The world was wax, hers to mould.

Standing barefoot in my kitchen, tiptoed...for the floor is so cold. There is a pale fur stole draped across my shoulders, for no reason in particular. One hand occupied with a simmering stovetop--eggs for my roommate and I (breakfast at 1:30 pm), the other leafing through a frayed book of old Cohen poetry. Here is the best one so far--

"Beneath My Hands"

Beneath my hands
your small breasts
are the upturned bellies
of breathing fallen sparrows.

Wherever you move
I hear the sounds of closing wings
of falling wings.

I am speechless
because you have fallen beside me
because your eyelashes
are the spines of tiny fragile animals.

I dread the time
when your mouth
begins to call me a hunter.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.

I want them
to surrender before you
the trembling rhyme of your face
from their deep caskets.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want my body and my hands
to be pools
for your looking and laughing.

(Cohen, Leonard)

---

Disarray; how come there is clothing stranded everywhere it doesn't belong, water in rivulets all over the floor, stale coffee standing frigid in cups and why is there this pain behind my eyes? I think that is it nothing, really. Just another Saturday, another day skimmed off the calendar like a tree shedding its leaves. My limbs crave warmth, yet I can't see it happening. Candles ignited in the daylight feel startlingly nice. I always thought that fire was a thing of the night, but in the pearly afternoon sky they are very lovely.

In my mind, I wander the streets of a different city...beat a separate heart...feel a breath altogether not my own. It is part imagination, part game. Part real. My lips speak a language I've never known, and everything is the opposite of parallel. It's funny, and indecipherably sad at the same time. Stepping, stepping. I don't know these feet but it seems they recognize me as their own.

Here is the new black: Stop thinking and start feeling.

I can't think of words any more fitting to part with.
With love,
RB.

Based in simplicity.

Between the hiss of the radiators, I ponder why/why not. Either way would be the clearest, but in different ways. Personal philosophy, snaking out the window--in the edgy cool; in the night? You know what's good for you. If I had a flat piece of copper for every time...

Limbs eyes heart head. I'm starting to think that there's no real way of ever knowing. Every once in a stretch of time, a chance licks at your (my) skin like trickling water and it's so easy, almost effortless, to brush it away like a feathery wind or a loose strand of hair. Such a careless, ingrained reaction. Like breath or like eyelashes fluttering tiredness, or a key in the door, shoes tossed off of feet after the longest of days.

The truth here is hardly profound, it is rather just that I want to stop thinking and start feeling. I am reaching blindly in the darkness when it comes to tomorrow and the day(s) after that, but the sensations of this evening, the dying day--that's what is real. Imperfect, but real. And to that, I say yes and yes again.

In parting, here is a bit of an Emily Haines tribute. Her stems kill me (jealous), as does her voice. She is cool and she should know it.




(likes nature)




(perfectly disheveled mane)




(slays)




(exquisite taste in company)




(babe. end of story.)

Practically asleep,
RB.

I'll take the pictures if you stay in bed...

And I'll take the pictures
If you stay in bed
I'll run down the park
If you put up your head

Don't put up your borderline

Four or five years ago
I wouldn't believe it
I wouldn't receive it
And I'll take the stitches
You put in my head
I'll run down the ark
If you put up your head

Don't put up your borderline
Don't put up your borderline

(genius cred--Sufjan Stevens)

I would nearly venture to say that this is the song of my life. It haunts me and seduces me, smooths me out and stirs me.
It transports me back to Italy...and warmth...and train rides...and a heart on the mend, shard by shard.

*

The first time I realized that you would let me down was cold January, four years ago. I lay feverish and alone in my basement apartment, and I needed you--your fingers like cooling ice on my cheekbones and your scent in the air. You weren't there and I knew in the oblique spaces of my innards that you wouldn't come. That bit like a bonfire through my veins.

Cut/ resist, retain, revive--spring's first streaks of gray, and a faded wooden shack of a cabin. Clear Lake. You and I and the neighbour's dog, walking for coffee in the newborn sunlight down deserted gravel roads. Layers of musty clothing (your grandfather's? your sister's from faded years ago?). We look homeless and we could care less. There is nobody around except for us, as if this humble village of cabins is our own private universe. Back at (our makeshift) home, we brew honey-flavoured tea and shoot it with whiskey. You make dinner, green curry, while I dig myself into a corner of the ragged couch, afghan-clad and book in hands. I break to sift through the tattered collection of records your parents still keep strewn away here--Cohen, Mitchell, Dylan, Young etc. We agree on an old Serge/Jane compilation, and their voices twine around us; twining us together, buttery-smooth. The lazy/sexy sounds melt us into themselves. You lock in with my eyes across the room, this twiggy space between us, and smiles radiate; softness. It is an undeniable exchange, and the heat is like liquid static forming rivulets from me to you and back again.

Once we have devoured our meal of heat and spice, we lay--curry-laden bellies-down--on the chipping slats of the verandah floor. A Scrabble board stretches in the middle of us, filling the gap between our bodies. At first it is serious but then I start inventing words (salinla--a rare type of Balinese worm) and you draw your pipe out from some pocket, somewhere. The sweetened smell of tobacco smoke drifts around us, hanging like a spidery curtain in the dark air...and we have forgotten about our game.

