me and you

Well summer school's been killing me. I've been working really hard, and I still probably won't do terrific. At least I'll graduate soon though. And then i'll be out in that big scary world. For the past month i haven't written the smallest snippet of a poem, not nothing. I haven't even read a poem. I've been on, poem detox or something. (this usually happens after every time I finish an intense poetry workshop). But I realized tonight that I really, really miss it. And even though I have finals to study for and papers to write, to hell with them, I need a break for my own sanity. So I decided to take the night off, bought a bottle of wine, some cigs, took out my favoritest books of poetry and just relaxed. I wrote the following poem, nothing special but at least it's something for now. I'm not too worried about quality right now, just about putting words (any words!) on a piece of paper.

ELEPHANT GRAVEYARD

Houseflies rise off of us, we still haven’t learned
to die in style. You said your heart kept going

after the fact. I used to go crazy getting through
those layers of artichoke. You were always so close.

We can never tell our children the things
we’re supposed to tell them: Look both ways

before crossing the street. Look both ways before
getting a job. Being grown-up. Look both ways

and then turn back. And run, and run. And what our
mothers always used to say: “Don’t cry over spilt

milk.” Unless you really feel like crying. Unless
that milks all you got left. An elephant graveyard

is nothing but memories. Big, fat memories
that you put somewhere to hide. And one day

you dust them off and look at them, and say:
“Where have you been all my life?”.

-END-

Anyway. How long can you hold your breath? close your eyes and try it right now. i can only hold mine for 31 seconds. doesn't it feel like you're freezing time?

Current Mood: artistic
Current Music: air

I've been so busy with summer classes the past few weeks, but i've still managed to find time to do some really nifty stuff and work on some ideas for an experimental animation. Haven't been writing much but I feel some stuff moving around up there, a couple things keep popping into my head; elephant graveyards, bandages, artichoke hearts and scuba diving to name a few, so i think those will turn themselves into a poem sometime soon.

Went out to piano's over the week-end, and although it's only a lounge it gets very rowdy, and i realized i don't like the whole scene. I love dancing, and drinking, and music, but all that is ruined by the constant attack of boring men and the weird urgency for women to try to dress and act as slutty as possible. I wish I could find a fun lounge to drink/dance at where hooking up was not the main priority, and girls and boys alike could just dance silly and crazy instead of trying to seduce someone from across the room.

Also went on a boat cruise with my dad and sis around new york for 3 hours which was really interesting and made me feel like a tourist. I love feeling like a tourist because you get that sense of awe and curiosity, you don't feel guilty about spending lots of money and the goal is to explore.

On saturday I took the train over to Asbury park in NJ, which sounds lovely but really is not. There I got to catch a Weakerthans concert, which was really good. The lead singer is the cutest canadian ever, and he reminds me a little of Thom Yorke, but a happy go lucky version. Here's a clip of one of their songs:


The color of the sky in this picture makes me feel this warm feeling inside, like taking a nap in a field of daisies or eating blueberry pancakes on a sunday afternoon.
See the rest here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jenniferfaylor/

In other news, I finally got a mac! I'm now very very in debt but very very happy. I also realized I want to start exploring the U.S. more. Firstly I can't afford to go back to Europe anytime soon, and secondly i think there must be some cool places in this country. I love taking the train so maybe I'll do that route.

Did anybody read the book 'But No Elephants' as a child? I think it was one of my favorites when i was real young I think it taught me an important life lesson, that even if you're not terribly crazy about something/someone/an elephant to begin with, given time you may grow to like or even love that thing/person/elephant. Funny.

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: White Stripes

I returned from my holiday in Europe the other day. Lot's of crazy whirlwind fun; like being in a whirlwind without the wind. London was rainy and boring, Rome was spectacular, and Paris as usual rocked off my little polka dot socks. Accidentally left my favorite owl Benny at home, poor thing. Pictures soon to follow, but don't hold your breath because I'm busy with summer classes.

Went to the dentist today. "Why is your mother walking around with no teeth and why am I holding her teeth in my hands?" he asked me. I had no answers for him, but I wonder at times whether this is a credited dental clinic or an underground black market dental clinic.

