Tagged: black

The Return of #HipHopSunday

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slept in till noon today because I was up late learning to swing dance

made a huge breakfast skillet that I ate from a small bowl

put up some Christmas lights even though it's nearly June

watched it rain, watched the sun come out, watched it rain again

brought back #HipHopSunday

because it feels like the right time.


This weekend was happy, then it was sad

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which is basically how all of my days have been for the past few weeks. A roller coaster of elation and fun and then sad sad sad then good again.

Life takes some adjusting to, sometimes.

But we push ever forward (it's not like we have any choice).


Went for dinner at Billabong after work and had passable mussels and decent calamari and not the greatest selection of beer which led to a singular beer with dinner and then the decision to toss back a couple of road rockets with a handsome man in a back alley seemed only natural.

I managed to make it in time for my community gardening orientation which I was scared about going to because, y'know, road rockets, but there was a dude who was clearly super wasted and kept getting flak from the dude running the orientation so I felt better.

Now I'm spending time in my apartment for the first time in over two weeks which I expected to stress me out and make me feel sad but it hasn't. It's been nice to be in my own home and totally alone and sipping Brazillionaire tea from DavidsTea and to cuddle with my main kitty, Toulouse.

Even if he does ruin all my good wesside photos.



I haven't been honest so here's what's up

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for the past while

days, weeks, months, maybe

I haven't been myself.

I've been a shadow of my former self due to heartache and confusion and betrayal and all of that good shit that makes you
lie awake in the dark at night
feel heartsick all day every day
write secret poems and flowery letters that you burn immediately
and pore over
every word
and, inevitably
each silence
until you drive yourself mad with it.

We become so wrapped up in the versions of ourselves that we feel that we need to be
(or remain)
that we lose sight of what can, might, maybe make us happy
or, in some cases (like mine)
we try to avoid and run away from our problems and the difficult decisions that need to be made

until we start hurting other people.

which is basically the opposite of what you ever
wanted to do.

And for the past while I've felt almost utterly unable to create anything of value.

Just broken words, broken promises, broken hearts.

Until today.

Maybe it's the text message conversation that I had
or that walk in the rain
crying sitting in the middle of all of my posessions
or the crepes with way too much butter
listening to The Smiths
or just sitting here and writing in a more open and freeing way than I've done in months

I'm finally starting to feel like myself again.

Sometimes you write for other people

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Sometimes you write to other people.

Sometimes you're writing for yourself.

Sometimes you slam poems into yr iPhone while folding marketing materials at work.

Sometimes you scribble them onto papers and let them go in the wind off the Osborne bridge on yr way home.

Sometimes you hope they reach the right people.

Sometimes they do.

Sometimes they don't.

Sometimes you wish they wouldn't.

Sometimes you wish they hadn't.

Sometimes (most of the time) they're all we've got.

Grammatically incorrect graffiti

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Kids these days.

Sloan was supposed to save rock music

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or so I've been told by those much wiser than myself.

'Underwhelmed' came out when I was embarrassingly young -too young to be listening to music as cool as Sloan- but it was still kicking around in the form of my friend's cd of Smeared

(a word that I didn't yet associate with gross sexual stuff, but never mind)

when I was older to start appreciating the finer things in life.

We listened to Smeared to nonstop on her boom box while sitting on her concrete front step in front of her house, which was across the street from mine.

She was a few years older than I was and spent most of our time together explaining to my juvenile self just exactly why Sloan kicked so much ass

(a word I didn't dare say anywhere but on that front step)

why Jeff Martin of The Tea Party was so sexy

(hair, voice, perfect pitch)

why the Our Lady Peace album Naveed was clearly better than Clumsy

(I don't remember this, just that their videos freaked me out)

or why Treble Charger's "Red" gets more depressing the more you listen to it

(see what I mean?)

in addition to other life lessons that, sadly, have escaped me as the years have passed.

But the important ones stuck with me, clearly.


RIP 'the Beave'

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aka Adam Rickner

who hosted the MTN Kids Club on what is now Citytv

as a puppet beaver named Beave, and his cohost Buckley the dog.

Watching clips from the show, now, I realize

how totally cobbled-together it was

and how they totally sounded like hosers.

I used to watch the shit out of that show when I was little

in-between cartoons after school

and on the wknd

and it's funny how looking at a picture

or watching a video

gives me warm fuzzies for my simpler,

younger days.

(Man, I'm getting old.)
Tags: Black


This conversation literally just happened

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Me: Are you reading about cars?

Tyrone: Someone on Facebook posted an article how the 300-mile per gallon VW hybrid is apparently "not allowed in America because it's too efficient" and some quick research shows that that's completely not true.

Me: Who posted that?

Tyrone: Somebody. I don't even know them. It doesn't matter. They're WRONG.


This blog is brought to you in part by:

- by admin

- National Public Radio
- Every Gary Oldman movie
- The way the sun looks on the mountains in BC
- The Protomen Act II: The Father of Death album
- 12-packs of Half Pints
- iTunes playlists
- The feeling of leaving on a road trip
- Striped, matching onesies
- Reddit
- The way the rain sounds in West Broadway
-Your love.


- by admin

When the guy I was seeing left me it was 11pm on a Thursday and he did it in the Second Cup on Graham Ave and I was dumbstruck and I cried.

I was young and I didn't know what to do so I got up and left and he followed me because that's what you're supposed to do when someone storms out of somewhere, I guess.

It was February and it was snowing and I was trying to put on my coat and my mittens and my scarf at the same time and failing because nothing made sense, least of all arm holes and wool and zippers.

Nothing makes sense when someone hurts you.

He followed me and took my hand and because I was young I thought that meant something and he said "I'm sorry, let's go back to my place and we can talk" and because I was young I thought that meant something so we did.

But it didn't mean anything. It didn't mean anything at all.

He drove me home at 2am and I screamed at him in his car, I said what the hell is wrong with you why did you invite me back to your apartment when I was trying to go home

and he said

I don't know. I don't know about anything right now.

and I said some awful things that I wish I could say that I regret.

When I got home I called the man I'd been in love with all along and because it was the kind of man that he was, he stayed on the phone with me until I fell asleep.

The next day he dropped his Friday night plans and picked me up from work with flowers and when I saw him I began to cry either because I was wounded or in love or probably both

and he held me in his car as I shook in his arms.

We went out for dinner and on the way home he held my hand in between the red lights and shifting gears, and we listened to Konstantine by Something Corporate and I watched the snow and the traffic as we drove from downtown to Old St. Vital.

Later that night when we were alone and I was consumed by the smell of him I thought of the words of that song, the slow sadness of it, and though I was young and sad and fucked up I felt like maybe I’d be all right.

Which turned out to be true, but not then.

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