[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 9 most recent journal entries recorded in
|Friday, May 25th, 2007|
to being a moth-person who lives in a shoebox. It's hard to breathe and the air is dry, but at least it's something familiar.
|Wednesday, November 29th, 2006|
|Monday, November 27th, 2006|
|Question of the millenium
Last night I dreamt I was on the fringe of a nameless city that converged with an industrial area. Everything was grey: gravel, building, even a nearby body of water. I was on top a crate, fretting about how I would get down. I looked to my right and saw a double-self struggling to climb up a small assemblage of earth and stone. I looked back down and gave a good aggressive jump, landing awkwardly; for a moment my arm felt like it was stuck to the ground. On my feet again, I came across a small discarded selection of notebooks and clothes and other miscellanea. Upon closer inspection they were all personal items from years ago. In a minor panic, I collected them into a bag and left.
I woke up today and it was snowing – frenetic waves of white coalesced into a wooly blanket on my balcony. It felt as if I woke up in Ontario. I wanted to tell someone I love them. I don’t know who this someone is; it’s just a desire. “All is vanity” - the heart is vain. Or is it all done in vain?
Is there a reason to say anything? Or only a need or desire?
When I say reason I mean a universal. I haven't given up looking for 'it'. Thus I'm open to ridicule. But ridicule can be purifying - a snowfall of it's own.
|Wednesday, May 31st, 2006|
|Monday, May 29th, 2006|
|Sunday, April 23rd, 2006|
I was re-reading Abe's The Box Man, and I came upon a passage in which the protaganist is considering the properties of shellweed. Having never heard of shellweed, I googled it, and the first hit displayed the passage in question, and no other links, or context as to why it's up. I thought I 'd leave you the exerpt: I wonder if you've heard about shellweed. It may be this grass with thorny leaves like twists of firecrackers that covers the whole rocky slope where I am now sitting.
When you smell the fragrance of shellweed they say you dream of being a fish.
The story should be taken with a grain of salt, I feel, but it's not implausible. As shellweed prefers swampy land containing considerable salt, naturally it grows readily at the seashore, and it is not particularly surprising that there should be a tradition of its odor producing dreams of fish. Furthermore, according to one explanation, the alkaloids in its pollen bring about a floating sensation that resembles dizziness; and since at the same time it irritates the respiratory membranes, it is also possible, apparently, to have the hallucination of drowning in water.
Modifying the web url, I tracked it back to here, which looks interesting enough: http://chappie.stanford.edu/
I also came across a BoxMan play. http://thelink.concordia.ca/article.pl?sid=04/09/28/0342207
It ran at Concordia University, the other school I applied to and would have been accepted at. I guess the vacuum of culture here in Victoria, the suffocating britishness of this place trumped Montreal's joi de vivre. Actually, it was the fear of a black out in the middle of a Quebec winter that did it. I won't even mention the irony of taking a french language course.
|Monday, March 27th, 2006|
|Sunday, March 26th, 2006|
|Thursday, March 16th, 2006|
Paradjanov to Tarkovsky:
"You are my great friend but there might be something lacking in your art, and it's that you haven't spent at least a year in Soviet prison. Being in total darkness, hungry, and full of lice, man begins to think differently about the universe, to experience differently the sunlight, life."