Reading "No one belongs here more than you." which is a collection of beautiful stories by Miranda July. She's a performance artist/writer/director (director of "Me you and everyone else we know") and generally very awesome. I'm in love with the book so far, and it's bright pink so I love it even more. I hold it over my heart as I walk, well okay over my boob, and hold it tight. I believe in osmosis (in the non scientific way), which is why i'm particular about who I spend time with.

I've been having weird vivid dreams lately where I kiss certain people that I know. (People that I normally would never kiss in real life!) then I wake up and think for a minute that I love that person. It's a strange feeling. And it makes me want to synchronize my heartbeat with everyones that I love. I also want to learn to speak Esperanto this summer, which is a constructed international auxiliary language. It's an interesting idea to have one international language so that everyone could understand everyone. Esperanto means 'one who hopes'.

New radical poem revision, the format of poopy livejournal screws up several of my line breaks, but what's a girl to do.

GLOW IN THE DARK SURGERY IN 9 ACTS

1. The dead stars don’t matter, the alive ones will die
too. And I and you. The test in lucid dreaming

is to turn on a light switch. Yes, we can defy gravity
and disassemble bodies, but can’t be trusted with electricity

in the dream world.

2. For glow in the dark surgery we require only the body
to be darkened. Our instruments will be sterilized
and phosphorescent.

3. Our instruments will put on a symphony in the blackened cavity
of the body you open up to us. Open up to us. We’ll keep playing
until your intestines light up, until you’re healed, until the
music’s gone and we’re left only with air.

4. Stop saying ouch, we haven’t touched you yet.

5. In preparation for the surgery please consume the cores
of all these apples. Never mind the fruit itself; it’s green yet
or it’s rotted. Never mind the mouth, or the tongue, or the
swallowing.

Drop the matter directly into your belly; let the seeds become bright
eyes, let the pulp turn into flesh, it’ll sweeten into small babies
in your abdomen.

6. This is necessary, your brain is already 90% mold,
you don’t want to implode into a black hole do you? Then keep still.

7. Your hearts finally been hardboiled. Pressure
doesn’t turn everything into a jewel, you know. The cracking shell
peels away easily, and underneath a rubberized enamel that beats
quicker when we come near.

8. Now we saw you in half, now we saw you in quarters, now we saw off
the parts of your body that are getting old.

9 The stitching up of the body is the easiest part, it prefers
to remain closed.

-END-


cutest owl of life with my new book

I have to prettify, going out to dinner in a bit. But what I really want to do is take a nap with Benny.

Current Music: french pop music

GLOW IN THE DARK SURGEON

The dead stars don’t matter, the alive ones will die
too. And I and you. The test in lucid dreaming

is to turn on a light switch. Yes, we can defy gravity
and disassemble bodies, but can't be trusted with electricity

in the dream world. I'm now a surgeon with glow in the dark
scalpels, I’ve done this a million times before.

The surgery is necessary, your brain is already 90% mold,
you don’t want to implode into a black hole do you?

Then keep still. I’m also a magician who wears night vision
goggles in the morning and creates symphonies on wine glasses.

I can saw you in half, I can saw you in quarters, I can saw off
the parts of your body that are getting old, it won’t hurt a bit.

CARDBOARD CUTOUT FACTORY

The cardboard cutout factory was built in 1986
with the intention of making our lives easier. Boy

and girl cutouts roll down the assembly line, their bodies
serrated and identical, spaced an inch apart so that

they nearly touch. We think they look more beautiful
that way. Today the news anchor tells us there’s no use

building cardboard houses, it’ll just end up raining. And
onto the next story: “Things are looking bad.”

The bumble bees we sent to outer space have been
making honey for an empty galaxy. Now they’re organizing

a strike based on the following complaints: 1. They’re underpaid,
2. They’re going extinct, 3. They’re not even real

anymore. We’ll have to construct a new factory
to create replicas of them, then tape them to dandelions

and tulips and hope for the best. We think we can have
real honey from fake bees, maybe it’ll be better

that way. We think even the blossom should have
serrated edges, even the news anchor, even the news.

