my boyfriends back he's gonna save my reputation...

this is dedicated to epically richard. hah.

sous l'eau. solo.

This photograph is from Toni Frissell, revolutionary WWI war photographer and epic feminist.

it about sums up what is going on at the moment. existing almost fully underwater. floating like a corpse, but breathing.

I spent my night internalizing a theoretical work entitled ‘women and the press,’ which leaves me absolutely suspicious of this entire enterprise and the way it is conducted. Always the questions: for whom? in the name of whom? With every dollar we buy into a commercial culture. With every image we process stereotypes breeding cardinal values. the vortex of self indulgence has been normalized. the world seems successfully manipulated. The rhetoric rises from the grave, with ease. we engage the ghosts.

A quote from Patricia Bradley if I may,

'The struggle for women in journalism has been the struggle to receive the same education, the same opportunities for employment and the same opportunities to rise in the ranks of men. These have been complicated by the terms of the craft imperatives to maintain the very standards that have not served to advance women in general. Thus, part of the history of women in journalism is the story of how women have accommodated identities of themselves as the price of admission.'

shit. what is the price of admission? not writing 'like a woman,' not breaching the 'women's section', the highest compliments to 'newspaperman qualities', the bottom line, the beauty myth, the stunt girls, the fourth estate, advertisements.

I am floating on it, all of it, vast & wide & full of implication. I wonder if I will drown.


--- --- ---
In all of this, though the book is long finished, Henry Miller still rivets and removes me :

‘The wallpaper with which the men of science have covered the world of reality is falling to tatters…

Are these men and women, I ask myself, or are these shadows, shadows of puppets dangled by invisible strings? They move in freedom apparently, but they have nowhere to go...

If there were a man who dared to say all that he thought of this world there would not be left him a square foot of ground to stand on. When a man appears the world bears down on him and breaks his back. There are always too many rotten pillars left standing, too much festering humanity for man to bloom. The superstructure is a lie and the foundation is a huge quaking fear… If now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with his back up, a man whose only defenses left are his words and his words are always stronger than the lying, crushing weight of the world, stronger than all the racks and wheels which the cowardly invent to crush out the miracle of personality. If any man ever dared to translate all that is in his heart, to put down what is really his experience, what is truly his truth, I think then the world would go to smash, that it would be blown to smithereens and no god, no accident, no will could ever again assemble the pieces...

--- --- --- I love this man. Love him.

Did you vote today? I did. This is the way we are told our voices matter. This is civic duty. democratic participation. the impetus of change. ...right.

Being wary of the conservatives (like everyone else) forced me to strategically place my ballot this time around. What other choices are there? Luckily, the man for La Belle, Monsieur Gilles Duceppe himself, represents a party who can block out a conservative majority & just happens to be the incumbent in my riding. How's that for yah? I am non-partisian, but the circumstances are hilarious. first election in Quebec and Gilles Duceppe is on my fucking ballot. I marked an X beside his name, confident Margaret Atwood would be proud and my grandparents would not.

I wonder what the close of this day will translate into? By the end of today what will have changed, really? Will people return once again to lethargic democracy and indifference? Will we, as Canadians, collectively shrug and go back to watching the Americans figure themselves out, nose-diving towards pavement from falling towers, waiting on our hands for their actions to dictate our moves? Will we continue to entertain ourselves with SNL and feel superior electorally? we shouldn't. observation is witness to interesting times, in terms of spectacle and media at the moment. Two 'similar' neighboring countries going through their 'democratic' electoral processes under the microscope of a shaky hegemonic global existence...

I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore, really, so I will stop. There is water in my lungs and ears and eyes. The rain pours outside my window like it did on the corner of Union and Ste Catherines, where I asked myself if any of it would make a fucking difference, and people told me they didn't have any change....

we'll see.

vote on tuesday, kids.

extermination

we had our rooms fumigated today: with less than one hours notice and all of our affairs strewn about in bags (or otherwise). with pot left openly on our tables. with cats abounding. with all of us at our respective jobs. we were told things were going to get laden with toxic chemicals and to have our shit ready. I power-walked a thirty minute distance in thirteen (my bike is in the lesbian shop). upon arriving things went into bags, boxes, dressers. cats went into separate rooms. pot was put away. speed and organization as if there was a bomb about to drop. I hope the poison fucking works; the camel's back has broken.

all this did little to help the remainder of a minor hangover from last nights festivities; I attended a very hip - but not hipster - event coordinated by the 37e festival nouveau cinema. (if any of you recall, last years party had rob v & I the only ones dancing to the dj from we are wolves because everyone was far too cinematically elite) c'etait chouette.

