Laughter - The Best Medicine

Ever heard of Ron James?
He is one fucking funny Canadian.
While your head is hurtin'
this morning or whatever ...
have a listen.
You will laff your ass off.
Seriously.

Ron James on Guns - click to listen
Ron James on Airport Security - click to listen


Now watch Ron rant about computers

Now he's ranting about smoking/jogging

Ron James

"I don't fear death."

Ahh, but, m'lady, we ~ who remain to mourn your death ~ do very much fear YOUR death. We fear that the pressure cooker you spoke of ~ 'Pakistan under a dictatorship' ~ will likely explode, spewing the violence of carnage and terror to all sides of a most unstable region of the world. And what of Pakistan's nuclear warheads? And what of India? And what of Kashmir? And what of Afghanistan? And what of the people of Pakistan? The world continues to disintegrate. And you have been finally laid to rest, but far too soon.

rose petals for Benazir Bhutto

It is only a tiny rosebud,
A flower of nature's design;
But I cannot unfold the petals
With these clumsy hands of mine.

The secret of unfolding flowers
Is not known to such as I.
Mother nature opens this flower so sweetly,
When in my hands they fade and die ...

the cup of death
~ a cup from which we will ALL eventually drink~

Insomniac, by Sylvia Plath

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole . . .
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue . . .
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

Sylvia Plath

We All Live Downstream

they say there's a wreckage washing up
all along the coast
no-one seems to know too much
or who got hit the most
nothing has been spoken
there's not a lot to see
but something has been broken
that's how it feels to me

we had a harmony
I never meant to spoil
now it's lying in the water
like a slick of oil
the tide is running out to sea
under a darkening sky
the night is falling down on me

little seabird flying
he knows where he wants to go
guess I ought to pack my stuff
and do the thing I know
I turn around and head on back
along the old sea wall
I felt something give and crack
and now I'm sorry that's all

only 16 more days!

Thoughts of You

My heart talks to yours ... throughout the course of my day. I have this silent, running dialogue with you, going on inside my head. And ... I get a chill when I think of that way you say to me ... "Hello, girl." The only thought that thrills and chills me more than that? The visual thought of the expression which your face wears at the moment of your orgasm. And the memory that surges through my body when I recall the mass of energy and beauty which you injected into me.

I watched a documentary about a pilot called Mark; he was having quite a challenge attempting to fly a Beech 18 C-45 Expeditor. Anyway, it made me think of you, and remind myself to ask you about your flying/piloting days. I feel the time drawing near ... nearer to our time of reunification. It no longer feels like a distant and unattainable pipe dream. In fact, these days it leads me to thinking about ... what, exactly, is on your mind, and in your heart ... these days. I feel quite assured that I know ... really know (like few others do) what's blazing there, inside your heart. Still, darling ... I will not rest completely assuredly until I feel your arms around me and your beating heart pressed against mine.

I feel quite lonely without you. Despite the company of others. And ... sometimes, because of the company of others. Music makes the aching, thirsting feeling I have for you so much worse. The only thing that completely erases it, is the sound of your voice. Though it exasperates you so, please only tell me and show me over and over again ... that you love me ... that you miss me ... that you have not forgotten me.

Je T'Adore

I didn't plan on this, you know. I didn't plan on falling in love with you. Perhaps that's a silly statement to make, since I'm becoming quite convinced that love chooses us, rather than the other way around. So, perhaps, I've loved you all along, in that locked and forbidden corner of my heart that eats fire. And ... just didn't realise. Perhaps, that's it. As I write this, it's a good day. The sensation and experience of your absence isn't eating me alive today. The sunny things about you and the times we spent together, and the sound of your voice over the phone ... these things keep you close to me. Still, I do have the slightest sensation of holding my breath ... waiting to exhale ... waiting to breathe once more. And I have the greatest trouble sleeping at night, when I feel your absence most acutely. I wear a zippered fleece jacket you left behind ... on it your scent lingers. I breathe your scent in daily ... and your jacket keeps me warm in the damp, grey and hollow cold.

We must be together. I can hardly wait, darling. I can almost taste you.

ch-ch-ch-chANges

Notice: This blog has had a change of heart. It's evolved from some sort of personal diary to a sort of travel and moving diary. Like, a diary about my surroundings. Yeah, like that.




Okay. So, I'm moving. Like, I know I said I wasn't going to move anymore for awhile, but, well, I'm moving across the Atlantic. Yeah, to the UK. No kidding. I leave in just under 3 weeks. I can hardly wait. Now, I'm in the purging phase ~ purging of all the stuff I really do not need to bring along. And just making sure that all my ducks are lined up. Passport ~ December 28th. Luggage ~ yup. In fact, I got a set of luggage (almost brand new, used maybe once) ~ like 5 pieces ~ for $12. HAHA. That's so low, its hilarious. Cool.

Now that I am thinking more of the European societal culture, I am quickly tiring of the culture of Vancouver. It's tiresome. A sort of world unto itself. We should coin a term ~ "Vancouverism" ... to describe the apathetic and zombie-like behaviour of the large majority of Vancouverites. And to describe the absolute bullshit that Vancouverites tolerate ... the corner of Hastings of Main, for instance. And the way that, from the time one leaves one's home, its virtually impossible to avoid being panhandled and/or bullied or harrassed for money, a cigarette or whatever by some homeless junkie. A most popular retort here, in Vancouver? "Whatever."

You see? Precisely my point.