Later, we run down towards the beach, so still and void of sound or movement, you trailing after me. We align ourselves there, in the chilled sand against the water, and then we stop talking. You are in your own thoughts and I in mine. But we are irrevocably joined there, alone in the last dying moments of winter. For the next trailing period of time that we sit there, breathing in the sharp beauty of it all, you only open your lips to say these words--"We should probably never leave here."
"I know," I reply, and lean against the warmth that is the righthand side of your body. It's cold now, and I feel it.

Purple and black in the day, in the night.

If I could scrape your thoughts naked and siphon them back into our mutual jar of light, would I? I am undecided. Today, right now, draped black from tip to toe--I would say no, without hesitation no. It is, rather, when scent or body language or frail-light touch catch me unaware, that I reconsider. I ask my self why/why not, and all that undefinable space that lingers in between. I hardly even remember the tones of your voice anymore, the shape of your breath--the lifting and the falling of both. For this, I am worshipfully relieved. I would rather stow those months and years and millimeters that make up days in some concealed (yet far from forgotten) cache within the layers of myself--a tiny vial, slender and embroidered with a protective web of skin and blood and tissue. There, I can handle it. I can travel back to it when I feel loose enough, or ready. If details blur; the length of a feathery eyelash or the way that you would go through the motions slowly, ever slowly, then I can peer back into that pristine yet shielded oval hollow of memory, and realize--oh yes, those were the words you used to say goodnight, or that was the way you held your fork. Or I could choose not to, which is drizzling into stronger likelihood with each passing day.

The almond tea laced between my fingers burns the white of my skin, but in a way it feels nice. Like heat with a little searing edge of pain. It energizes, almost. The socks pooled at my feet, now bare, are older than I can even trace back...were they my father's or maybe my brother's or a boyfriend's now long melted away? I can't recall, and I don't even care beyond the point of curiosity. The patchwork of everything--not just the material against my body; all of it from then until now--presses in on my silhouette, sometimes sadness shot through with an injection of light...but usually spirited like a wind that cools.

Back and forth; forth, back...forth and back and over again. A bird winging itself northwards, exhaustion setting in amidst the darts of rain lashing down. Rhythm seduces, and something tells me that it always will. No matter the angle, challenge is almost alluring as it is off-putting. Didn't we always know it would be this way?

where softness meets urgency...

I am gradually becoming very ready for the land of heat. My current days lace by like river water; mainly uneventful, even, and significant only to myself. There are fitful injections of high/low that keep me in my skin, and aware of unpredictability. This is a good thing, I think. I never want to reach the point where I find myself too comfortable; too ingrained in my routine.

I lay in the dark cave of my living room late the other night in the absence of light, save for a scattering of my roommate's hazelnut candles (delicious) and the glow flung from my fireplace. The heat glazed itself over my body like a salve, calming me after an evening filled with voices layered and music waxing loud and bodies cutting around one another behind a starry-lit bar. And as I lay there, post-activity, post-crowd; the heat snatched me and pulled me into itself. I found myself wondering, is this what it might feel like to live in the throes of a more fiery climate for a little sliver of winter? I hope so. I want to feel that startling sense of calm in the limbs of my body and the beat of my heart. I want to eat fresh fish with my fingers for lunch, and dinner in the dark, and even for breakfast...and I want to do yoga on a quiet stretch of beach and I want to notice my ghostly skin grow a shade bronzer and I want to read poetry and foreign Vogue unabashedly and I want to write until my fingers ache.

The other day, during a session of ripping through my bedroom for god-knows-what, I came across the two journals I filled during my season spent last year in Europe. I dropped to the floor cross-legged, and read through lengthy bits of each. It was like being drawn into an alternate world; I came out of (what became) a sort of retrospective trance with a smile on my lips. I am eager to revive that edge of myself again come February; to again lapse into that inevitable challenge and lightness and joy of being apart and away. I am ready for discovery of an altogether different slice of the globe, and also of myself. I find that being away from home in that semi-permanent fashion allows the luxury of space for unique perspective. Even the prospect of it refreshes me. The nice thing about now, though, is that I have days like this one--sleeping in followed by the slowest of wake-ups, coffee at my fingertips and a walk to the Village in the biting cold sunlight. A lazy visit with the Paramix girls topped off with a steaming bowl of tofu veg peanut soup at Spicy Noodle House, book propped alongside.
Current complaints: none, really.
Days off are sometimes all it takes to feel yourself again.
Peace, etc.
RB

A long long way from home, stop wherever you find yourself.

Self-Interview--
space: my livingoom
time: as the sun dips and night slides over everything
sounds: simon&garfunkel
eats: dark mint chocolate
liquids: licorice tea, ice water


DESCRIBE YOUR CHILDHOOD IN A SINGLE WORD:
Warmth.

WHAT WERE YOU LIKE AS A LITTLE GIRL?
Inquisitive. I asked a lot of questions, or so I am told. Shy. Playful. Wild imagination. Heavily into books. Wide-eyed and hopeful. Free; I remember feeling very free most of the time.

