a steaming pile of dog shit on the same sidewalk covered in hungry flies. Summer is when the air conditioning needs to be on but your tenants downstairs are not home and nobody's there to close all the windows.

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Friday, July 8th, 2005
11:04 pm - Tribute to Noel Gallagher and the summer time



current mood: creative

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Thursday, June 30th, 2005
11:41 pm - In '69 I was 21, and I called the road my own
I wandered like a nowhere man today in the hot June afternoon, withering like the leaves on the trees in the heat, just as I did yesterday. I walked downtown on King Street, which was as good as abandoned, save for the people working inside those pretentious furniture stores selling pricy Bauhaus knockoffs. I walked and I walked. I walked down to Union Station for no good reason at all where people made their departures and phone calls and then down to Skydome and CN Tower where everybody was having a fine time eating kabobs and ice cream and then down to the lake where girls in flip flops waddled alongside the tall ship restaurants and heads rested in the laps of lovers and babies cried out and seagulls swooped and cried along with the babies. The haze was oppressive and blue gray like the water in the bay. The trees on the island looked sad and small, but I may have been projecting or something. No, I wasn't. I was in the world and of the world, melting in the crowd and in the heat as I sat and walked and waited and departed finally, leaving the scene to saunter and languish and swoop and cry.

There is much to hate about the summer and the heat. I hate the way the angry sun hits the sidwwalks and windshields of cars in the afternoons, and the nighttime is a boring desert for hours to die and all television does is repeat itself on reruns, and all CNN can do is show small industrial disasters and neighborhood catastrophes and all the sad faces of all the victims stranded in other nowhere places blanketed and occupied by summer. But you have to love it when all the streets are full of fluttering skirts and heaving titties.

current mood: good

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Wednesday, June 22nd, 2005
7:18 pm - Got a pothead momma got a cokehead dad

I slept 12 hours last night and dreamnt that I was the deadbeat father of a black child and we were stuck in a supermarket and I was trying to prove to the cashier that I didn't beat his mother. It was a very coherent but strange dream and I don't know what to make of it. I've done very little today, I read a Mojo magazine and drank a Gatorade and looked at Lake Ontario and the blue sky for a long time. Lake Ontario smells very fishy and the maritime stink sticks to your skin, so I don't recommend the lakeshore for anyone who wants to go down there. 

How sexy is Marika Green?

 



current mood: listless

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Monday, May 30th, 2005
12:34 am - fucking moping shit fuckass boring goddam fucking batshit cunt bag summer hell
I spent my 8016th day (today) on earth doing very little of anything. I haven't worked since Thursday night, which feels good, but this positive feeling is offset by the fact that it's back to work tomorrow, and by the fact that I haven't done anything too interesting in the days in between. Drinking and going out to bars, cheap beer nights, dance floors and blowup doll bartenders depress me, and I will do my best to avoid further exposure in the near future. I am so serious about this that I'm thinking about camping out on the island alone to avoid social contact and drinking for my birthday. Just me, gooseshit and the polluted air.

Good conversations have been hard to come by lately. I think the only interesting conversation I've had in the past week has been about orchids and the way they manipulate colonies of ants to protect them. I don't know if I'm going brain dead or if the whole world is going brain dead. I blame all of society's ills on "The Fabulous Life of."

I dread the idea of going back to work tomorrow. I hate the idea of talking to old people about flowers and lawn care and roses and hanging vines and motor oil and spark plugs and barbeque parts and other fucking boring things for ten hours straight with lonely old women, retirement aged men and fat jackass pricks. I'm so very Canadian Tired. I want to look for a new job, but I'll probably be stuck in sales or be stuck pouring coffee for idiots and cleaning toilets, starting shifts at 4 in the morning, or selling romance novels to idiots in bookstores or lint brushes in pet stores or dildos or whatever, which doesn't sound very pleasant at all. Plus I have no tangible thing to really save and spend my money on now that the wheels of my New York trip have fallen off. It's not like I didn't see it coming, but it's still very blah.

On a positive note, I've unusually active the past little while. As a result, I've lost my beer gut. The Oasis album is coming out on Tuesday, which is also very nice.

current mood: alienated

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Friday, May 20th, 2005
12:35 am - Title
I had the most impressive architectural dream the other night, and unlike most of my dreams it was a coherent narrative. It started out with a kind of film noir night on a tram car up Broadview, and it was raining or misty or something and Nazi bullets whizzed by occasionally from the sky, but it was all very casual to the dream diegesis. It was reminicent of the general feel of Casablanca come to think of it. Much later, I make it to a subway station, and it looked like a cross between Blade Runner street scenes, a ngihtmare Tokyo or Hong Kong or something and Broadview Station under construction. There were work crews and welders running around building up the complex as more Nazi bullets whizzed by. It was a neon wilderness, that station, with tattoo parlors and fruit stands and news stands and it was smokey everywhere. And it was raining indoors. I took a big escalator down a level and found a subway platform I've come across briefly before in dreams. It was a huge platform that was kind of a cross between Fritz Lang's Metropolis and an overgrown mine tunnel. There were DOUBLE DECKER subway cars with commuters and tired salarymen and flappers everywhere and I somehow understood all this to be New York City. It was all very gritty and there was big city despair for everyone. Out of this maddening throng of public transit commuters I run into a great looking girl and she takes me to Central Park, and the dream ends with this scene:


Image hosted by Photobucket.com

which is not Central Park, but a grave in a cemetery across the street from the World Trade Center hole.

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