Current Mood: cold
Current Music: dandy warhols

EDIT: *Not sure what the protocol is, but thought I should take this poem down as it will be in print soon.*

The Goldfish

My girlfriend Maggie gave me the goldfish the day she left me. I woke up one morning to find that she’d taken all her things and gone. I thought back to the night before, everything had seemed fine. We’d gone to bed early after seeing a movie at the Regal. Right before I fell asleep I remember her telling me to take out the garbage in the morning. That was the last thing she said to me. Those are terrible last words, in my opinion. Anyway, on the coffee table she’d left the copy of the keys I’d given her after only 3 months of dating. Next to the keys was a small round fishbowl; a goldfish fluttering its tangerine fins inside. The fish had thickly rimmed eyes that bulged out slightly, with one being a bit larger than the other so it appeared he was constantly winking. I named the fish Benny and put him on top of the television set that didn’t work anymore. That day got me thinking about last words. It would be terrible if the last words I spoke before I died were about toilet paper or bacon or something. It was then that I began my search for the perfect last words.

I went to the convenience store on the corner and bought a black book. I collect my life into small black journals; each one 4 by 6 inches and unlined. I have one for all the girls I’ve slept with, one for the interesting things I hear on the subway, and even one for comebacks I’d thought of two hours after an argument was over. Once I got back home I labeled my new journal “Last Words” in shiny silver marker, and on the first clean page wrote “Don’t forget to take out the trash”. Over the next few weeks I did a lot of research and collected as many last words as I could find. I even went down to the local nursing home and asked if they could remember the last words of all the people that died there. That lasted only a few minutes until a large nurse approached me and asked me to take my business elsewhere.

I keep all my journals lined up on the top of the metal bookshelf in my living room. The bookcase has no backing to it and obscures one of the windows. Sunlight shines through the spaces of air between the books; striping the green carpet with it’s light. Midday is the best; the narrow slits of 1 p.m. light become dust beams, illuminating the millions of bodies of dust that drift down to the floor. Sometimes I like to interrupt this delicate latticework and pass my hand through the dust pillars, like a performer gesturing to his audience. They re-form so instantly though, that it seems I had not passed through at all.

It is now springtime, and springtime is beautiful. Benny and I have been getting along fabulously. On a small piece of paper I’d written: “Sebastien and Benny” in boxed letters and slipped it behind the plastic plate on my mailbox. Everyone who came to my apartment after that thought I’d gone nuts. It was nice living without a woman, though. Benny never nagged me to take out the trash or to pay more attention to him. He was pretty content in his little bowl. He didn’t have any of those stupid fake plants or glow in the dark gravel in there either, just him and the water. He was a minimalist, you see.

One last words quote I found reminded me of Maggie. She was the type of person that got distracted easily and always glanced behind you as you spoke to her. Her small brown eyes would make people uncomfortable if she stared at them for too long; it was as though she had firecrackers in her irises. Anyway, one evening while we were having sex she stopped suddenly and opened her eyes, those spotlight eyes of hers startled me.
“Do you hear the rain?” she’d asked. She then ran over to the window, completely naked and completely beautiful, and stuck her head out into the sudden downpour. I wonder who she’s sleeping with now, and if she makes that low guttural purring sound when they stroke the back of her neck. I wonder if her skin is still see-through pale in the dark, if you can still trace the neon blue piping of her veins to her heart. I don’t miss her really, but I do wonder about these things. Well, the quote I found was buried in an old stack of newspapers. A 7 year old pilot was about to take off for what would be her last flight, and into the telephone her little voice:
“Do you hear the rain? Do you hear the rain?”

It was a long day at work and I decided to cut out a little early. I work as a data manager at Logicorp, and my days consist of staring at long strings of numbers, interjected by the occasional bathroom break. To leave the building requires a special key, even to enter the state of the art elevator requires a special key. If you swipe your card the wrong way the bulb above the door lights up red, do it again and it starts beeping. It was a cold April day and I stood outside the building and smoked a cigarette before I had to make my way over to the train. I stared upwards at the north facing side of the building’s structure; all steel and shining glass windows with one stripe of orange sunlight traversing it. The wall curved inward slightly, resulting in the distended reflection of the things around it. As I took a drag from my cigarette I counted each row of windows from the bottom up. 37. I flicked my cigarette butt to the ground and it landed in a small stream of collected rainwater that was running alongside the curb. It moved slowly away from me as I buttoned up my grey trench coat, until finally disappearing into a gutter.