DID YOU HAVE A FAVOURITE BOOK OR FAIRYTALE?
I read my copy of "Anne of Green Gables" until it was in tatters. "Harriet the Spy" was an obsession for a few years straight. Anything by Roald Dahl. "Charlotte's Web." And when I was tiny, "The Growing Tree" (still one of my favourites), "Red is Best", "Rebecca's New Blue Shoes", "Where the Wild Things Are", "Fish is Fish", any and all of Russell Hoban's "Frances" series. I could go on...I was a fierce reader.

AND HOW HAS THIS CHILDHOOD AFFECTED YOU AS A GROWN-UP?
These elements all meshed together to form the organic foundation of who I am. They are the little things, the subtleties, but they are everything.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE ITEM OF CLOTHING?
Tony Chestnut fitted black stretch dress with the sleeves that go on forever--that piece carried me all over Europe. Black leather jacket from Paris. Paper-thin exboyfriend T-shirts. Plaid stolen from my brother. Hobo-esque gray cardigan with the sleeves now worn through.

DOES CREATIVITY COME EASILY TO YOU?
Yes. No. I find it elusive, inspiration that is. I am also often guilty of reaching for a magazine, phone, computer, snack, book and so forth before hunkering down with pen and paper. In the vein of honesty, I really believe that creativity is raw and shouldn't be forced, but I think that there is also definitely something to be said for making it a conscious choice. Unpredictable yet intentional, that's it. Or something.

WHAT DID YOU LAST DREAM ABOUT?
Parasitic worms infesting my bed. It wasn't a happy dream.

WHERE DO YOU CONSIDER HOME?
These days, my apartment would be the first answer off my lips--its messy, humble and lovely. I am thankful for it and in love with it every single day. Home is still also my parents' roost in the country, and a little sliver of my heart continues to linger in St. Boniface in that old red brick house.

WHAT DO YOU HOPE FOR?
A settled mind and a heart that is alive. Joyous days and smooth nights. Simplicity. Satisfaction. Love that doesn't disappoint. A cat winding at my feet. Coffee in the morning, tea through the afternoon and red wine at night. Laughter that comes effortlessly. Inspiration like water streaming rain-like over my body. Continual growth. Copious amounts of silence but also the sound of voices.

WHAT DID YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GREW UP?
A ballet teacher, HA. I think also a nurse for a while. And a writer, always a writer.

WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE?
By the ocean or on a rooftop in Paris.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG TO GO TO SLEEP TO?
I usually fall asleep to the sound of nothing more than my own breath, but if I would have to pick...then I would probably choose something by Iron & Wine or Sufjan Stevens..."Borderline" maybe? Mmmmm yes that one. Or anything Leonard Cohen.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG TO WAKE UP TO?
I think that I would choose something happy and energy-giving. Still something with an edge of softness, though. Charlotte Gainsbourg or Beirut. Page France could be nice in the morning too.

TELL US A SECRET:
I spent $80 that I don't have to spend on perfume today. Eeeek. Its gorgeous though. Totally worth it.

WHAT WAS YOUR BEST, SCARIEST HALLOWEEN COSTUME EVER?
I don't know about scariest, but my best was probably Holly Golightly, Audrey Hepburn's charater in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" a couple of years ago. It took the cake. As a kid I remember falling back more than once on the princess-wearing-purple silk-gown-with-shoddy-homemade-crown look. Predictable but classy.

BAM, YOU HAVE FIVE CHILDREN. NAME THEM.
Magnolia Jade (christened after the sweetest slash wildest cat ever)
Audrey
Annick
Isaac
SImon

On that whimsical note, goodnight and goodbye.
XOXO and all that jazz,
R.Louise B.

matter/antimatter, tangled like vines...

On this rooftop where we're sitting
In the rays of the setting sun
Glasses of wine on a crate between us
Catch the light -- seem to glow from within


And there's a laugh
Hanging in the air
And there's no
Desperation anywhere


So many miles, so many doors
Some need patience, some need force
All fall open in their own due course
To allow us this time


And your limned
In light, golden and thin
Looks to me
Like you're lit up from within


And look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
To paint you
This way


And I picture us in this light
Friendship a fine silver web
Stretched across golden smoky haze
And this is simple
And this is grace


And this light
Is a guest from far away
Passing through
The last whisper of day


And look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
To paint you
This way

(Look How Far--Bruce C.)

where were you when the world turned black?

I wonder (as I wonder) why it is that my intentions clash with my actions so often, more than I would like the admit? It's as if, once night drops or I am feeling particularly young or the light glazes someone's cheekbones in just that way or my hands feel thinner than usual or a glass slips through my claws and shatters--those are the times that control evades me. It can really be anything, even the stupidest things. I could write a thesis on this; I could fill a room with words or a lake with glassy water. I want consistancy, and I want it more than anything in myself. There are stretches of time, afternoons and into the dark that I even lust after it.

Self-drenching in guilt over what might have happened had you (I) been enabled is sad and it is really pretty pointless, after all. There can be little to no structure in this state of mind. It is broken energy, I don't want it. I just wish that I were stronger, more smoothed out and resistant and resilient. Again, consistancy visits like a cat layered against your body in the night. It is slippery, it is there and then without a breath of a warning it melts away. I want to weep when it vapourizes; I want to smash things and I want to be better and sweeter and decades more aware.

Its a progression and it bites me in the heart organ (muscle? I should know this.) more often than not. The organic skeleton of what I want is to spare the circles of people around me pain. When I flail and thrash yet still come out of it all on the bottom, it frusterates me. God knows it doesn't do anybody else favours. Sometimes there are not enough ways to apologize; I think that regret would be well-suited to having a language all its own.

