La Rock

this about sums it up. actually. funny, isn't it, how relatable beyonce is in lingerie. 

I was told recently that the first thing that comes to his mind is "raw sex" and have since been seriously considering stalling the action in my life completely. I'm out (and this time I mean it). Decided after a dinner "with the wife" of tofu sandwiches over a glass of wine and dark chocolate, we came to the conclusion that celibacy is godliness in terms of eliminating drama in one's life.

And chocolate, she said to me as the cocoa dissolved in her mouth, is pleasure that's consistent.

I literally, and figuratively, fell hard on my ass about this one. Though my tailbone will recover, I'm not sure about my pride. 

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Funny what a time can do to one's outlook. I had sworn off La Rockette as a place of ill social engagements and disappointment last week, and wound up spending the long weekend there almost exclusively. Har. 

Ginger is in town and my heart has exploded. I can't even begin to tell you how easy it was for her to slip into my life here, speak French with my friends and be my Hutch. We've been walking together, up and down the side of the mountain, before and after bouts of total chaos and dancing, while marveling at Montreal and why she doesn't live here (yet). 

(Tuesday - random Remouski party. Wednesday- Slow Dance. Thursday - Fuck HOMA, Vive Hochelag, followed by La Rock. Friday - night in. Saturday - Silverdoor. Sunday - La Rock & La Fontaine. Monday - tripping. 3d Hubble movie in the old port, China, bikeride through Place des artes & Jeanne Mance chilling. Tuesday - La Rock. Fuck my liver.) 

Strange to say, but the last couple of days have really affirmed my life here. It takes an old friend, a fresh pair of eyes and ears and outlooks, to help you gage where you've been and where you are. "Three years!" we exclaimed, unbelievingly, as we shook our heads and walked to another adventure. 

It's not like we're established or accomplished or in a milieu or anything, but it feels closer to actually being home here. I walk around neighborhoods and regularly run into people I know - which is a small, but beautiful pleasure. 

What's strange about the timing in all this is that I'm about to move out of the home-y comforts and take on a new quartier. Since friends live two minutes in every direction from my (fingers-crossed) new apartment I think it'll be different and good, but I wonder what will happen to my French, my Francophone sister and being invited by proximity. We'll see. 

I've been considering Facebook, if you can believe it. Hah. But I'm not quite ready to take the plunge just yet. I need to start with a cell phone and work my way slowly. Total Luddite action.

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I don't know why this all had to come out like this, but believe it has something to do with Ginger reaffirming my life. Ginger and Patti Smith, that is. 

LOCO

burt and bodies

---these eyes

We embraced—drunkenly after karaoke and 3 a.m. poutine—and when I hugged you fiercely and tightly to me, I didn't remember to thank you for dropping down and reminding through reunion that the life we lived two years ago is not the life we live today. (But that it's still good).

There were no body suits or burlesque numbers this time, but it felt the same and that's why it matters. I wish I could have spent more with you—talking intently about how the UK has shined your boots and studded your jeans—but I treasure the brief mornings shared and the friendly kisses on the shoulder or cheek before leaving to see your family. (You're family).

Thank you for coming back and making me remember. And for living like french fries for dinner three times a week is appropriate. And for embracing my changes. And for loving me.

I love you. London soon. 

---the bodies

I woke up wondering how to feel about the whole thing.  I looked at my limbs and bruises, bite marks and breasts, and thought about that party. What to feel? What to think? How intertwined feelings are—power.pleasure.passion.confusion.committment.resistance.submission.giving.(living.) Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuuuuuck. 

Before I left for this place three years ago, a man drinking wine at the bar told me, "Good girls go to Ottawa. Bad girls go to Montreal." I've been thinking about that lately, and the way he smiled when he said it. Who is bad? What is bad? (His eyes told me it was good.) Is it good? What is good? At least it's real. 

I didn't know then what I know now and I won't know today what I will know tomorrow, you know? Wow. 

I really want to write down the details but not all of them. I want to reinforce the softness and hardness, the confusion of limbs and bodies, the breathing and sweating, but you just had to be there. It's impossible to tell you the way the early sun basked on flesh and messy hair, and made the details so very clear and my mind so blank as I rode my bike down the hill in the wind. Arms outstretched. Jacket flying though the air. Thigh high stockings revealed. 

This city. It must be this city. 

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