je suis une garconniere
une fillette.
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30th-Nov-2022 11:13 pm - friends only
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17th-Jul-2014 11:10 pm(no subject)
nov 2011
Everything feels like it is dead or dying, in the literal and melodramatic sense of the word.

I have a summer cold and it won't quit.

It feels like where I work is going up in flames. One of my favourite journalists retires this week and I don't know whether I'll send this or not.




Rick MacInnes-Rae,

You often thank us for listening, but we rarely thank you for speaking.

For speaking, for asking hard questions, for making some of the most powerful journalism I have ever heard on the airwaves of CBC Radio.

Thank you for your incredibly powerful tribute at the very end of the last episode of Dispatches.

I didn't have the nerve, or the disposition, to call or write when it went off the air, but I do now.

I'll never forget the strange sadness I felt when I first heard that program was cancelled,

and the even stranger brand of melancholy when I heard you signed off, "We brought you the world."

I never imagined someone could write such a fitting tribute to a phenomenal show.

But then again, there aren't very many people like Rick MacInnes-Rae in the world. went off the air.

Write like drunken poets!

It has been a delightful surprise every time I've stumbled upon you guest hosting various programs, but I imagine it's never been quite the same for you.
7th-May-2014 11:02 pm - Obsessed
nov 2011
So I'm straight up obsessed with Sylvan Esso and you should listen to their album and go see them live. Fuck!
1st-Mar-2014 11:33 am - Loretta Saunders
gloomy
Loretta Saunder's disappearance and death hit me like a ton of bricks. Read this by her thesis supervisor Darryl Leroux.

Yesterday, I came across this article and found this song.



I started crying, crying and couldn't stop.

In a good way.
24th-Oct-2013 02:42 pm - Sometimes when I'm sad/overwhelmed...
nov 2011
Simon is the best

I have this photo saved on my desktop at work. When I'm sad or stressed or overwhelmed (which is often) I just look at it.
It's the best.
My heart! This guy. 
2nd-Oct-2013 10:30 pm - intentional/ pestering/ stagnation/
classy dame
I can't attempt to begin writing livejournal updates the way I used to because they end up taking forever and never exactly going the way I had planned. Sometimes I think my life was tidier when I used livejournal every day. Other days, I can't believe there were literally years of my life I hardly went a day without writing here. It's as though today I am confronted with the question of who I am writing for, and for what purpose.

Everything in my life feels slightly more... purposeful as I get older. I don't know how to explain it. Intentional.
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Right now, I'm sitting in the living room, listening to records and taking a break from reading some books I took out from the library. Lulu is sitting next to me, sleeping. Sometimes snoring in that little tiny kitten way she does sometimes. I love having her around so much it is absurd. What was my life like before this little black cat? Not as good, not even close.

Simon is away in Moncton for some festival or other (isn't that always the case) and I've been feeling restless. Antsy in the house, because it's not as clean as it usually is since we haven't had the chance to do a good clean since Simon went to France in August. But I don't feel like cleaning because I'm still kind of sick from last week, sneezy and congested.

To avoid the feeling of stagnating, or sitting in front of the computer for hours, I've forced myself out of my comfort zone. Every night this week I have taken a walk after work. A walk down a street I don't often go, to neighbourhoods I usually just bike past or whatnot. Monday I took my camera but found myself tempted to try and capture all the little moments of poetry I saw happening around me: the cat in the window, the crooked old streetlights, the children playing, and of course the sunset. The neon pink light and shadows of leaves cast on hundred year old houses, perched on the cliffs of Quebec City. I tried and failed to capture it in photographs, shitty little digital snapshots, so Tuesday and tonight I left it at home.

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Record that is playing right now is La Femme's Psycho Tropical Berlin. Before that, I listened to Bronski Beat's Age of Consent (his voice gets really grating after 3, 4, 5 songs) and Austra's Olympia. Funny to think that Katie Stelmanis slept in the living room where I'm listening to her record tonight.

In other music notes, I saw Maica Mia this past weekend and fell in love. Hints of Jennifer Castle and Scout Niblet. It's not often I see tall women with electric guitars on stage and it always does me good. Listen to "funny way of laughing," will ya?

Also her guitarist is in Godspeed You! Black Emperor and I bit my tongue so hard but really really wanted to ask about Polaris shit (I kind of like this article on the subject, if you're curious).

Been thinking a lot about music, music culture, the Quebec City music scene, the Canadian music scene, and music journalism lately. Not doing/writing shit, but thinking. It's what I do best?

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Last night I watched L'Apollonide: souvernirs de la maison close at Simon's recommendation - he emailed me from Moncton to say if I had nothing planned for my Tuesday night, that I should watch it. It destroyed me, and I'm still trying to understand exactly why. I realized afterwards the actresses cast in the roles really did a number on me. The actress from La graine et le mulet, and another from Water Lilies. These fucking French actresses with the perfect mix of beauty and sadness, real sadness. It's the kind of film that's sticking to my ribs in a way I've found films haven't been as of late, and it feels good. Pestering.

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Been thinking about my failings a lot lately, my failings as a friend and a lover. I think a lot about what I need and what I'm not getting. I tend to overuse "I miss you" but the worst part is every time I say it I mean it. I realize I have gotten awful at replying to emails, or at even writing half-decent ones, namely because that's what I spend a lot of my work days doing.

