In Toronto.

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.     

                                                                                           

I actually believe you!...why?

.I am sitting here, smoking a cigarette, a man painting my nail’s black with my bare leg stretched out. and all I am thinking is, wouldn’t it be wonderful to join a virginal colony of women somewhere in the swiss hills? Which flowers, and paintings, and laughter, and dance. Forget the life of old rotting streets of Toronto, and nights that wreak of blood, whiskey, and men who don’t know what they want. And woman who become jealous of you without knowing who you are, or what they want either. Wouldn’t it be nice to forget your idealizations of becoming just another dancer no one will care about. Songs revolving around youtube. dragging your expectations towards fame. You won’t do it for your family anymore because they don’t care. You are broke and have no money. You will never become a dancer again. And what is a dancer? Taking a tango class off of Broadview chuch, then heading to have chinese with your friends afterwards, before hitting a skank infested club on King Street? This is what you see your friends do and you’re not there for some reason. There no appeal. I have lost appeal. Life is appeal less. What appeals to me is a place, that leaves behind all the smells that numb us, and invites us to the porch of the river, that carries fresh water. and when I drink I know, my lips know, my throat know, my liver knows, my black painted pinky toe knows, that we have never - all together- experienced anything - Purer. 

...Reminded me of something you liked

Pirates* of* my* days*

Rum* Remix* Of* Why* Is* The* Rum* Gone*

And...the livin's easy.

big lips, chichi chaha

Before* We* Met

last song, about a gyspy girl,

Cush

and in her promiscuous fluidity 

   lay secrets of how to be held...

                                        -Bonya

That* Obscure * Object* Of* Desire

Cet obscur objet du désir

Just after boarding a train, much to the surprise of his fellow passengers, a man pours a bucket of water over a young girl on the platform. Over the next few hours he explains (and we see in flashback) how he became obsessed by her (so much so that he failed to notice that she was played by two different actresses, representing different sides of her personality), and how she tantalised him, but would never allow him to satisfy his desire for her... 

Written by Luis Buñuel (1900–1983)

Buenos Aires- City of Tango     and Tears

Dugald Jellie falls in love with a city where football is religion, tango is love and the disappeared will never be forgotten. Metaphor well serves a big city, with its great uproar of opinions and possibilities, the avenues of illusion, the ceaseless spectacle - as with the idea of melancholia in a city as big as Buenos Aires. Don't cry for me Argentina? I well nigh weep among her fallen angels.

It's in crisp Sunday morning light that I walk amid the dead at Cementerio de la Recoleta, through a labyrinth of Catholic crosses and sparse Latin and a string of fatal dates in the heart of the city. "The last surprise party of a dying class," is how local scribe Juan Jose Sebreli described this patrician graveyard and baroque marble fantasy. V.S. Naipaul called the must-see attraction a "mimic city".

I come here looking for a poem. It's by Jorge Luis Borges, the Argentinian oracle who once declared: "Buenos Aires is such a boundless city that nobody can know it." It's here, somewhere, on a bronze plaque on the Alvear family mausoleum and begins: "She once had everything but one by one/Each thing abandoned her. We saw her armed/With beauty."

These opening lines of love and death and forsaken dreams I think of as a story of the city. Of a place founded in 1536 by a Spanish aristocrat, on a river of silver, named after a patron saint of sailors - the Virgin of Buen Ayre - and feeling as eternal as air and water.

Fresh arum lilies and red roses lie by the tomb of Eva Peron and in the necropolis everywhere I turn I see beauty. Four days in Buenos Aires has this effect. And I've not yet set foot in a tango hall, nor watched from terraces the choreographed passion of their futbol.

"It's like Paris populated by Italians who speak Spanish," says Randy Provence of living in the world's 10th-biggest city. He's a friend of the friend I travel with, who moved here from California with his wife last year. "It's all of Europe, at the end of the Americas."

He takes us to La Boca, the former meat-packing barrio where Diego Maradona is a saint, tango is on the street and corrugated iron on Italian immigrants' houses wears the colours of adventure. We see La Bombonera ("the chocolate box"), a football stadium where the legendary Superclasico is played once a season between Boca Juniors and uptown rivals River Plate.

Our airport taxi driver told us already of this team. "Traffic here is crazy," were his first words. "La Boca, number one," his second. We smiled and nodded. At lights he reached over and pulled out a Boca shirt from the glove box, signed by Maradona, who last week was named coach of the national side. We arrived in the city with it draped on the dashboard like a magic totem. ("He can sell his house but not that shirt," says a restaurateur when I later recount the tale. "Football here is something very strong.")

<center> For full article- click here - X http://www.smh.com.au/news/world/south-america/falling-in-love-with-a-city-of-tango-and-tears/2008/11/05/1225560896901.html </center>

From Blue To Me

My mind

spinning with the winds in the clouds

the sun, that doesn't blink

the soul the shines

the happiness that isn't forced

that doesn't leave

that smiles 

like we smile

when we know, we are in love

with who we are

like we should always know it

when it slips

restore

it

help it. stay at the top 

at the highest point of our selves

I am lying in a field of grass

my body is weightless

I watch was the clouds drift above

across the sun 

who isn't blinking

everything is soo beautiful soo pure

soo powerful!

the sight of beauty

ensoothes me

I am free

in my own spirit

my thoughts, my eyes

moving with 

that weightless current 

in the clouds

...and I think

I know

that blue gave birth to me

from nothingness i sprung

to nothingness one day

I must return

But how great to be able to see it

Superior to realities

I'll always feel you here.