This afternoon I don't feel pristine or even remotely light about myself. Its okay though, I deserve it. I think that I will brew some licorice tea and blackify the nails on my toes. I will feather Meg with some words and she will transfer her own back and into me. That I know will be nice. A magnum of house red at Cafe 22 is 52 ounces and Tanqueray gin trapped inside a sleek green bottle is 40. What I am trying to say is that you should come by. Sit at the bar, slide a cool drink down your throat and tell me a story.

For now I will loop these two songs back to back and over again, like the weight of skin and bone and muscle transferred from one foot to another--

Sufjan Stevens--Borderline
Emmylou Harris--Take That Ride

When I feel streaks of gray like this, my friend Shira reminds me about prana yama breath. Thanks, Shir...my intention is to prana yamify my breath into feeling okay again. The truth is that I feel better already. Christ bless Le Suf and Emmylou, they are the ultimate beauties and the most calming of salves.

On a (somewhat frivolous) sidenote, eye up this month's American Vogue...there is a gorgeous spread right near the end featuring the lovely Natalia Vodianova, her sexy husband Justin Portman and their three breath-stopping children. She makes motherhood look like a blossoming adventure, and also pretty damn cool.

No more cigarettes by the river for this lady; we are as good as moving into winter-esque mode and with that season comes my personal murder of casual smoking. Thankyou London and Amsterdam and (especially) Paris for seducing me into this questionable past-time. Shaun and Ken (the jig is up, I know you are reading this!), please don't fret, I am hardly addicted. It is a onceinabluemoon temptation and every few weeks I cave and give in to it. So never fear, your daughter is not a smoker.

Okay, I am officially boring myself with this rambling.
Over/out,
rlb.

(ballad of a thin man)

