Embracing randomness in Montreal (Rachel->Duluth->Prince-Arthur on St-Denis 3am)

Three purple tulips were stolen from a public park this Saturday. Blame Tequila.
Endless night walking, climbing trees and statues, being caught silly on camera, 2:00am chow-mien and 1$ pizza, stumbling upon bizarre art installations made me hug the city of Montreal with unparalleled love.
Today, free museum day has made me feel all feathery inside again. I was able to watch in awe at the last remaining William Kentridge installation at the MACM in light of the “Matters of Time and Space” exhibition. Their newest one, “Appearances”, is eclectically electrifying. It comprises the work of eleven young Québec and Canadian artists who offer a fragmentary portrait of today’s visual arts. There are lots of original works with sparks of sarcasm and a general aura of cautious optimism. Themes of bioethics, consumerism and appearances are served cold and packaged----as it would be expected from artists’ of our generation.
The Science Center was buzzing with people. The goofballs that we were shot paper planes at strangers’ heads. And after today's traumatizing defeat in a shark game that was obviously designed for four-year-olds, I have decided to stay in my fishbowl…forever.
And the time has finally come. The current canvas is my door. The great task of copying Beardsley’s Salomé onto the humble door of my projected new abode (starting September. ) has started. Right adjacent to Xue’s huge replica of Van Gogh’s Cafe Terrace at Night that she painted on her door. A contrast just the way I like them. I feel as giddy as a Japanese school girl.
Pardon my immaturity, but this weekend has given me a pleasant face lift.

I have been thinking about my violin lately. How it’s sitting there, gathering dust, alone and mute. And how memories with violins are the most painful ones.

I read The Seagull by Anton Chekov today. I liked it.

Fake plastic love?

The image reminds me of Magritte.Godot.Ikea.Mary Poppins.Productivity.Chinese porcelain doll.Consumerism.Red.Pierrot.Goth boys.Internet.Fluffly clouds.Puppy love.Deception.Innocence.Psychiatric wards.Curves.Lines.Shallow water.Overpriced feelings.Running for your life.Blue eyes. It's raining men.Nuclear bomb.JFK.Fading.Vladimir.Waiting for the bus.Golfing.Being hungry.Cherries.Boogie man.Surfing.Styrofoam flowers.Memento mori.
This is a Mode photograph by Denis Rouvre, who is no doubt one of the best portrait photographers ever. Check out his webpage. I added a link in "Art Stuff" a while back. Enjoy!

Here are four of my favorites:

Jubilation, momentous, spontaneous, crucifixion, porous, sheep

Dedicated to Little Stubbs,

Every spontaneous moment ended up confined in a half-desolate room. We, in momentous jubilation, fingers intertwined and minds in chemical resonance, observed the all-too-familiar green colored walls in their four-cornered sweet embrace, trying desperately to redeem their fading beauty despite the shit yellow rims drawing out of the ceiling due to years of abuse from the cheap smoke of Chinese cigarettes and the bitter aroma of Columbian Coffee. On those walls, I remembered the plastered kitsch pop-French poster art, the photograph of Einstein riding a bike like a 4-year-old, and some Persian poetry randomly scribbled in crimson ink. I could never sleep in that green walled box; even when you slept as quietly as a half-dead sheep. I should have perhaps been comforted by your presence and the way you resembled a cold white cloud or a medicinal cotton ball, but your porous skin always exhumed the dizzying scent of methadone that made my own pores filled with burning sweat. It made me wonder foolishly whether Christ felt his flesh during crucifixion and whether you were really the silent mass sleeping on that empty bed.


A fiction of no caliber and in serious need of originality. BUT, as you can see, I used all SIX words. *bows*. Thank you, thank you very much.

"J'ai aimé à la folie, tout en restant totalement libre."Simone de Beauvoir
Même aujourd'hui, je n'y crois pas. Ai-je tort?


"I loved to the point of madness, while remaining entirely free." Simone de Beauvoir
Even today, I don't believe it. Am I wrong?

Anomie?

Untitled-Osvaldo Ramirez Castillo (Wood Print)
I dreamt that I faded into this print of Ozzie’s. I could feel the moon’s disapproving glance, while my eyes were fixed on the broken egg and its emptiness.

I've been feeling rather dizzy and lost in the uncertainty and transience that characterizes my life. But it's all I've known, and it's become me, my nauseating cycle of being...and of so many others too as I've been realizing more and more...

Song: Hide and Seek-Imogen Heap

Because
you
say
that
it
beats
like a red funeral drum



Farewell

dust, blood, and stones (2 bloody points)-

*
tel vent soufle sur la solitude du monde
pour que je me rappelle les êtres chers

蜡炬成灰泪始干? C'est un mensonge.

SHE:.......... You are alone.
Can you not approach my sphere?'
HE: 'I'm changing into stone.'

"Debajo de las multiplicaciones
hay una gota de sangre de pato.
Debajo de las divisiones
hay una gota de sangre de marinera.
Debajo de las sumas, un rio de sangre tierna;"

可是, 我们忘了
*
Where crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.


A cut & paste exercise.

Um.. thought I should embellish the blog. Vespertine-Bjork.
I just downloaded the Pagan Poetry video earlier. It's freaken amazing. Poor prude north america deprived of such a beautiful video. Shame, shame, shame! This is something to make feathery love to.

Parental Advisory : you see boobs and random other things.

