if i had a hammer

Let's go back in time and grow our hair long and stick a flower or two in that hair and wear big pants that sway around our ankles as we walk and flash those two fingers at friends and lovers and strangers.

the grey estates

Today I woke up early (for me) and so it was still relatively early when I left the house, and the sun was shining so bright, and I was listening to Wolf Parade (aren't I always?) and it suddenly felt like spring was just around the corner. I knew we still had (at least) another two months of snow and slush and more snow and more slush and dark afternoons and pink fingers ahead of us, but at that moment those two months felt like a breeze. Because I knew what waited me after those two months: a pale yellow sundress and an expectant patio, a glass of sangria and good conversation, falling asleep under park trees, romping around around around, a possible bike ride or two, slip-on shoes, THIS PORCH, a wombmate's eventual return in August, late nights turning into morning.

I also bought this the other day, and it makes me want to go back to a simpler time full of ducktails and hoop skirts and milkshakes. And because I well realize that this wish is impossible, I will settle for the goal of taking more photographs on my parents' slr so that maybe I too can capture a perfect moment, or two.

on your back with your racks as the stacks as your load

Cathartic? A recipe for disaster? However you want to classify it, starting your day by reading old e-mails from past crushes/loves/whatevers surely leads to an interesting morning. For one, you are instantly transported back to a sometimes simpler but often more confusing time. Your heart thumps again remembering the anticipation that came ___ years ago. You still blush at the words that were written, and the way you responded to them. And you realize the feelings you had for that one boy weren't so unique after all. And happy or sad, this realization follows you around like a lightbulb blinking frantically above your head for the rest of your day.

this heart's on fire

There's something about owning one of your favourite albums on vinyl. There's especially something about listening to your favourite song from said favourite album on a -20 degree winter evening like today. It gives your step an extra bounce. It makes the upcoming days seem a bit brighter and a whole lot warmer. It reminds you of a summer so many years ago where you walked into the heat and humidity all wide-eyed and new. It reminds you of stepping off one #6 into the middle of a bustling campus and how comfortable and good it felt to be there (wave hey! hello! hi there!). Time keeps a ticking, but there's always that one song that can bring you back to a time you almost forgot.

inbetween days

I have no idea what awaits me in the days ahead, or how I will survive the next seven months of school when I can't even manage to pick up one assigned book during a two month long strike, but then there are moments like this afternoon where it may be -23 degrees outside, but the sun is streaming through your window and it no longer feels like the dead of winter, rather you have to turn off your space heater and open your curtains and welcome this brightness into your room and turn up your favourite song and dancedancedance and sing "come back come back don't walk away come back come back come back today come back come back why can't you see come back come back come back to me" because you love the song and not because it reminds you of any one single person anymore.

you're the only ten i see

LIFE STORY

After you've been to bed together for the first time,
without the advantage or disadvantage of any prior acquaintance,
the other party very often says to you,
Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you,
what's your story? And you think maybe they really and truly do

sincerely want to know your life story, and so you light up
a cigarette and begin to tell it to them, the two of you
lying together in completely relaxed positions
like a pair of rag dolls a bored child dropped on a bed.

You tell them your story, or as much of your story
as time or a fair degree of prudence allows, and they say,
Oh, oh oh, oh oh,
each time a little more faintly, until the oh
is just an audible breath, and then of course

there's some interruption. Slow room service comes up
with a bowl of melting ice cubes, or one of you rises to pee
and gaze at himself with mild astonishment in the bathroom mirror.
And then, the first thing you know, before you've had time
to pick up where you left off with your enthralling life story,
they're telling you their life story, exactly as they'd intended to all
along,

and you're saying, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,
each time a little more faintly, the vowel at last becoming
no more than an audible sigh,
as the elevator, halfway down the corridor and a turn to the left,
draws one last, long deep breath of exhaustion,
and stops breathing forever. Then?

Well, one of you falls asleep
and the other one does likewise with a lighted cigarette in his mouth,
and that's how people burn to death in hotel rooms.

Oh, Tennessee, how do you get it so right?

at the hop