the bank machine ate my card and i have no id on me, i need money for bus pass etc. have money in account. no acess.

that fight ruined my fun. dinner w. sean and taras wedding and dinner with glenys peter david and grame, a long food fueled three dats of entertainment ruined by one man yelling at how much he wanted me out of his house, and all of my rational arguements about notice and suits went out the window.

trying to gain order and power, a bellicose man yelled at me today, yelled that i was just a boarder, yelled about my sins,. this was the house that i was supposed to get room and board in, and the house where i showered at the uni, did laundry at the laundrymat and ate out to avoid her and him, this was the house i came home at 1 am to avoid them , this was the house where i borrowed the phone and the land lady left notes after every pecadiallo, this was the place where she was rude to my guests, telling them that i wasnt home when i was, this was the house where a cheque bounced under mysterious circumstances, where i broke a window and a bed, where she didnt answer my questions. this is a house where the owner kicked me out two days before christmas, this was a house where i was never sure how but always sure i fucked up. this was a house where i loved the neighbourhood, close to the mall and the library, equidstatn b/w downtown and campus. this si another house i failed at.

also taras wedding then dinner with glenys today. more later.

at home, kicked out. shame.

to make up for it, here is a picture of me holding a two foot dildo

dinner with sean from toronto, he bought me dinner, and a cd (MOMUS TIME LORD, CREATION RECORDS CA 1996, PIERRE ET GILLES COVER, FIVE BUCKS)
wandered arround whyte snapping pics, talking, gossipping. had a good time- met capri on the street. im happy.

i looked at this really nice place today, but its 359 and a share a studio, and a small studio at that. has a pool and a gym, which i will never use, and a study room, which i will never use and a movie theater which i may use.

herb ritts died today at the age of 50, from causes that may be aids related.

i forgot my cds in steves car, which means there wwith tom, which means he has to shuck them arround hells 1/2 acre. i take advantage of that boy.

O Taste and See

The world is
not with us enough.
O taste and see

the subway Bible poster said,
meaning The Lord, meaning
if anything all that lives
to the imagination's tongue,

grief, mercy, language,
tangerine, weather, to
breathe them, bite,
savor, chew, swallow, transform

into our flesh our
deaths, crossing the street, plum, quince,
living in the orchard and being

hungry, and plucking
the fruit.

Denise Levertov 1971

Steve asked me whether i would perfer heaven or a loaf of bread in the context of a larger discussion of the social gospel.
all i thot about was this poem, finally becoming clear.

i know that a quince is good, i have made jam from them
i know that a plum is good, i have written poems about them and admired there dusky glean
i know that crossing the st. to see a friend, to get to my location, to not die from traffic is a daily miracle.
i savor these, chew them and perhaps they have transformed me.

i know that tangerines are good, the blog you are reading is named for them
i know that weather, all weather and its patterns on me, and on the world and the changes they have made are not bad
and i know that grief and sorrow will have comfort, and that langauge sustains me.

i can taste all of this, the sour apple bite of quince, the succulence of plums, my boots on ashphalt, the bitter spike of citrus, the feeling of wind or rain or snow or cold or sun, the coppery stomach ache of grief, all are tangible.

what isnt tangible to me, and perhaps levertov is god
levertov the daughter of an hasid who converted to Anglicanism was caught b/w god and the world,
and so the fevour that creates a will to not only change but encourage others to change thru mass media and propghanda may be confusing.

she could taste and see that all sorts of blessings were good, but the lord was the last great intaglible.
for me too.

i had an arguement with steven on the ride down about trent lott, where i argued that he was an asshole with a long history of racism aand that racism was engrained,while steve argued that he was doing a favour for a mentor, and had not meant to be racist- doing some research i found this :
this

a bunch of people i dont know upstairs, me downstairs listening to momus. they are rich, absuredly rich, yuppies, more money spent on one gift to a cousin then i spent on all of my family. i feel like shit, i dont belong here, this is not me. im ugly and poor and tired of all of this fake jovailty. i hate christmas, i do not like my family. all i want to do is get drunk, furthering my trip to oblivion. i have had heard 5 or 6 homophobic comments in the last three days and hadnt said a word.

this is supposed to be about the birth of christ, but there is nothing religous here, a post modern christmas, done b/c it is expected. a pagan cermony to consumerism and excess. at least the booze is good and free.

drunk at uncles holiday party, havent seen him for 4 years, goods chinese from pink pearl, happy. his art collection is good to great.

in andrews room, at his machine, listening to rufus wainwright, its 4 am, im sick and tired and cold and reading christian apologetics. i need god and i dont want to need anyone.

i got evicted, a long storm brewing, came to head over laundry. im sad, b/c i failed. im angry, at myself and at lorna and at the world.