It's 6 am. On the empty bus home. I haven't slept the night and I am so awake. More than I've been in months. And then, I'm thinking about the big hair ball stuck in my trachea and how, soon, I'll nosebleed to death. Five margaritas and five hours of moshing later, the world is fading out. I tried to get the rage out last night. I really did. But the machine wins.
So I'm here, at 6 am, on the empty bus home. Still myself. As awake as ever.Wondering how long numbness can last.,and how much happiness depends on sunshine dust.


Song roll... Hurt-NIN. Cody-Mogwai. The Nothing Song-Sigur Ros. Hotel Intro-Moby. We the living-Moist. Lucky-Radiohead. Where is my mind?-Pixies. Perfect day-Lou Reed. Pagan Poetry-Bjork.

I love faces.
The big ones. The bad ones. The ugly ones. All of them.

On another note, Lav was telling me about some of the clinical cases they are studying in her Human Cognition class. How, some people lose the ability to process a certain area of thought or conduct some basic tasks after a lesion at a specific region of the brain. For instance, some people, who after suffering from a stroke, are able to “read” perfectly but lose the ability to interpret what they have read, or people who would be able to describe a task, such as mailing a letter, but lose the capability to carry it out. Say our thoughts are mainly regulated by “chunks” of our brains, so many questions arise about who we really are…I mean, most of us have a deep sense of self by our ability to think and process information in our “own way” (at least to a certain extent). However, a head injury can happen to anyone: you can lose the way you form ideas, interpret images (etc…) just like that, simply because a region of your brain is irrevocably affected. How would we redefine ourselves then? Will we need to redefine ourselves?

Unanswerable (?) question #2: Why do humans feel the need to have a place called home?
Please check out Sara Perreault's art at Galerie Desja. Her works are some of the best I’ve seen in this city.

Argh, I just wrote a monumental post and blog lost it. WTF>>>
I'm annoyed as hell now.

SO I'll just summarize the post in one word: Fragments.

After talking to Makito tonight and reminiscing about Claude has made me so eager to relocate and travel for an extended period of time. These are guys that have been around the globe for the past seven or eight years, constantly on the move, entirely self-sufficient by doing sporadic work. Going different places, meeting different people, learning different things. Amazing. Their stories are exhilerating, their passion endless. Very inspiring. I have my head full of images and dreams now.

I think I will have the courage to go. Pack up and leave.
Soon...with my B.Sc. and a C.Tr. in my pocket, a head full of questions and a backpack twice my size.

oh, and summer has officially begun. Lounging on Santropol's cute little patio with the girls has confirmed this. :) And yes, booth pictures baby. Booth pictures are key.

The last time I drew something for Mother's day was when I was 12. I haven't seriously sat down and drawn ever since. It's sad because I haven't improved at all even though so many years have passed, but...meh... mothers are able to appreciate anything you give them...that's a big fat lie but oh well.
I'm tired. It's been a magnificent day. I swallowed the sun, drank too much coffee, people watched, scribbled too much in my journal, read Season of Migration to the North (I absolutely have to write about this novel later), became social again and I fell in love...with my English translation class. Where else would I hear a joke like:
A panda walks into a café. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and fires two shots in the air.
Why? asks the confused waiter, as the panda makes towards the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife manual and tosses it over his shoulder.
I’m a panda, he says, at the door. Look it up.
The waiter turns to the relevant entry and, sure enough, finds an explanation.
Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves.

*geeky chuckle* yup, i'm nerdy like that.

Anyhow, have I ever mentioned how much I enjoy those sacré French cartoonists? here

Alright, I'm off to bed...zzz

"Rain is liquid sunshine"

Max Ernst. J'adore cette photo :)

On dirait que ça fait des années que je n'ai plus écrit en français. :S... bon, ce sera pour le prochain blog... la paresse est un travail à temps plein.

I'm sick, fatigued and unemployed. I have been spending my ailing days drawing, reading and sleeping. Aside from the fact that my ass has become rectangular by moulding itself to this brown rubber chair and that my heart has become apathetic like an adolescent girl due to the lack of exercise....life is beautiful; I almost feel like a flanneur.
bah who am I kidding? I want to go out and become tanned like a peasant plowing the rice paddies. Dear Mr.Sun, I have missed your rays of love.

Listening to: Boards of Canada
Reading: Current directions in abnormal psychology
Mood: Psychotic (what's new?)

"When there is nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire"

Check out:

Strange and rather insane. That's why I like it.
Personal faves:
Salad fingers series:
Spoons
Friends
Nettles
Cage
Picnic
Scribbler:
Scribbler

Beware: not for the faint of heart.

My ideal is to be idle and love a fat boy. But I'm a nomad, so wander I must.



Source: Art Press

Dis-moi, qui es-tu?

If I close my eyes, I will see the red poppies blowing in the wind. I will feel the air brushing against my back as I stand on the endless haystacks of Grand-lez. I will remember Antoine and Arnaud. Those two boys that filled my early childhood and inundated it with the glow of their blond hair, their blue eyes and the way they held my hand while we told each other horror stories underneath covers. I wonder if they ever think of me, if I’m ever a slimmer of melancholy in their present self.

And I think about what makes us …us… They say our cells renew entirely every seven years…what gives us this sense of being us throughout our lives? Our memories? Our thoughts?
Say, I remember someone or an event I shared with someone but the other person does not remember...was I still there? did I exist? Do I get absolved into a fragment of my own imagination? Do we exist only by mutual "aknowledgement" of being??

I'm not here... this isn't happening
Webcams are bad for you. Capturing movement=fascinating.

A writers' blog

Check out:
Aadvark Junto

just my eye