unstrung by a commute

good writing good man that BMO good thoughts good truth: what do you do with the ordinary? numb out or see through it? who might take you down for telling what you see? anyone or no one? the whole internet or just some someone? blogging your way through things is extreme sports in pixel play. you can break a bone. sometimes it is simply beautiful. it's not so real that it has to hurt. but you never know.

i like this:

Being in traffic, is like being in a meeting. You are stuck. You’d rather be
dead.

We’ve pulled alonside a GO train. Double decker. With the entire side of one car covered in a Clinique ad. Painted on there. Little thought or art direction. Still better than the green and white. Me? I’d paint them a banana yellow.

We’re through The Green Belt now. Farms between two towns. Hay.

A beer and a bag of cashews while loading and unloading passengers at
Oshawa.

Then it’s through the Darlingtin Nuclear plant. Thing is the grounds
around the facility are beautiful.

I think I’ve decided that this is where we enter yet another country.

Farms, radio towers, power lines.

I’ve decided that when I get home I am going to weed the garden. The train is flying
over the countryside now. I’ve decided I want to live in Europe.

Most of my ideas are romantic.

Damn it.

to blog is to write the ordinary unordinary.

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stand up

Dear Bitch,

No I will not stop blogging nice things about you. Do you know why? Moxie. Your guts that's why. Because you write your way vulnerable, bite into what's wrong and taste it, cryoutloud and seize on shag carpets in a fit of mortal so-human justice when Those People with their Armor-Alled posts come to this place and try to outshine our worn tattered leather souls.

Their shiny-protected-stronger-than-tortise-shell bullshit, in that know-it-all way they have, are no match for you. They will not show their wounds, their open oozing lesions because those wounds cannot be monetized. Because they may scare the Audience away by being who they are. And then what? No money no honey. Then what? No fans no plans. Oh dear!

Pretenders.

You stood there and said Hey Now, Waitaminute, when few other women would. Shelley did. Ronni did. Marianne did. Toby did. Even harder for the men to do: misyoongenentoitousetists!

Have you stopped beating your fucking CAT YET? WELL HAVE YOU?

Did you laugh? You-R-Evil.

That is why.

Why do you think? I know you know the scary places, not the scary places where people might come in your house or yard or workplace and off you, but THOSE scary places where you are your own intruder.

You heal my inner boogie man. What? You want I should go away? No way, sister.

Kiss me. I'm crazy.

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