Balthus and Pierre de Kowassiki(sp) are brothers and both artists, that said the work of Balthus is v. modern-as much as he wants to avoid it- he was a bit heremetic post the surrealists, but you can pick out the dali/magritte/di chircho etc connections, and even if you couldnt, you would time it to the 20th century-its colour and its subtle phrasing, its allusions to terror, its obsession with innoncence.


Kowassiki is different- he made drawings in graphite and colored pencil, tennous delicate things filled with pervisions that seem out of place now- the aristocratic lady lording her power, the fear of clergy, certain scatology, that seems to realted to the 18th century satirists (Swift,Voltaire) and pornographers (Masoch, de Sade, Rosseu and his obsessions with flogging)rather then the 20th century terrors. In fact he illustrated gullivers travels, making it less of a childrens book and more of a piss take.



if you look at Balthus you know he is 20th century, fearful of admitting it, but there. If you look at Kowassiki (whose name ive mispelt)
he is so hermetic that seeing a drawing of barthes or the date 1990 becomes shocking. (Balthus was the better painter techincally for whats its worth, Pierre never got over his awkardness)

jason coates was my sci. teacher, i rember learning alot and forgetting it all- plate techtoncis, weather, he almost failed me. never spanked.

is qouting burton and proust and mailer and mishima, a way to avoid the wds being my own, a way to talk in code ?

after the sjsa christmas concert i met jason coates, i made a point of using his first name.

coates knew me in grade 8, he was kind and handsome in a safe. blonde way and i fell in lust with him, jacking off to his visage, my hard prick a compus, his face colmbus and the new world

he never knew, never did anything, was kind to me, and that was all i needed

seeing him again, in that same white shirt black pants way i felt differently

i dont need to prove myself, cheif fag at pr-cup, presenting a paper in la in august, making money writing, doing well in school- but seeing him- my joy almost dissapted, repalced with an eagerness- for apporval, for love, for him to hug me and tell me it was all ok

he didnt turn me on in the same way as he did when i was 14, it was a proustian memory now, and seeing his wife, with a child, proving to me that his fertility was used as fecundity was moving



i drove by the school coming home from van in nov, someone-not me- corrected my email and added my blog- maybe jason is reading this

no one else was there from my class, even the staff was rare- belton has become an anglican priest, weaver has disappeared to toronto, mcnaugtaun is in coquitlam, gebers in mexico and the man who destroyed me is back in the mideast, where he seems to go every 3 years or so, Richard Burton travelling to Arabia, w/o the anthroplogical exuse



after sjsa, a drink at new city where nirvanna and elvis and the ramones all played on the juke box. and then called daniel-where we went to whyte, she met thomas- called him sedate, which he is/nt depending on the day- old life and new life got along famously, after that sushi at toyko noodle house and books from wee book-sophocles recopmmnded by dana, swifts collected poem, more filthy then gullivers travels and a cub scout manuel which i collect

about the rant against god, i dont know wether i belive it, and really it was a rant against humanity. i am conflicted about man, cynical and angry at its evil, hoping that it will turn out to be good. im lonely and want to retreat from everyone, and this retreat never seems to work. thomas called my signatue tidal, and i feel like that, like the beach who wants to be shrouded by water permantly, to be drowned in it, but just when the drowning becomes comforting, it retreats. i go to parties, and drink so that i can be honest with my feelings w/o lying. i construct defenses, apodt personaes, mishima called his biography confession of the mask and it feels like i am barely taking of the first mask, maybe i will figure it out, maybe it will all be ok, maybe i will learn balance, not the aestic/aesthic pendulum which i swing on, but a genuine love of man and god and myself.

im listening to kristy mccoll singing fairy tale of new york, and im heading south on 12/23 and i dont want to go, i want to be alone, away from god and man, but thats this week.

next week ill be all about humanity.

thinking about the party last night in the sober light of day, i am more ocnfused. wojeck took his clothes off, and did push ups in a room with two other me, me included, i helped him get dressed later, doing his belt up, i rested b/w his knees and he rubbed my back, somewhere arround 5 am, he sober and me drunk, i got a ride home from him, there was a component of eros that surrounded him, and his interactions with me, and another woman at the party, that siad there was something else there, something that moved past eros and into primal grooming-i realized that i missed touch, the after and before of sex, not the actual fucking.