In Toronto, you meet the world, outside your door, everyday. I am speaking of people who move the world, who give in flavor, color, valor, and at times its bitter taste. You can meet men who have fueled the Angola war, their hair white on their head, and disinterest at their teeth. You meet Argentinian bartenders who ran away from an architectural career in the smokey corners of Buenos Aires, where grandfather’s who guarded Evita Peron’s life, are lying on the beaches coast, and loosing their final memory. You can find stories of husband, coming from Middle-Eastern countries, and suffering through the payback of their wives, remaining at their mercy, knowing police can be at their door, and not on their side in this moment. You meet, friends through craigslist who post as actors, on the set of your York U project you take them out for whiskey shots, and watching snippets of International Heart Films at the Transexual Convention at UofT, and no secret of this place in Time in toronto, can penetrate those blue eyes of there’s, parting at christie station, they are gone forever. You meet Expats, running away from fake boobed ex girlfriends, cigarette dragging through the nights in TeraRiff, spending timless afternoon lying comfortable naked next to each other, watching Adriano Celetano, move his lips, hips and mouth in Madly in Love, going out for dinner, where Sangria’s start, and periods mix saved emotions, ready to implode on one another. I always find a book to go with my state of mood, and i always say, yes, after this book i will begin to write. Unfortunately there are soo many amazing books, i barely do. Not as much as I
think i’de like too. My art is my own past time, I have to lean into at times. And how can I not be lost is such a city like this. Where every life is soo special, a perfect jigsaw puzzle into all the worlds events and their mix. I don’t go to clubs, i prefer lovers, paintings crawling in my mind, and wine, lots of wine... I love dance, and rhythm and writing. i want a reaction for my experience in this world. For a girl like me, love is not enough. You can meet painters, praying to Frida Kahlo, and washing toilets, drinking cigarettes, surrounded by 80’s studio porn, and finishing on their last projects. You can meet chartered accounts who have a wild side, and tons of Cali stories, mexico district bruises and fight scenes, all logged into their head, into their memories. tongues, whipping clean rain. stained parlor doors. walking down the pierre, after an acting class, after the first day with new friends, black white washed, and white washed black. the only ukrainian girl. men who have ploughed fields, read shakespeare under oil lamps, and begin to teach acting as professionals in hollywood by some point in their lives. I have had my heart chakra open, I have felt the taste of disapproval at my tongue. at times in life, you will never reach the same high..but what is worth it. I walk this city, with that question, pulling the energy in my legs forward, the confidence in my heart together and apart. It’s a symphony of universality in this night. And I am woman, who paces, her own little corner of the world, but hears the voices of angels whispering through the cool breeze in the Tor-Angeles sky!.. against endless fields of starclouds and sexual electricity! Where we are all connected. To this thing, we exist.