On the way home I stopped to pick up a few things for dinner; a whole fish and some vegetables along with a beer. I was used to buying for two so when the grocery clerk rang up $9.84 I thought he’d made a mistake. At home I un-wrapped the trout and rinsed it in warm water under the faucet. I rubbed its slippery skin with dishwashing liquid; the iridescent bubbles collecting on my knuckles. I pre-heated the oven and as a slow warmth spread through the kitchen I sliced the trout open length-wise. I caught my knife beneath the lip of the still partially open mouth; from which the fish had taken its last gulp, and drew the blade down to its silvery fins. Its cloudy dead eyes watched me as I did this, continued watching as I stuffed the slit with chopped carrots and rice. Twenty minutes later the oven beeped and I sat down to eat. I laid my plate on the coffee table in front of the television, which I’d finally gotten fixed. I had moved Benny over to the coffee table for fear of poisoning him with radiation, and so he could watch T.V. with me. Turning to the history channel I found they were broadcasting a special on communication within the armed forces. Eating the fish slowly, it needed salt, I watched as grainy black and white stills were flashed across the screen.
I was picking my teeth with one of the trout’s rubber like bones when the program really caught my attention. They were describing the use of Morse code in the armed forces. The narrator had a flair for the dramatic when he spoke, I pushed my plate away and listened:
“The French navy then ceased use of Morse code in 1997. The final message broadcasted, for anyone to hear was as follows.” After that I watched a blank screen as a series of short and long beeps sounded out, and then printed across the screen was its translation:
“Calling all. This is our last cry before our eternal silence.” I then switched off the television and wrote that down in my last words journal, and fell asleep to the dull sound of falling raindrops on the 11 o’clock street outside my window.

Waking up the next morning I decided the apartment was in need of a spring cleaning. I began by folding up the dozens of newspapers that had collected around the living room floor. They all had several rectangular cutouts where I had taken out photographs to paste in my journal entitled: “People I don’t know”. After tidying the living room I proceeded to the bathroom, where I pulled on a pair of yellow rubber gloves. Tapping a bit of powdered bleach out into the bathtub a small puff of white dust rose up. I breathed it in and it reminded me of every hospital I’d ever been in; that sterilized dry chemical smell always made me think of sickness. As I scrubbed mildew and watermarks off the sides of the tub I imagined all the sick people in the world being scrubbed clean with bleach; all their sadness and disease being bleached out until even the hands that scrubbed them were white.

When the bathroom was clean I moved on to the kitchen, dusting off cans of beans and lining up boxes of spaghetti. After a couple hours everything in the apartment looked picture perfect, and I was pretty proud of myself. I looked over at Benny and he was swimming spiritedly around his little bowl, he was obviously pleased as well. I decided to clean out his bowl, but first drew a bath so I could have somewhere to put him as I cleaned it. When the tub was 2/3rds full I shut off the water and dropped him in; he barely made a splash. Just as I’d started to scrub down the sides of his little glass bowl the doorbell rang, I put it down and ran over to the intercom.
“Yeah, it’s me” came the voice at the other end. It was my friend J.C. I had met him on a street corner near my office where he was performing magic tricks in exchange for whatever change passer bys would throw him. I had tossed a handful of quarters into his shiny black hat, as I always did with any street performer, and continued on my way. Shouting out through the crowd though, he’d beckoned for me to come over. I turned around to see if he was gesturing to someone else, but no, it was me. As I made my way through the crowd of tourists and families I stuck my hands nervously in my pockets.
“Would you like to disappear?” J.C. had asked, sweeping his sequined arm dramatically over the crowd.
“Uh, what do you mean, disappear?” I replied. After a few minutes of convincing he’d managed to get me to agree to the trick, and he covered me in a dark purple blanket. While I was under there I think I may have indeed disappeared for a moment, but then I could have just been closing my eyes a bit too tight. Either way the crowd oohed and aahed for something, so I suppose the trick was a success. I stuck around for the rest of the show, and struck up a conversation with J.C. afterwards. It was during that first encounter that I learned he made his living both by performing magic acts and selling illegal sleeping pills. We seemed to get along pretty well and he would occasionally invite me down to the racetracks with him to waste some money.

