Sunday, December 31st, 2000 | 2:57
I am Marla's twisted displays of affection

I waited for the bus for twenty-five minutes in the frickin' snow but the people on it made the wait worth while. There was a group of drunk college kids in the back and they called me over. They were really funny-drunk, not violent- or scary-drunk. And quite friendly. We talked about bands and where to see bands and the like. Somewhere near Gladstone, a VERY (natural) blonde got on and came to the back. It was Anja. She was Polish. She was finishing her OACs at Immaculata. Tim, the drunkest of them all, convinced Anja to teach him how to say, "Hello, I'm Tim in Polish," in Polish. He learned and they exchanged phone numbers. They got off at Rideau, looking for "On Tap". I talked with Anja about the downfall of society and misogyny and punks. She thought I went to Carleton. She lives in Manor Parkish. It's not really Manor Park, but it's Brittany drive, so it's close.


Last night, I heard the most beautifully dissonant music ever made. There was no concept of musical time and the notes morphed into pure chaos. Every tone said no to every other. Any hint of harmony was purely accidental and was immediately rectified by a violent slam of seemingly random keys. I had never heard anything so hopeless. The composer was a marionette whose master had just been shredded to pieces by the largest coffee grinder the world has ever seen. The despair drips from the keys into the abyss. And the DJ ends the fall with the french words that terrify after one is used to the language of unstructured musical voice.


102.5 fm is nice


I sleep, per chance to dream

With hope to remember

And forget what is real

Forget what I think

And dream myself into oblivion

With the force

Of a thousand thoughts


I am Marla's twisted displays of affection.


I know a guy just like you, but not.


And the burning consumes all my lies



back | forth | older | guestbook | mail | profile | rings | diaryland