I have a not-quite-as-boring fandom blog somewhere. Otherwise, be prepared to subject yourself to me.
Conduct some light
I am a really gay pumpkin pie
I think my single greatest accomplishment in life is being told today that a friend, who had always hated classical music because her parents were, in her words those, “‘You have to listen to classical!’ people when I was little, and it got a bit “eat your vegetables”-like for me.”
But I guess in talking about it, I made her interested.
My work has been validated.
My parents have a record player dating from the ‘70’s, when they first moved here.
When my grandmother died, we found the entire collection of the Karajan recordings of Beethoven and Schubert symphonies with the Berliner Philharmoniker.
There was something lost when we collectively moved to digital sound. A warmth, a presence…
When I talk to you about people who you will likely never meet
know that I talk to them about you in a measure of bittersweetness and longing many times beyond our years.
Variations on a theme:
A friend sent me one of her favourite poems so that I can set it to music.
Je veux ma maison bien ouverte,
Bonne pour tous les miséreux.
She is one of the most cordial people I know.
I always find that there is something incredibly personal about asking someone about what music they listen to, or what books they read. It feels almost as if, when I ask for recommendations, I am asking them to bare their souls.
What do you desire? Where do you find your voice?
It is both deeply disturbing and utterly beautiful.
Here’s what our parents never taught us:
You will stay up on your rooftop until sunlight peels away the husk of the moon,
chainsmoking cigarettes and reading Baudelaire, and
you will learn that you only ever want to fall in love with someone
who will stay up to watch the sun rise with you.
You will fall in love with train rides, and sooner or later you will
realize that nowhere seems like home anymore.
A woman will kiss you and you’ll think her lips are two petals
rubbing against your mouth.
You will not tell anyone that you liked it.
It is beautiful to love humans in a world where love is a metaphor for lust.
You can leave if you want, with only your skin as a carry-on.
All you need is a twenty in your pocket and a bus ticket.
All you need is someone on the other end of the map, thinking about the supple
curves of your body, to guide you to a home that stretches out for miles
and miles on end.
You will lie to everyone you love.
They will love you anyways.
One day you’ll wake up and realize that you are too big for your own skin.
Don’t be afraid.
Your body is a house where the shutters blow in and out
against the windowpane.
You are a hurricane-prone area.
The glass will break through often.
But it’s okay. I promise.
a stranger once told you that the breeze
here is something worth writing poems about.
Falling in love with people whom I’ve never met.
In a series of bad decisions brought on by even more bad decisions, my innate wanderlust has once again reared its ugly head.
I would be living outside of my means and my comfort zone for the first time in a long time.
A language barely remembered, a province rarely visited…