I hate to say it but I feel slightly stagnant in my job right now. I worked really hard this summer and felt like I did a handful of phenomenal stories but since I returned from France I feel... off. I am thirsting for change, for someone to push me. I have partly realized this is the longest I have ever been working at the same place - well, not if you count newspaper delivering and/or when I worked as a cashier in high school, but that was like 15 hours a week mostly. This is the longest I have worked in a full-time job. Three years has just flown by and sometimes I think I have learned so much, but often I just crave more. I am lucky I have so much variety in the stories I cover.

I guess I'll press POST TO GARCONNIERE without re-reading or trying to cobble some sort of order to this, because otherwise this will end up as just another lost draft.
12th-Aug-2013 03:49 pm - tonight
lavventura
simon is picking me up from work in his 1963 mercury meteor. he's taking me to the abandonned drive-in theatre, and we're taking three cameras with us (film, digital, and his big digital SLR). we're going to watch the meteor shower along the st. lawrence river, where there is less light pollution. if we're lucky, i'll also stop by my favourite chip truck and have some sweet potato fries.

he sure knows how to show me a good time.
11th-Jun-2013 10:44 pm - instantaneous
nov 2011
feeling increasing frustrations and personal confusion over the vogue of instant communication online. i haven't shared many photos online this year (2013) and wonder how much of that is subconsciously linked to my resistance of immediacy. never feeling like i share things fast enough because i'm not "insta-" anything it.

these thoughts snuck into my mind when i saw an image on tumblr with the caption #latergram and actually had to google what that meant.

(discussions/thoughts about "selfies" for another day)



on another completely unrelated note, still do not know how to respond to compliments that aren't about my style/appearance. someone called our studio number on friday to tell me how much they love hearing me on the radio, that once a week wasn't enough, that i am brilliant and captivating. i was flabbergasted.

an old friend also sent me a message telling me how she misses hearing me talk about my ideas, misses hearing me talk about what makes me angry. i think that is one of the nicest things someone could say about me. a nice way to be remembered, missed.
10th-Apr-2013 11:37 pm - Reminders.
nov 2011
I complain about being lonely in this city more often than I should, instead of acknowledging why and embracing it. Steph and Annemarie are pretty much all I can count on, the people who make me feel better when they're around. For different reasons.

Steph asked me to meet up with her after work. It felt like spring today, so we bought a bottle of rosé and went and drank on the steps on the church where the sun still shines until around 6. We sat, talked, laughed. I don't know how we got to this point but it feels so good. She is good to me. I always thought my good friends had to be critical, informed, political, but that doesn't make a good friend. It's also super important for me to remind myself most people don't listen to the radio every day, don't necessarily know who the mayor of their city is.

In a dream world, once a week, I would do that. Just one hour, drinking wine, watching funny dogs, in the sun with Steph. Yes.

Annemarie and I cried talking about Rehtaeh Parsons, hating people, hurting. I've got a lot of anger though. Anger at people saying this is about "bullying" when it's not just that. Talk about rape culture if you're going to talk about this at all. Fuck.

We went to a house show at my neighbour's place, Annemarie and I, and Gianna Lauren stole my heart. I wondered if she reminded me of Sarah because I miss Sarah so much my heart hurts sometimes. Love her voice, can't get her songs out of my head.
monica vitti
"Francesca Woodman often appears, within her images, as a kind of supercharged, spiritualized reincarnation of the eternal artist’s model immured in her decaying era — especially the unwashed whores and slums memorialized with such tenderness and tact by Eugène Atget. But Francesca Woodman is of course her own model, so her invocations of some of early photography’s greatest hits become witty riffs on the question of whether modernism even took place — and if it did, for some of her more cinematic images evoke it, whether an hourglass figure like hers can ever not make whoever gazes upon it think of time — in particular, time past. It is in this way that her photographs begin to become literary, often exuding both a morose confinement and a wild, elemental drive toward escape. There is a kind of quiver between Victorian sexual frustration and the more bookish malaise of the brilliant and liberated modernist woman, or the cinematic banality of depression at study abroad, the plight of the gifted bluestocking who nevertheless has to work as a secretary and artist’s model to get by while talent alone is good enough for the men who are her peers, but no matter what she does or refuses to do, ends up feeling like a whore."

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"In the same way that looking at pornography engenders arousal inside the body looking at it, image culture tends either to simply show what is there or to depict exactly what it imagines in order to engender effect in the viewer as calculated consequence or inference. Zones suffused with the more classically uncanny interplay between illusion and document, between what can be seen and what can only be sensed, are not easily found. Zones whose substance is time itself, but which are also somehow detached from time. Francesca Woodman’s photographs don’t feel like the famous photographs of the late 1970s. They don’t even feel like the 1970s, not that I could possibly really know, since I was never there. And yet their magnetic power — their ability to suck the viewer into the flashes of eternity they capture — accounts for their tremendous, and ever-increasing, popularity. Insofar as, in certain ways, there is no such thing as innovation when it comes to what it feels like to be human, the timelessness and accuracy — even the universality — of Woodman’s pictures is the most important thing about them. "
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