Is it Sunday yet?
I have a (sort of) date with Bob Dylan, and am ready to rip into the night with both teeth, ten fingers and whatever else is necessary. Insert sharp intake of breath here. Since burning Neil Young off my airy list of "to see before death", I've been hungering for Dylan and Cohen. One, two, three bold checks beside each groundbreaking name and then one facet of my life is complete. Dear Leonard Cohen, please grace Winnipeg with your presence and I will be forever indebted.

````

Have you ever dreamt of somebody, as-yet faceless/nameless who will serve you tea in bed, and smile when you wear deadened leaves in your hair? Somebody who will lay down in a golden wheat field with you and remain there for hours talking about both the least and the most significant things? Somebody who will scale a tree with you during that ashen hour just before morning slithers into existance? Somebody who likes cats and doesn't think that you are crazy when you talk to them for long stretches of time? Somebody that gathers you into their arms and loves you more when you suggest black olives and a bottle of merlot for dinner? I know I have.

The night starts here. I want to be reminded of summer, and of water and light and laughter and breath. I want to desire taking happiness in like tiny sips of air so that I might spread it out; prolongue it; keep it pristine as it is. I want worn wood and lanky windows and expanses of space and coffee brewing at all hours and bookshelves flanking every room and gargantuan closets and nights spent drifting by the fireplace and scandalously late breakfasts, and so on in a similar vein. I don't care if all these elements are shabby and small and worn and used and laughable. I think that they are exactly perfect and I wouldn't ask for any more or any less.

Off to make a living, all night every night,
RB.

cripple creek ferry(fairy).

Ever since I saw the godly Neil Young play last week, I've been on a steady and exclusive diet of his albums. He is good, he is better than good. I love him because of this, and because he reminds me of my parents and of my brothers. He reminds me to be hopeful; he reminds me to strip things down to their slimmest bones and look at them that way. I think that if fate would hand me even a skinny half hour with this man, I would buy him a coffee (or maybe a stiff scotch on the rocks), and take him on a frosty walk through downtown Winnipeg in the dusk. We would weave down Wellington to Sherbrook to Ellice to Albert, and our feet would maybe drag and our bodies shiver in the October chill, but our lips would move quickly, trading words. I would ask him questions and I would pray that he would answer. I'd question if he has always believed in love, and even if so (or if not) what bleeding it took to get him there. I have seen his wife, she is very beautiful. And also looks as if she would be quite a lovely individual. I hope so, it would trash my heart to see Neil with anybody less.

I think that my best nights are those involving red wine shared with other(s) and then tea shared with myself, and maybe a book and Devendra's soothing sounds at most. This eve I traipsed to Meg's pretty lair for Mexican eats showered with red wine and layers of secrets shared. It was exactly what I needed, she was exactly what I wanted. I have the most brilliant mum, but if ever I am clawing for an immediate surrogate, I know with instinct that Madge is my lady to go to. She takes care of me and tells me when enough is enough. She also tells me when to go to hell and tells me when she loves me most. And for all these things, and more, I love her most.

Janique, in all her radiance, joined us midway through said hangout. She greeted us, in typical endearing fashion, with coos and kisses and embraces and a fresh bottle of ruby red. We nestled all into one another, listened to records and tossed words around and watched Meg fold her laundry. All was well and there was a lot of hand-grasping and soft laughter. I appreciate those girls, very much.

I leapt onto my frail green bicycle for a lung-icing ride home through abandoned streets. Empty apartment, Harvest Moon lapsing me into relaxation, and hot licorice tea sliding down my throat. I think that this hours calls for no less than a three-hour bath and a sleep no more untouched than death.

This is where I say goodbye.
So goodbye, then.
Rebecca L.

.here's to you, Franny and Edie.

Melancholy
aviation
chocolate
perfume
cigarettes

(...Gainsbourg, C.)
----
How's this for a nighttime intermission? Due to an elongated afternoon nap, the hour is late latelate and I am awake as the fakey owl gazing into outerspace on my mantel. Fooling myself into tiredless is pointless, maybe I will slide into a hot bath instead? I kind of feel like brewing some tea and taking myself on a walk through blackened streets; rain-streaked pavement. I'd arrange my body, askew, against the watery grass and pull the sharp air into my lungs in greedy sips. The night air, espeically in autumn, is always the best air. It makes me feel as if nothing could ever touch me or hurt me or make me feel any less alive. Energy winding like thin unseen ropes against my skin; nourishment significant only to myself. Like absinthe coating my throat, except imagined not real.

Here is a reel for the eyes, miscellaneous as heck, from the past few days:

(l'apartment)




(falafel place, breakfast in the late afternoon light)


(new roommate, trish. babe.)


--photo cred, all, attributed to a mysterious photographer.

Eyes wide shut,
RB

take my body, hide it in a boat.

One year ago to this day, I stepped onto a plane bound for London. As I lay here now in my warmth-encased apartment, a wave of nostalgia ripples through my veins. I recall the torrent of emotions ripping my innards during that piece of time; that long-anticipated day. It was fear and hopefulness; trepidation and wonder and a liquid energy. Fragile as I was, I question now if, at that point of departure, had I known of the tears that would flow and the discouragement that would plague at times....would I have gone through with it?




I know I would have. Those two months saw me at my most pristine, my most inspired; but also at my lowest and darkest. I am blessed to have faux-sisters that were willing to weather all through with me, regardless of which extreme I was experiencing at the time. And for that I am grateful beyond words. Meg and Kit, you might as well be blood to me. Thankyou for your goodness; thankyou for tolerating my tired feet and my relationship cul-de-sacs and my stupid drunken questions and my inability to read any slash all maps and all the rain that fell from my eyes and my frailty underneath a backback and my yoga by night and my vegatarianism. You are la creme de la. Know. I will cut my throat if either of you ever change.



So thankyou again and over, continent that is Europe; you were a breathtaking teacher; ground-breaking actuallly. You roughened me up, and also you softened me. You whittled me down to the bones of myself, and you although you trampled on me at times and left me for dead, you also revived me, and brought forth a layer of life from within that I hadn't known was there.



