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