Snapea Crisps
Mmmmm good Snapea Crisps. I am eating them right now for breakfast.
Back home, without my honey...I've replaced him with Annie Dillard, Camilla Gibb, Charlotte Gill and the O'Henry Prize Short story collection. I'm surrounded with books, open to favourite passages, planted face down all over my carpet. I'm not sure I could ever write without books around.
Charlotte Gill. She's hot, I met her. A group of us snuck into the after-party room at the writer's fest in Vancouver. K introduced me and Kathy to Charlotte, who had just received her nomination for the Governor General's Award. It was intimidating, what do you really say to these people face to face when you haven't read their book? Needless to say I've now read several stories from her collection. Like-buttah baby. I hope she wins.
Oh, and we got kicked out of the party by a guy from the CBC. Then K wrote about me and Kathy in his newspaper column. Take that evil bearded CBC man.
It' raining. Big surprise. I want to go running, though it may require long underwear. Not that much of interest to say today except that I was deeply moved by the Remembrance Day ceremony, as usual I took my time out to watch, remember and learn a few things. Rememberance Day has always been, and always will be important to me. Lest we forget lest we forget lest we forget.
And I tried to be a stupid writer yesterday. I drank like a litre of diet caffein free Pepsi, three cups of Caf-lib. I wouldn't let myself eat until I'd broken through to the other side of a particularly difficutl beginning (what the hell am I talking about, they're ALL DIFFICULT), then Sitia and I (who's painting here) smoked dujarm's on the grody back porch. I don't smoke, I never smoke, I can't smoke I have a fucking pacemaker. But I didn't inhale it. I just needed to feel cool and artsy. I'm such a poser. I think I'll do it again today. I like releasing the smoke out of my mouth, it's so thick, it has this texture which is (obviously) not like that of breath. How novle.
Oh, and I shall pass along a tid-bit of knowledge from the troubled world of Woody Allen "You understand art doesn't save you." How freeing, that's like the bungee jump of all artist quotes, "You understand art doesn't save you." What saves you then? I hope I never know lest I become obsessed with that one thing. Love doesn't save you, Jesus can't save you, Buddha can't save you. I don't think this is about being saved necessarily. Oh wait! You can save yourself. (this applies only to people who are clothed, able bodied, and not starving of course). The whole Woody article is in the issue of Vanity Fair with the gorgrously dangerous Kate Moss on the cover.
Gots to go not be saved, and not be healthy (the cleanse is waning this winter, must get back on top of that soon, need some beet juice and yoga real bad).
I do not need to be good
I do not need to be good
I only need to hang out with it
Back home, without my honey...I've replaced him with Annie Dillard, Camilla Gibb, Charlotte Gill and the O'Henry Prize Short story collection. I'm surrounded with books, open to favourite passages, planted face down all over my carpet. I'm not sure I could ever write without books around.
Charlotte Gill. She's hot, I met her. A group of us snuck into the after-party room at the writer's fest in Vancouver. K introduced me and Kathy to Charlotte, who had just received her nomination for the Governor General's Award. It was intimidating, what do you really say to these people face to face when you haven't read their book? Needless to say I've now read several stories from her collection. Like-buttah baby. I hope she wins.
Oh, and we got kicked out of the party by a guy from the CBC. Then K wrote about me and Kathy in his newspaper column. Take that evil bearded CBC man.
It' raining. Big surprise. I want to go running, though it may require long underwear. Not that much of interest to say today except that I was deeply moved by the Remembrance Day ceremony, as usual I took my time out to watch, remember and learn a few things. Rememberance Day has always been, and always will be important to me. Lest we forget lest we forget lest we forget.
And I tried to be a stupid writer yesterday. I drank like a litre of diet caffein free Pepsi, three cups of Caf-lib. I wouldn't let myself eat until I'd broken through to the other side of a particularly difficutl beginning (what the hell am I talking about, they're ALL DIFFICULT), then Sitia and I (who's painting here) smoked dujarm's on the grody back porch. I don't smoke, I never smoke, I can't smoke I have a fucking pacemaker. But I didn't inhale it. I just needed to feel cool and artsy. I'm such a poser. I think I'll do it again today. I like releasing the smoke out of my mouth, it's so thick, it has this texture which is (obviously) not like that of breath. How novle.
Oh, and I shall pass along a tid-bit of knowledge from the troubled world of Woody Allen "You understand art doesn't save you." How freeing, that's like the bungee jump of all artist quotes, "You understand art doesn't save you." What saves you then? I hope I never know lest I become obsessed with that one thing. Love doesn't save you, Jesus can't save you, Buddha can't save you. I don't think this is about being saved necessarily. Oh wait! You can save yourself. (this applies only to people who are clothed, able bodied, and not starving of course). The whole Woody article is in the issue of Vanity Fair with the gorgrously dangerous Kate Moss on the cover.
Gots to go not be saved, and not be healthy (the cleanse is waning this winter, must get back on top of that soon, need some beet juice and yoga real bad).
I do not need to be good
I do not need to be good
I only need to hang out with it