It seems fititng that on the one-year anniversary of our wedlock with Europe, aforementioned trio would make a second pilgrimage to our shitstorm travel agent. We laughed; we poured over a map (this time of an altogether different slice of the world), we exchanged stories, we sipped coffee (black) from mugs usually reserved for construction workers and the like. I shed my dark eyes and sleepless haze; I found myself drawn into the excitement of what we are beginning to piece together. Ruthie is infectious; she has a heart of gold and pearl and amethysts and emeralds and whatever else is best and richest and purest. Adoration only, sent her way.




Shivering on the sidewalk this morning, coffee in white hands and wide-eyed with fatigue, I stood waiting for my ride Ruth-wards. The air was sharp and stiff, and its raw fingers aganst my lungs reminded me of a loose collection of things. Waiting for the school bus with my brothers in the barely-there morning light // sliding in next to a lover--passenger seat of rickety car, kiss hello on cool lips--thrusting shared coffee back and forth between one another's hands as we snake towards the open highway // solo walks through Wolseley towards the University--barely awake and thoughts whimsical. One, two, three...like electric surges, or gunshots. Perhaps a little bit of both.

As one of my most idolized writers has penned, and yes I know I have quoted this before, but bear with me it is shameless in its authenticity--
"Memory breeds memory. The very air is made of memory. Memory falls in the rain. You drink memory. In winter you make snow angels out of memory." (MacDonald, A.M.)

Memory breeds memory breeds memory breeds memory.
I could not agree more feverishly.
Its the grayest sort of day, and my candles have somehow burned down to nothing.
I've a closet to slash through and slenderize, wish me luck.
R. Louise.

PS.

Dear Devendra, can you make me your bride?






Or if not (and let it be said that I fully understand if you decide to make Meg your betrothed instead, she is a fox. and the truth is that we both have an insatiable fetish for you,) would you at least introduce me to this one?

Sincerely yours, Rebecca.

Dirt and soul (Bits of time).

It's a black winter night. I am nineteen. I am walking down a street glassed with ice and fringed in show. A tired smile plays at my lips as the air, frosty, licks at my exposed skin. Hands slip into rough wool coat pockets, and my steps quicken. The house on the corner is afire with light and sound. I move inside; voices twine all around me. Someone thrusts a glass of red wine between my fingers. I am grateful for it. I slither out of coat...boots...scarf...mittens and say an array of hellos. An unexpected shyness blossoms through my veins. There are one or three familiar faces, but more than most of the house strewn with bodies are those unknown to me. I like this, for some strange and hazy reason. It makes me feel safe; anonymous. My real reason for coming here tonight was to let myself breathe; peel myself from textbooks. Was it a foolish idea? Now I am standing here, body thawing out, feeling like an awkward baby colt on wobbly legs. I am netted within a web of strangers, and now what? And so I drink, quickly and so I will feel smoother. It's latelate December; skinny days before Christmas. There is a tree in the corner, nearby to where I find myself standing. Its smell is raw and refreshing, and vaguely intoxicating. There are candles as well; a ridiculous spread. The collection flung across the living room windowsill is interesting; religious paraphernalia. Fire licks against glass-streaked images of the Virgin Mary, her arms full of the Christ child; Jesus draped over the Cross; a rain of angels. I can't tell if they are meant to be taken seriously or in jest, but regardless, they reel my eyes in towards them. They fuel a memory; Catholic church service as a child. I fall onto my own planet of thought for a heartbeat, and the next thing I know a girl in a man's tattered dress shirt and a cigarette at her lips stumbles into me. I'm in the way. I apologize; melt to the other side of the room.

I'm curled in the corner of a couch, cool black leather. My friend who the house belongs to wanders over, an open bottle of red slung loosely in his left hand. He sits with me awhile, refills my glass to the brim, and we talk about my midterms, the hecticness of the season, the new girl he is dating. After a time he is gone; a tidal wave of life. I am alone again, but not really lonely. By this point I am relaxed; even; content to observe the swirling scene around me.

In the midst of watching a girl exhibit her newborn glittering engagement ring to a knot of people--"Hey, can I sit with you?" I flick my eyes towards the voice; so near although soft. You are there, and you are beautiful. You are a complete stranger to me. You are drinking something in a low, clear glass with ice. Gin, maybe?

I discover that Winnipeg is a very new city to you; you've barely grazed the surface of it yet. We talk about cafes, I tell you my favourites. We talk about dreaming at night, and whether we think it has any sort of meaning at all. Both of us think it does, but still, we agree, it's mysterious. We talk about old music and how the best sorts of days are the grayest ones and how walking alone at night down an empty street can feel so exhilerating. We talk about the obvious; how we aren't organically at ease within a crowd, and how we are happier and more fulfilled by a longer, intimate conversation than frantic snatches of talk with person after person.

I feel like I was made for this conversation; it has been years in the making. It fits flawlessly. I feel like there are a thousand things I want to say and ask you and share and have flow between us. I like your voice, and the words you choose, and the thought you visibly put into them. In a strange sense, in the edges of my mind, I am frightened of losing you...to another person passing by; to menial small talk; to the ocean of people. I can tell you want to hang on to me too; keep me here with yourself. It is a chemical reaction, and we share a magic not so subtle.

We talk for hours. The party yawns; quiets; sighs and deflates like a creature settling down for sleep. We are virtually alone now. The remaining few people crawling over the proximity of the house draw together as if magnetically; they draw towards us. Fuck. Neither of us want this. Yet we must embrace it, and gracefully. Or else what would that look like to the others around? It changes, once we're not alone any longer, inhabiting our own separate universe. All seems back to normal again, yet we are altered, the both of us. I realize my eyes are gritty with weariness, and the hour is immeasurably late. I've an exam to slash through in the morning, and already I'll be falling into bed dangerously close to sunrise.

The last thing I want to do is leave you, though. Our eyes speak volumes--
