March To Death.
Bear the terrible lighting in these.
[Tidings From March.]
The past weeks have been busy. I'd be lost in the very beginning of the tale, now.
Bruxelles. Meeting up with Sarah was as comfortable as it was a step off. It was nice seeing her, walking around my favourite part of the city. We sat in a café and the man sitting next to us invited me to sip from his fascinating drink. Fresh mint leaves, lemon, rhum, ice and other good things. We swung by the music store my brother works at, which was cool. The place has the second floor full of vinyls and we chatted music for a bit. Sarah then agreed to smoke a joint near le Mont des Arts so we sat in the park and looked at the drunk kids with their dogs, the english skaters -one suddenly hanging off the edge of the wall, two storeys up, man! and the couples and old persons and yknow, there were cars passing at the bottom of the stairs but I couldn't hear them. From where we were, we could see le Musée de la Musique and I wouldn't have minded stoning in the museum of modern art, either. We went to this cheap but good asian restaurant -which I'd incidentally been to with my stepmother, oh memories. Walked to la Bourse to meet up with Pauline. This guy high off h started blabbing with Sarah until he fucked off. We went to yet another café, it was fine but I was starting to feel myself drift away. I learned that one of my old friends has a new nose though, weird. The train ride back was a blur, I listened to the cd my brother gave me and thought of nostalgia. Everything was calm. I was smoking while waiting for the next correspondance, the station was quiet with blue glow. A light flickered above me. I looked through the decaying structures and breathed in the city sky.
Artshow. Interesting in the dullest of ways. Got confused with the dates and went to some intro thing at the library, thumbed some books then left. It hailed on my way back and that made up for the wasted Time. The actual show was later in the week, I showed up an hour late since I'd just rolled out of bed. Seeing my boring pieces of shitwork on the wall was amusing. Alain told me they'd had trouble placing the big one since il bouffait, ate the other works. My mother thought it was a good compliment. Some of the art there was intriguing; one in particular caught my eye, it was green and I don't know what to think of that. In any case, fuck creepy old men who touch my face. Oh, la belle enfant. Went for a drink afterwards in a café where I used to hang out when I was at the hospital. Didn't actually know those pseudo.artists I was sitting with and gazed off at the table on my right; thinking of Daniel, Geoffrey and Johan and how they'd snort coke in the bathroom or get arrested or drink and eat cheese. Whatever, man. Alain came by; conversation on music, fairytales, the Week of Campo -it's a good story. This guy I sometimes talk to was trying to get too close so I hightailed the fuck out. He irks me.
Meet'n greet. For my grandfather and uncle's same.date birthday. The place was picturesque, the food was good, there was wine. I went to the bathroom and this kid girl came out, leaving a nice shit in the toilet. Mmh. I did end up telling my brother to go fuck himself and had to smoke outside. My mother gave me all kinds of spices, I need food to go with them now. Went to this guy's place after class to smoke pot; he's mostly into metal, which is nice. Saw the usual faces around here, the smoke and incense are forming a quick fog.
Play: Bright Eyes, Ryan Adams, Pedro The Lion, Sigúr Rós, Destroy All Dreamers, Radiohead, Portishead, Pink Floyd, Maximilian Hecker, The Beatles, Okkervil River.
830am.30.03. It's morning and I just opened the window. Birds have been chirping for hours now. My grandmother was on the phone earlier -said my grandfather and her went to three funerals last week and that old people happen to die in Spring. Her voice was coming in waves; I wondered if she feared death and mostly, whose. I enjoy talking with her. She asked if I was doing heroin, though.
Nowadays.Begin.Spring. My mother came this weekend which was nice, though we went shopping. They came to repair the leak in the roof and I stayed around all day with the window open, strangers coming in and out of here. Richard asked if I wanted to be the godmother of his child. My sleeping pattern has been fucked again and my dreams are incertain. Sometimes, it's hard to tell if it's good or bad. The world is definitely crazy, either way.
Hit: Bright Eyes, Ryan Adams, The Cure, Portishead, Tegan and Sara, Bush, Fugazi, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, Tori Amos, The Postal Service.
April? April. Spring.
I don't remember much of the month, only an enormous amount of Bright Eyes and this quasi unbearable heat. Taking showers in the dark, red nites and red days. Inner disasters morphing into quiet. Barely any paint but words, words and swirls. Read five books in the past couple of weeks, old favourites and new horizons -the sixth, a heartbeat. No tabs on my recent life but memories are resurfacing and sometimes, you just don't know where to look, nor how to feel.
Called Pierre on his birthday; he was running around in the woods, high on twenty-one ecstas, screamed whoops! behind him. He was rushing, talking about deer and gutted foxes -surprisingly recalled my phobia of worms. And I feel a little guilty towards you and I'm sorry for not making Time and you aren't smoking heroin yet, are you. "You can talk." -and why do people always seem to ask that. Yeah, but. I went and came back, I'm stronger than the universe, ma petite. I'm willing to believe it.
Technology has been failing me, my comp kicking at all hours of the nite. And so much to say, so nothing to say. It's May and I don't understand how that happened. It's almost been a year I've gotten out. I'm not sure if I can relate to any of the mirrors in my brain, imagine that.