Let’s just forget about the whole thing.
Then why the fuck bother at all?
Why take me for the ride then, if you knew you’d throw me out of the fucking car on the way home?
Silence is a lie.
OMG!!!
Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé? Une tornade, un ouragan, un tsunami… Je vois plus rien, je ne sens plus rien.
Mais je revois tout, et je le sens encore.
Fuck, qu’est-ce qui va se passer maintenant?
Wow… c’est tout.
Le temps s’est arrêté pendant une couple d’heures à Brossard ce soir, personne n’a remarqué?
Perpetual playlist
The soundtrack, my everyday life. Sounds and words. Like air and water. Ever changing, ever present.
She’s leaving home. She goes downstairs to the kitchen clutching her hankerchief… Such a beautiful phrase. That song for me represents the brilliance of their songwriting.
I’ve just seen a face. The Beatles again. I have never known the like of this, I’ve been alone and I have missed things and kept out of sight for other girls were never quite like this.
After forever. Black Sabbath. Nobody ever brought that one up when they accused them of satanism.
Fake plastic trees. Radiohead. Everything Radiohead. If I could be who you wanted, all the time.
Cry me a river. Just by Ella, she can express so many emotions in only one sentence.
B.Y.O.B. System of a Down helps me get the shit out. Whenever I’m pissed I just put on Mezmereize.
Settle for nothing. RATM. Read my writing on the wall, no one’s here to catch me when I fall.
Motorbreath. Metallica. First 4 albums, then St Anger. Period.
Airport song. Guster. Can’t stand the other stuff they do. But I love the melody and the arrangements in that song.
Wot’s… Uh the deal. Pink Floyd. People look at me weird when I say this. But I actually love Obscured by Clouds.
Institutionalized. Suicidal Tendencies. I was a huge fan in the mid 80’s. Just rediscovered them. Great road rage music.
Wild is the wind. Nina Simone. My song to curl up and die.
Suzanne. Leonard Cohen. I played that one at my mother’s funeral. Couldn’t listen to it for years. I’m happy to say I can now.
Where is my mind. The Pixies. Heard it for the first time watching Fight Club at the theater. I won’t get into the movie here, it’s in another post. But it was a revelation.
Life on mars. Bowie. I love Bowie. Just plain love. I don’t care what he says, I love his 80’s material. I loved what he did in Tin Machine, with NIN. Did I mention I love Bowie?
Kiss off. Violent Femme. That pretty much sums up what I feel most days.
And on a loop: Charlie Parker, Dexter Gordon, Stan Getz, Chet Baker, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Thelonius Monk and Charles Mingus.
Slices of my days.
Vraiment…
Mais qu’est-ce que je fais là?? Dans quoi je m’embarque? Jamais j’ai pensé me rendre là. Je voulais juste lui dire bonjour. J’avais pas l’intention de lui dire tout ça. Ah fuck… Mais je peux tu avoir un peu de fun dans ma vie ciboire? Je laisse tomber la culpabilité. Ça sera ma coke.
J’ai des papillons, des rires nerveux, je suis tout le temps allumée… Advienne que pourra (ou quelque chose de même).
Fight Club
I’m obsessed with Fight Club. I can’t count the number of times I’ve watched it anymore. The first time was at the theater. I went alone. I was so shocked, I stayed until the credits rolled off, walked out to my car. It was a life changing experience. The dissociation, so complete, so unconditional really scared me. The violence is really an accessory. The acceptance that we are not who we really think we are, because we can’t define ourselves by the standards of what is now socially indispensable through consumerism. That struggle is what brought the violence for the Narrator. But that can also apply to all aspects of our internal struggles.
I discovered that I have a Tyler Durden! She never comes out though. But she’s been giving me a hard time lately. And there are days when I can feel her just melt in me, spread her being throughout my body and my brain. I don’t think she really wants to come out anyway. She wants me to become her. So I’m asking myself, could it be that she’s really me and I’m her? Could it be that I’ve let myself dissapear inside another me?
I don’t think I’m becoming. I’m slowly coming to realize that I’ve been sleeping at the wheel, lucky enough to have an autopilot.
le parfum du passé
Alors puisque je n’écris plus, je fouille dans mes anciennes inspirations… C’était pas si mal. Ce qui est le plus étrange c’est que mes sentiments d’incertitude, de peur de ne pas être aimée, d’être blessée, étaient les mêmes qu’aujourd’hui. Étrange dans le sens d’épeurant.
Je ressentais déjà des craintes par rapport à ma relation avec cet homme il y a 15 ans. Me voilà maintenant face à mes échecs, mes réussites, mes joies et mes peines, comme au premier jour: une fille qui a peur.
Sentiments enfouis sous le poids des années, de l’oubli, du désarroi.
Rêves éthérés par la peur et le malaise.
Fatigue accumulée par le combat.
À chaque faux pas mon coeur s’arrête.
L’approbation qui ne vient jamais.
À quand la certitude d’être?
Shit, c’est déprimant tout ça.
Drogues, porn et internet
Quand j’avais 16 ans, fumer du hash avait un effet aphrodisiaque. Je m’ennuie de ça. Y’a plus grand chose qui m’allume. Le porn est tellement déprimant aujourd’hui, les filles en plastique ne m’excitent pas du tout. La littérature érotique est plate à mourrir.
L’homme de ma vie fait de la coke régulièrement, une ou deux fois par semaine. Depuis au moins 20 ans. Ça l’excite beaucoup… Le problème c’est que moi ça m’éteint raide. Et justement, en parlant de raide… ça fait un bout qu’elle ne l’est plus…
Disons que les anti-dépresseurs qu’il prend en plus, depuis 6 mois, ça aide vraiment pas. Si on ajoute quelques bières, du vin et du scotch, on obtiens l’équilibre parfait pour une érection inexistante.
On peut aussi ajouter les fétiches de bondage, de bas de nylons, de domination… Exacerbés par ses visites sur internet.
Il me dit qu’est-ce qui t’allume? Qu’est-ce que tu voudrais que je te fasse pour que tu aies envie de baiser? Alors pour la centième fois je lui demande gentiment de me baiser normalement. Juste de me prendre, me toucher, me regarder, m’embrasser, me mettre à quatre pattes… C’est tout, pas plus original que ça.
Mais ça n’arrive jamais. Il tiens pas plus de 5 minutes, et je dois prendre les choses en main. Je suis fatiguée. J’ai même plus envie de faire semblant.
What happened?
I used to write. A lot. All the time. Unsent letters, poems, short stories. My last journal entry dates back 7 years. What the fuck happened to me? How can a need so strong just fade away like that?
Even before that, while pregnant with my son, I attended some classes at Concordia. Our French teacher asked us to write a journal. At least 20 lines a day. On anything. Just free writing. I had such a hard time. It was an ordeal every time I looked at the page.
So for the last 12 years or so, where have I been?
A few months ago, I started to see myself again. I’m scared though. Am I still the same? Have I changed so much that I’m just an illusion of my old self. And who was I then anyways?
I don’t want everything that I’ve become to be false. I don’t want everything that I believe I am today to be a cover up. A shield I’ve put up just to forget who I used to be.
Was the writing an expression of my true self? I think so. But that was me then. I’ve got to be careful not to fool myself into believing that this is still me. But the essence should be there.
How do we define ourselves through time, experiences, joys, mournings, regrets? Should we go back to how we felt before or embrace the changes that each event brought onto us?
All about me
Going through changes, I figured I should express my feelings.
J’ai pas envie de parler à personne, pas envie d’expliquer, mettre en contexte.
Sometimes I laugh at bloggers… look at me now. Who’ll read this shit anyhow?