I caught myself doing a little funny thing in preparation for the party; after agonizing for a good ten minutes about what to wear to blend IN with the 'coolest of the cool' in montreal, I found myself geared OUT in manatobania by the end of it, because it was all that left me feeling fidget-less and comfortable. save a pair of brand new holt renfrew suede shoes I found at frippe-prix, I donned tony chestnut, paramix, and a little bison pin. later on, ashamedly, I was fashion blogged by some fag from london and even LATER someone offered me a hundred dollars for my coat. hah.

mais serieusement, event planning in quebec is something else entirely: (an acquaintance of mine is the PR lady who I would have given these accolades but she happens to be a bit stuck up.) the dj was awesome, projected images of dancers (probably ripped from you tube?) danced all over the bar/party area and there was some SERIOUS interactive art/visual media going on in another part of the venue. I witnessed amazing cinematography last night. coincidentally, my once-upon-a-girls-gone-wild-weekend fling was showing his work, which was stunning and made the everything very personal. I knew people. I spoke entirely in french - even talking politics. I felt affirmed. smug. cool. but I didn't do cocaine, thank you very much.


I love this graphic. I love it. every time I see it in the street I want to howl at the moon in solidarity.

- - - - -

l'autre nouvelles: pas vraiment. a four-day weekend leaving me hot in anticipation for my first 'streeter' (are you planning to vote? why or why not?) britt & bretts housewarming. a thanksgiving dinner with janelle ma belle. finishing a history paper two weeks before its deadline. life in the fast lane, as per usual. I am thankful. I feel like the pendulum is finally swinging in the right direction. finally.

pricks. pop. pompadour.

tonight I scalded myself on purpose; the hottest, hottest bath that ever has been. I wanted to go out like cancer thrown into a pot. To sit & soak & let stress & cold burn right off of me. six inches water to escape in. steam flying all around. pink skin. pins and needles.

Staring at limbs lay a trail of bites in a row. at this time, in that light, they resemble the damage done by a needle’s point. I wonder if people wonder about me when I roll my sleeves. a junky queen.

my space is not mine. bare and barren. stripped and exposed. controlled, barely, by quarantine. paralyzed, partly, by parasites. a mattress like an open casket. a coffin of toxins. cold air & perpetual fans. i don’t feel like I live here anymore. remaining things await flame in bags. the nights are long, my bed is shared with midnight snackers. I do not rest in peace.

A series of questions I have been asking in various stages of insomnia: Is this purgatory? Karma? Fortune? Timing? Deserved?

in a mean spirited way, I appreciate that misery loves company. especially now. there is some sick comfort by not being the only victim drawing blood.I dig the collective experience. The neighbors had it first. which means that, Dick, you're off the hook, though I am still suspicious of new york and those who dwell there.

--- --- --
a cold snap has descended on this town post pop pandemonium...

side note friends: it was intense. puces pop. porn pop. symposium. music fest pop. film pop. diy clothing. zinemaking. crafting. everything in five days of madness. MAKING and doing and singing and sharing and networking and inspiring at the brink of winter. it makes me want to hunker down and forget all about my education in favor of becoming - what ? something. not an artist, though. something less, something more; a volunteer for sure. or a zine contributor at least. or a leggy screaming tambourine excuse for dance music. it is good to set goals for oneself. especially at the brink of winter, when things are bleak and cold and you sleep alone. I saw these guys play + http://www.myspace.com/therealhermandune - amazing. what a barbe. check.

the wind is cold, heavy, moist. layers do you no good. 2am bike rides down mountains with wet wind on your face & half-working breaks is indescribably life-affirming and reasonably reckless. nothing save cutting cool air through your body and high hopes no one swings open a car door.

--- --- --- ---

I have been doing some thinking about women in journalism lately and need to talk it out. due to the fact that a) I am writing a history paper on the subject and b) by identifying as a 'journalist' I am now included in this subject position, it feels as if I am opening my third eye or something...

Firstly, if you ever read up on what women went through to get a discourse in the man-made media you will agree that it has been quite the evolution: social attitudes discouraged us, advertising exploited (but at least included?) us, news values changed because of us, and 'info-tainment' couldn't survive a day without us (because advertising STILL exploits us). we are leaders of major social reform, but we are still stunt girls. this is a paradox.

at least women have always been creative in finding ways to participate when they're not included in the dialogue, so fuck you mainstream. fuck you then, fuck you now. it is empowering to know that suffrage sisters were keeping it real with alternative news media since the 19th century and this tradition continues all the way to web 2.0 happening right now. three cheers blogosphere.

perhaps authenticity reigns when it is raw and uncensored by 'man-stream' media - if current industry practices are any indication, they are making this postmodern feminist journalist reel in contempt. the overwhelming popularity of carrie bradshaw, hyper-individualistic, consumer-oriented, emotionally-questionable, marry-me-mr-big, sex and the city style journalism? naked news dot com? 'ken and barbie' anchor people (hetero) sexualizing good morning america with bad haircuts (and no moustaches : ( ) ? bleh. on top of that, this industry is still man-handled with a 60% sexual harassment rate and glass ceiling to boot. something is wrong here. for serious.

I smell the cock.

--- --- ---


but I don't have any answers. yet.
I only have a pompadour.

before I burn them

The Applicant

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit -

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof.
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have a ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of THAT?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk, talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

A poem by Sylvia Plath