Stay here with me.
No...no, I can't. I shouldn't.
I know...we only just met...but please stay. Or leave, leave with me.
I...I want to. More than anything I want to. Its just that...
What? What is it? I'm scared too.
No, its not that. It's just that I need sleep, it seems so irrelevant I know, but...
Yeah. I know. Of course, it makes sense. I just couldn't help but...
I know. Me too. I want...
Me too.
Yeah.
Yeah...

Our goodbye is quick; to prolongue it would complicate. I thank my friend for having me. I say goodbye to lingering partiers one, two, three, six. You I leave for the end. Our eyes flash energy; daring us to let them speak again. But no, it's later than late and beyond time for me to go. You walk me to the door; a few others follow, innocently enough, thrashing around for footwear. Laughter falls all around us, but as far as either of us is concerned, none of it exists. We say nothing more; exchange no information; make no plan to see one another. And I'm glad. It seems that it would somehow strip this night of its naked perfection. And so I go; I turn and I walk out the door and into the dark. All I know is that I feel alive.

**

Indian summer; we sit against the river. My feet are bare. You lay on your back, eyes closed, soaking in the unexpeted warmth. We have tea, gray vanilla. The trees are skeletal, bare but for a few final bronzed leaves that still cling, defying the oncoming winter. You stretch over onto your side, and reach down to trail a finger over the skin of my foot nearest to you. It makes me shiver, but in the best sort of way. You ease your body up to sitting; pull me into yourself; lay your lips against my forehead. Its my sort-of favourite place to be kissed; you know it. My laughter is soft, and appreciative.

We talk about love. I have a slender amount to say; you have far too much. Our experiences are glacially opposite. But its okay. There is nothing we can change about that, and so we offer what we have to one another with an almost raw innocence. Afternoon light bleeds a shade less golden by degrees; somehow the hours have whittled themselves away and now its dusky dark. We lay there, backs pressing into the dock's dishevled wood, tracing the lines of one another's bodies. Eventually, we fall asleep.

this is where i put my foot.

This is where I put my foot—right beneath yours. Breath is even; heart is not. I’ve no idea why I am here. I don’t know these walls, and the sheets are not my own. Yet somehow, it all feels strangely familiar, disarmingly safe. It is better than okay, and it is not okay at all. Arms are winter twigs, brittle and not altogether inviting. I want to be here, yet I cannot ignore the biting urge to slip from the smooth body beside me, piece my clothes back onto my skin and melt away into the night, into the street. It would be hurtful—I know. It would be fucking stupid—I know. I would regret it—I know. Still, I toy with the idea of leaving; toss it around like a piece of forbidden fruit in my mind’s eye. I won’t. Run away, that is. It is less complicated to remain here, uneasy but carelessly content. Tomorrow will be time enough to examine myself. I’ll brew some tea, throw my father’s ragged old cardigan over my shoulders, and let my feet take me down to the river. There I’ll roost, like a spindly baby bird, one set of fingers twined through the mug in my hand, the other set going through the motions of chain-smoking. And I’ll reflect…I will let the snaking autumn river carry my fretful thoughts away with itself, leaving me desirably empty.

That’s what I’ll do. And so, for now, it is alright to stay. I focus on not moving, on a spider legging its way along the ceiling, on the faint dusty light siphoning in through the window from outside. I focus on the narrow closet with its door flung open, on the sound of the cat rustling through the hallway, on the white-hot beating of my heart. It feels erratic. Is it that there are still traces of the red wine we drank earlier sifting through my veins? Although it couldn’t be, I only had a single glass. I am willing myself to drift into non-consciousness, into release. I want it too badly though, my body won’t have it. This aggravates me. Were I alone right now, I’d peel myself out of bed, pull knit slippers over my naked feet, and go sit in the sun porch. I would drink frosty water out of a glass with ice and wedges of cucumber. There would probably be a cigarette involved, or two. I would set the array of candles strewn across the room alight, and I would feel calmer, feel more myself.

It would be insane for me to go ahead with that right now, though. It would only bathe the night, this night, in an obvious complexity. I’d rather recognize it as such myself, and let it go at that. As far as anyone else is concerned, all is well. I’m laying here, now successfully motionless, and my eyes are draped closed. I’m so visibly at rest. The fact that I am playing a role is irrelevant, because I’m pulling it off. It’s making me feel like I’m at a funeral inside, though. Instead of sleeping, I am mourning. Who’d know?

Sky’s light is turning a pearly heather-gray; morning is near. I’ve startled myself by remaining here. I don’t feel any more at ease, but a smoothening resignation has set in.

We wake up; make coffee. Laughter is soft. Legs are bare. Coat, boots, scarf, bag slung across shoulder. Day has set in and I am gone. Like that, I am gone. And its okay. I can breathe again. Light and heat and my feet touching on cement drenched in morning warmth. Its done and I know it. But for now, there is today. There is today, and it is good. I walk away, and home. Moving through, moving forwards, moving forwards and through.

*



(Chase Cohl--http://www.littledoeislove.com)

All I miss is all that I am ashamed of.
Bisous.
(All is well, even though words may seem to speak otherwise. Rest assured.)
RB.

River rat.

I am setting up camp in my living room, sipping a hells spicy self-made caeser with olives and cucumbers. It is startlingly delicious. For the moment, this Friday night hangout consists of myself and Neil Young. So that is funny. And also a little bit sad. But friends are en route, and I am just using Neil to whittle the present lone hour away. In his defence slash favour, he is really quite good company.

This afternoon we were blessed with an injection of---what is it called??--Indian summer? Yah I think that is it. Regardless, the iced air gave way to light and actual warmth. It was unexpected, and I liked it. Winding my bicycle down Assinaboine mid-day, after a gargantuan lunch courtesy of my amazingAMAZING grandmother, I couldn't bring myself to resist the open air licking enticingly at my skin. And so, instead of marching responsibly home to address matters such as dishes, laundry, credit card paying and magazine article writing, I fucked it all. I flung my spindly green bicyclette down amidst leaves in a deserted nook along the river, and I curled down like a satisfied cat in the sun's reaches. I thought, I dreamed, I reflected, I fretted, I breathed in and out and over again, I slept a little, I surprised myself by cascading down into relaxation. Sometimes, I think that losing all rational track of time and obligations is the most freeing sensation. It fed me today; nourished me down to the bones and also, on a lesser level, to the heart.