When J.C. walked through my apartment door he was yawning widely.
“Hey man, I can’t really stick around, just wanted to drop off your stuff.” He was wearing a bright orange vest without a shirt on underneath and I wondered if he was cold.
“I appreciate it, it’s been hell without these.” I said as he handed me a small brown paper bag. I handed him a hundred dollar bill and told him to keep the change. Inside was a month’s worth of the illegal sleeping pills he supplied me with; small blue tablets that gave me the most pleasurable 8 hour sleep of my life. I went to J.C. several months ago when I was going through a terrible bout of insomnia. During that time I was lucky to get 1 hour of sleep a night, and I spent the rest of the night lying completely awake; my thoughts becoming numb and repetitive. I would often wake Maggie up in the middle of the night because I was bored and there was nothing to do. When I had first started the pills I was amazed by the immediate effect they had on me; no doctor prescribed pills had worked, and I got addicted to them quickly. This had pissed Maggie off sometime awful, in fact my religious attitude toward these pills were one of many reasons I’m sure she left me for.
“You smell like bleach, man” J.C. wrinkled his freckled nose.
“Yeah, I was cleaning just before.” I replied. J.C. then gave me a look which I didn’t quite understand, a kind of pitying look.
“Hey, you holding up alright?” He asked.
“What do you mean? Everything’s fine.” He then punched me on the shoulder and tucked the money I had given him into his vest pocket.
“Alright then, I have to take off.” Once J.C. and his orange vest left, I tucked the pills into a secret drawer that I kept locked. Remembering Benny I went back into the bathroom, and finished cleaning out his bowl.
“Here you go Benny boy, all fresh and clean.” I sung, and turned towards the tub to scoop him out. I looked into the water; he wasn’t there. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and looked again. Huh. That’s strange. Searching around the bathroom, under the furry bathmat and even in the cupboards I still couldn’t find him. He had simply disappeared. It was a little sad draining the tub out after that, like an aquatic funeral, though there was no casket, no body and no weeping widow in the front row. I sat on the toilet and watched the level of bathwater slowly inching its way down the sides of the tub, until the last bit of water gurgled down the drain. I guess those were his last words; that sound the water made as it left. It was then, sitting on a toilet and holding an empty fish bowl in my hands, that I decided on my last words. Instead of speaking some dramatic philosphical statement, or some heartfelt good-bye to someone I probably didn’t even really love, perhaps my last words would be the same as Benny’s. It would be a shoulder shrug kind of death, as if to say: “Okay, I guess this is the end.” It would be nice to just disappear like he did, to swim towards the dark drain hole and push against the current until you were gone, to leave behind nothing but the sound of everything following you down that pipe.

Current Mood: crazy

If Kisses Tasted Like the Future

If moments like these could be split apart
into tiny mirrored pieces. If we could hold them
up to everyone, and say “look at this”.

If kisses tasted like the future, and we could move
forward in time; riding on the pink underside
of a tongue. If it snowed black and hid our bodies.
If we could paint by numbers, and color
only the things that didn’t hurt us.

If we could fit ourselves into a snow globe, and live
our lives out on an oak desk securing papers.
If hours smelled like whiskey and whiskey
smelled like love. If we finished this drink,
and finished the next.
If burned toast. If make-up sex.

If it’s the end. If something terrible has happened.
If we’re supposed to turn our heads,
away.

Another great week-end >'-'< Went out with the girls Saturday night; Sweet and Vicious, rude marines, Welcome to the Johnsons, perverts with sticky fingers, where's waldo, lost australian people, asian men and hotel rooms, more perviness, stealing $5 from a homeless man and hotdogs at 5 a.m.


I can never have a bad time with this girl!

Went to the Armory Show on Sunday and saw amazing amazing art. My favorite piece was a mirrored sculpture that when you looked inside it reflected a million reflection's reflections. It's like pulling apart the world into small molecular bite sized pieces:



Also liked this sculpture, I want to get little tea pots like these:


Afterwards, got trapped in a snowglobe of a snowfall whilst walking to eat Thai food. It was the trippiest experience. Along the walk I saw that the shadow tracer had struck again! I'm obssessed with this man (or woman) or whoever goes around NYC at night outlining shadows in chalk:


Sign post shadow on the sidewalk.

I'm trying to see how long I can survive on a quarter.

Current Location: down the rabbit hole
Current Mood: devious
Current Music: asobi seksu 'new years'