Whatever. [Not.]

dipping a wing into the sun

i know why the caged bird sings
~ maya angelou ~

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

why a dead bird?

for hope ~ in the shine of her eyes, the curl of her still gripping talons

for despair ~ folded in her cold body, pressed into the cold earth

for purpose ~ held tightly in her closed beak, cloaked in black for all to see.

this season's not about giving ... or getting ... or consuming ... or pity ... or making up for a year's worth of egocentric, complacent and inconsiderate existence. its about ... finding the light. and remembering that it will not shine forever.

find your light. treasure it. share it. before it extinguishes itself.

a few of my favourite things

my ~snuggle~ robe

pleasures exotic, by estee lauder

the sound of a certain beating heart

raggedy ann

pierrot

porcelain faces

Winter Memories II
Originally uploaded by lestrim rose

Holding My Breath

I thirst for him so desperately, sometimes I can smell him here. That virile, fermone-laden scent of a man. He leaves me breathless ~ feeling like an insatiable, hungry child. In the still of many ebony nights our hearts, psyches and souls exploded together ... silently, passionately. I must wait 4 weeks. That's it ~ the time will pass quickly. Yet, I feel the absence of his presence as desperately and acutely as I feel myself when I hold my breath, and thoughts of when I will next breathe choke out all other thoughts. Sometimes the ache becomes so pronounced I feel physically ill. Sometimes I have the fortitude to place the ache in its trunk, and lock it there, out of view and grasp. It eventually finds a way out ~ this ache for him. And so I face each moment as it presents itself. And I remind myself that I must retreat, emotionally, in order to advance.

"Focus, roxanne. Of course you will survive. The light is where you walk."

holding my breath

I thirst for him so desperately, sometimes I can smell him here. That virile, fermone-laden scent of a man. He leaves me breathless ~ feeling like an insatiable, hungry child. In the still of many ebony nights our hearts, psyches and souls exploded together ... silently, passionately. I must wait 4 weeks. That's it ~ the time will pass quickly. Yet, I feel the absence of his presence as desperately and acutely as I feel myself when I hold my breath, and thoughts of when I will next breathe choke out all other thoughts. Sometimes the ache becomes so pronounced I feel physically ill. Sometimes I have the fortitude to place the ache in its trunk, and lock it there, out of view and grasp. It eventually finds a way out ~ this ache for him. And so I face each moment as it presents itself. And I remind myself that I must retreat, emotionally, in order to advance.

"Focus, roxanne. Of course you will survive. The light is where you walk."

the humming chorus makes me think
of all the magic that sparkles there, inside you.

What You Do to Me

It's strange and wonderful ... what you do to me. Did you know that I hate being touched? Well, it seems by all else save for you. I don't really get it myself. Before you, I did not want to be touched. And did not really want to touch. Sex has always seemed to me like a weapon ~ used against me to dominate or objectify and certainly to take something from me ~ or a messy activity in which I must engage to win or keep a man's love. I suppose sex seemed to me like the currency of love, and not the expression of it. I honestly could not fathom how an act I saw as violent and oppressive could ever have an association with love or passion. Until you. No kidding. It's what you do to me. For the first time, ever, I felt a man give me so much more than what he took ... during sex. I let you touch me in ways I let no others. I crave to be held tightly by you ... the way you do ... the way I let no others do. I feel carnal desire for you ... its as strong as the love and passion I feel for you. I thought myself incapable of having such feelings, desires, responses. You have unlocked me ... but only you hold the key. No other.

It's what you do to me.

Adieu

When I watched him walk out of view, past the checkpoint and into the secure area, I felt myself wilt. All the air ~ sucked out of my lungs. I now faced a full 8 weeks without him ~ my pillar. I kept his shirt, last worn next to his skin ... and when I wear it, his scent embraces me. I look at his pictures ... and I marvel at how very much of him the camera's simple image failed to capture in its pixels. And I marvel how how very much of him he left with me. In the still of the night, my heart beats a lonely beat ... in search of its mate.

I know why the Mona Lisa smiles. I'll never tell, though.

I am exhausted, spent, a virtual emotionally frail wreck. I ache for someone I love. I swell in anticipation of seeing that someone very soon. Alas, each moment that passes feels like an eternity of hunger. I cannot see my Beloved soon enough.

why does the Mona Lisa smile?

when i watched him walk out of view, past the checkpoint and into the secure area, i felt myself wilt. all the air ~ sucked out of my lungs. i now faced a full 8 weeks without him ~ my pillar. i kept his shirt, last worn next to his skin ... and when i wear it, his scent embraces me. i look at his pictures ... and i marvel at how very much of him the camera's simple image failed to capture in its pixels. and i marvel how how very much of him he left with me. in the still of the night, my heart beats a lonely beat ... in search of its mate.

i know why the Mona Lisa smiles. i'll never tell, though.

here are some pics [from flickr] of where we're going.

train station @ crewkerne

a path in the woods

i am exhausted, spent, a virtual emotionally frail wreck. i ache for someone i love. i swell in anticipation of seeing that someone very soon ... and of beginning life again. i can hardly wait to get away from all this ... particularly from north america and its disappointing human culture. particularly, i can hardly wait to put more distance between myself and the usa. i think to get away from the gun-toting revenge seeking christian empire will feel very good, indeed.

every place has its flaws and faults and drawbacks. some more than others.

how many homeless junkies are there in somerset?
how many panhandlers?
how many rude old chinese men that spit onto the sidewalk?
how many gangs warring over themselves?


one more question ... ARE WE THERE YET?

leaving the country ...

yes ...
you read that correctly.
we are leaving the country ~
moving to the uk.
we will settle in somerset.
we are planning to leave canada
as of january.

ain't i full of surprises?