For now, that is all I've time to share.
Good night, good night.
RB

/Love until your hands bleed/?

Tonight I played "Clue" with Andrew and Hilary. They are enchanting, both separately and in combination. On the sidelines, we let our ears take in Billie Holiday, and our lips champagne. The champagne's presence on the dimly lit hallway table was somewhat of a mystery to me...not, after all, being my beverage of choice ever since a horrendous experience in my latter teen years. Regardless of what it was we were celebrating (the official advent of a fresh season? monday? hil's bangin dance audition? moving on?), my stomach was a kind recipient tonight. I was both startled and thankful, because all disastrous experiences aside, it is a completely delicious beverage.

The looping journey back apartment-wards through stillened streets was a frosty one to my skin, but a relieving one on my heart. There is a lightness I acquire through pulling icy air into my lungs, and transforming it into an energetic heat (if significant only to myself).
Speaking of heat that is hot, I curled down to take in this film the other day:



(Bernardo Bertolucci's "The Dreamers")
...........

(synopsis courtesy of my worshipped Wikipedia:)
"A young American exchange student, Matthew (Michael Pitt), has come to Paris in order to study French. Though he has lived there for several months, and will stay in Paris for a year, he has made no friends. As a huge fan of film, he spends most of his time in the Cinémathèque Française. Eventually he forms a rapid friendship with a Frenchwoman, Isabelle (Eva Green), and her brother, Théo (Louis Garrel). Isabelle and Theo are twins, and were originally conjoined at her right and his left shoulder, respectively. Throughout the film, scars on their shoulders can be seen. All three have an avid love for movies, especially "the classics". As their friendship grows, Matthew learns of the extreme intimacy shared by the siblings (what one reviewer described as "incestuous in all but the most technical sense"[4]) and gets pulled into their world. Over time he falls in love with them, and the three seclude themselves from the world, falling further and further from the reality of the 1968 student rebellions. An abrupt ending to this relationship comes when that world is shattered and they are compelled to face the reality of 1968 France."

It is beautifully sexy as hell, but also fringed with a subtle slash glaring sensitivity.
I liked.
Parts made me gape, others coaxed a curvateous smile, and then there were those moments that were just plain loco insano.
Either way, it is worth a few hours of your time.
(If nothing more than to salivate over Parisian living.)

This one is also an object of my current affection:


(Woody Allen's latest, "Vicky Cristina Barcelona")
I am amped on its unconventional attitude towards love and all things at all remotely related.
Refreshing and interesting....not to metion Penelope Cruz is nailing the heroin-chic trainwreck babe look with a passion.

Sleep is dragging me into itself.
Regrets, this array of words is apologetic-worthy.
Enough of my ramblin for one late nuit, that is for sure.
Time for the hot hottest bath, and layers of blankets strewn upon my bed.
Soothing/relaxation/rejuvination/out,
RBudyk.

Good and goodness/goodness and good.

It's seven a.m., and I am awake. I cannot even faintly remember the last time I was conscious at this hour, but my instincts tell me it was at some point in the mid-to-late ninteties. Stunning (and shameful). Regardless, for some ghastly slash lovely reason, I find myself eyes open and mind awander this morning. Candles strewn across the shape of my bedroom are blazing in the pearl gray light, and I feel even.

Last night I attended a book launch with my girl Meg. We slithered wine and (the goddamn smoothest) creme brulee down our throats, all the while listening enraptured to Miriam Toews share an excerpt from her newborn book. She is good, I felt good, we were good. Flung into an alcove where Meg's Menno blood knew everybody and their mother's grandmother's sister, I hung back and observed, happy to soak it all in. I am not Mennonite, but Mennonites fascinate me. I kid you not, within five seconds of us sitting down in the tiniest, homeliest corner of the cafe...I looked on spellbound as Madge was shriekingly greeted by every woman within a mile radius of us. I have never experienced that myself, but I will tell you that it is quite the spectacle to witness. As I was introduced to the Dorothys and Margarets, a genuine smile played at my lips. It was good, they are good.

In my early morning musings, I came across a Hungarian-born photographer named Andre Kertesz. I have never before been aware of his work, but I felt an immediate affinity. Perhaps it is his infatuation with shooting the city of Paris, but something resonated within my core when I laid eyes on these images. Have a go...

(Montmarte, 1927)





(Under the Eiffel Tower, 1929)





(Untitled, 1919)





(Untitled, 1924)


(Lion and Shadow, 1949)


(Self-Portrait, 1927)





(The Dancing Faun, 1919)


(Chairs of Paris, 1927)


(Mondrian's Pipe and Glasses, 1926)


Swift and unexplainable adoration. Immediate connection. Inspiration by the layer.

I've been homesick for Europe lately. By bones ache for it, my head flails for it, and my my spirit trails back to it...whimsical, lingering. This happens more often than not these days. I am trying to channel this longing energy for good in the present...for writing and conversation and laughter and hours of lacing throught.

The air snaking through my window is like cool ice, and I like it. I'd stay here for hours, I think.
Instead...its time to start the day...
Breathe in and out and over again.
Happy Wednesday.
Out/RB

want.

for some fast decadence on the eyes, go here:

http://www.acnestudios.com

----

I came across this line while thrashing through this month's fattened issue of Vogue, and fell quickly in lust.

A little interweb creeping reaped me these jeweled facts:

*Founded in 1996 in Sweden as a 4-person collective, making high-quality raw denim jeans.
*Led by Creative Director Jonny Johansson, Acne began to branch out to other areas, presenting a complete collection for the first time in 1998.
*Collections focus on quality basics with a twist.
*Acne now is a full fledged lifestyle company, putting together full clothing and accessories programs for men and women, as well as forays into film, publishing and digital design.












Fall is in the air these last days, and I couldn't feel its embrace any more sweetly. Tonight, my bedroom windows are slung open, and oldold Neil Young is on the continuous play. I feel light.

As for lingering last words...I think they will be these--my current mantra: What would Jane Birkin do?





(so bloody cool)

Finissimo.