for halloween, buy her a trumpet

do you ever have a day that's so good, so wholly satisfying, it becomes inconceivable to do anything besides exactly what you wish to do? needless to say, class was cancelled.

a few credits:

to the rather attractive barista at jet fuel: your passionate duets with ray davies meant infinitely more to me than you will ever know.

to my poor, abandoned bicycle: you are a true and steadfast friend. i promise to return one day soon and release you; at the very least, i will grant you last rites deserving of your loyalty.

to the residents of st. james cemetary: thankyou for letting me tread through your midst with such light-hearted ease. it occurred to me that perhaps to be dead is to possess a sense of acceptance and understanding that in life, we cannot fathom.

to the concerned employee at kodak camera: i apologize for my carelessness in neglecting to properly close the tabs of my exposed film. i now know that this may have been a fatal mistake for my negatives. perhaps it would comfort you to know that the photographs themselves are likely all either poorly composed or exposed; at any rate, i have a tendency to bumble my way through all things, which i can only hope (but often doubt) is more endearing than frustrating to the outside observer.

to the decidedly gritty man who requested to "touch my hair": i chose to smile at you, rather than react with disgust, as you caught me in a rare mood in which i felt an upwelling of love for all things, even the most grotesque.

to mr. salinger: you played no small role in my dream-like wanderings through the city today, and i admit that the current tone of my prose is severely indebted to you. for some time now, i have come to accept that i am much more of a consumer than a creator, and have always had the habit of adopting the mannerisms of those around me, even as a child-- but please rely on the fact that my imitations are a sincere, if deft, form of flattery.

sugar never tasted so good

This film was incredible.


The footage of Jolene made my whole body radiate with warm shivers. That's how you know a good song. Here is a no less chilling version from Under Blackpool Lights:

we share the same skies

new york in november...my final destination in a banner year of travel.

punting in central park

brooklyn bridge walks

a run-in with the johnny marr and the brothers jarman

war wounds


rooftop camel crushes

i would have tried to find an appropriately new york passage from tropic of capricorn, but alas, i lent it out. instead i`ll let mr. miller tell it himself:

everything's so easy for pauline

I realize I have not posted since I returned from England... not that anyone is concerned i'm sure, but I plan to rectify that with future photographs, passages, and musings. For now, I leave my favourite Cindy Sherman piece, Untitled Film Still #66, an original print of which I saw today in the AGO print archives. A reproduction simply cannot do justice to its subtely and beauty, but alas-- this rings true for many things.

how long before the right one?

how not to chat me up:

man: i like your fringe. quite 80s though.
cia: umm... ok
man: thats ok though, i remember the 80s.
cia: yeah? i dont.
man: you dont seem surprised that i remember the 80s.
c: im not.
m: where are you from?
c: canada.
m: really? you dont sound canadian.
c: how should i sound?
m: well canadians sound like americans... you sound like you could be from any european country and just learned english.
c: uhh, nope, only speak english.
m: well dont worry, youll find yourself someday.
c: excuse me?
m: youll find the ability to speak to any type of person.
c: yeah, right... cheers.

what a cunt.

i will love you better

i'm not sure where to begin or how best to explain the two weeks i spent with andrew. i finished my exams the night before his arrival, and had recently received a sizeable bursary sum from the univeristy of toronto... so things couldn't really be better. he got off the plane and we basically headed straight south to brighton for the great escape festival, where our first destination was the sussex university rez of our couchsurfing host tom, a first year self-proclaimed anarchist, who showed us to our foam mattress at the foot of his bed, before taking us for a jaunt around brighton, and showing off his skill at not paying train fare. he turned out to be a stand-up guy, pretty much gave us his room, introduced us to his hodge podge of bong-wielding, non-armpit shaving roommates, and sent us off with a wine-soaked discussion of the couch-surfing experience.

The festival and brighton itself were fantastic. it's pretty much impossible to explain. here are some pictures from the beach:

and here are my photos from the daytime secret maccabees gig i won tickets to... the highlight for me. god i love them.

we saw loads of other bands, including, danananakroyd, black lips, lyrebirds, veils, british sea power, metronomy, the soft pack and flash guns. we left with a few bruises, very little sleep, a lot less money, and a shocking amount of mud all over my clothes

roll with it

i encountered three people that really made my night yesterday. First, was the bus driver who took me to work. i saw the bus coming and started running for it, and when i got on, he gave me the funniest smile and a wink as if to say: "don't worry... i'm on your side." the whole way he kept announcing major stops like it was a first class train coach... really getting into it. then, i got off the back door of the bus, and passed him as i walked, and and he grinned and opened the door for me again as a joke. it actually made me laugh.

the second person i saw while on the bus. we were stopped for a while to "regulate the service", and from the upper deck i could see below a girl, probably a bit younger than me, dressed indie but modest, with short black hair. she was hugging her bag and nervously looking in all directions, and smoking a cigarette like it was oxygen. every now and then she crossed herself a few times and said hail marys or whatever it is that catholics do, and then went back to nervously eyeing the people around her. she looked so sad, but i couldn't take my eyes off her. i thought about how she would look good on film, but then it would just look like a cheesy art student's attempt at being avant garde. or else, it could be a blockbuster movie, and if i'd be the boy that would run down and kiss her and make all her dreams come true.


the third person came into my bar, long after the happy hour punters had scattered... he was probably in his forties, real rough-and-tumble looking kind of guy, with a noel-gallagher-circa-early-nineties haircut and a bright patterned shirt. he was very cheerful and in a thick geordie accent asked me if i was irish. he was visiting london from newcastle, and was very pleased to hear that i liked london. he liked it too, even though many people don't-- "but of course," he said smiling, "it's what you make of it."