Art is... modified

It has no solid definition to the masses
Not here
Not in Canada.
Here it's,
That Dirty Little Secret.

"Don't laugh! My real dream is to write a book.
I want to write."

It's that tooth that you put under your pillow and hope for money to appear in return.
It is uncomfortable.
It's growth.
It's what's crafted in between thoughts
and shared with the world.
Or kept to yourself.
It is ever-changing, malleable.

It's not porn.
It's burlesque.
Perhaps it's the line that runs from the height of a woman;s cheek bone ti the curve of her breast, the slim of her waist, and ends with that poor baby toe. Perhaps.



He mumbles and my mind wanders from his lips and gets lost.

Again and again.
I feel a little like I've been run over by a mack truck.

His lips are still moving. His eyes catch my attention. Nice eyes.

I am thinking about all there is to do this week and the 8 million ways to avoid doing any of it. Right now for example I am supposed to be listening to the words pushing past his lips and not day dreaming about what he might look like with out that beard.

Funny looking. Naked. Awkward.

The beard suits him.


Random Thoughts!

I wish I'd worn my contacts today... I need to go back to lens crafters and have my glasses adjusted to fit my teenie tiny head... again, and then I need to remember not to lie on the things and bend them out of their teenie tiny shape.

I am trying to eat healthy but I am having trouble finding that balance between too little and too much. So I end up under/over eating. So weird. And water, now that I drink 8-12 glasses of water a day- I'm thirsty all the time! How the hell does that work?

I am buying myself a new bed for boxing day! Cant wait!

What else is new?

Starting bartending school soon, hoping to get a job where people actually tip. Then I'm going to work all christmas and hopefully make enough money for afore mentioned bed.

Getting my hair done at that place that is WAY too expensive by that girl who does a FANTASTIC job. But is rough on my skull. BUT she does a FANTASTIC job. What should I have done? Any Ideas? I'm not cutting more than 3 inches off my hair.

Have Homework I should be doing now instead of this.

Am taking Kickboxercise!!! it is awesome!!!! I get to kick things!!!!!

Have a good weekend everybody!!! Hopefully I will too! I need to relieve some tension... maybe... SHOPPING!!!



Yesterday my class had a long and passionate discussion about what art is... I mean one dude was almost shouting because his idea of what art is did not Jive with everyone else's. WOW.

Art is personal. It is intention. An expression. A craft. It has no solid definition to the masses, not here, not in Canada. Here in Canada art is that dirty little secret.

The other day someone said to me: "Don't Laugh... my real dream is to write a book. I want to write."

It is that tooth that you put under your pillow and hope for money to appear in return.
It is uncomfortable.
It is growth.
It is discovering yourself and your potential and sharing it with the world, or keeping it to yourself.

It's not porn.
It's burlesque.

It is what I want to create and have you praise.
It is entertainment.
It is ever-changing and malleable and...
to some people
it is everything.


The Exam Went Well

I guess I'm glad I didn't get run over after all.

Realizing she has a fan base... Sarah, Allie is going to try to post more regularly... might need some metamucil first

I was almost run over this morning. In a crosswalk. The car slowly drove toward me until I realized that if I took one more step, if she drove one more foot, I would be bouncing of the hood of the beater her daddy obviously didn't buy her. Gotta respect that at least. I did the usual arms slightly shrugged "WHAT THE FUCK." She dipped her head apologetically and drove off into the student lot.

I wanted to chase after her. But. It's early. And that would only be bad news.

Should have kicked the car as it went by.

Should have let her hit me.... I have a midterm this morning.
And she was driving slowly.


Her arms swung up and punched the air, while her body twisted and dipped. Turned. Stomped, twisted, got low. The music beat loud. Carried the crowd. Sticky floors sucked at the soles of her boots. In the corner a man in black. Not having fun. Watching everyone. The bouncer glares at the crowd, bored. She rocks her body, oblivious to everyone, even the man dancing with her. It's her, and the beat. And the ominous presence of the man in black.



If I quiet my thoughts.
And write them before they speak to me.
They tend to tell less lies.
They tend to tell more beautifully
with honesty.
The workings of my mind.
I have lied in bed.
Chasing demons with a sword.
Playing the jester at court.