cheptel.

cette année-là, la première neige tomba à la fin du mois d'octobre. tous ensemble dans la nuit, sous le faisceau d'un lampadaire isolé, comme s'ils l'avaient attendue, la neige les touchait les premiers. & dans ce faisceau de lumière, avec tout ce qu'il fallait de lumière, ils apparaissaient avariés, avec le goût du sang dans la bouche écorchée par les dents. ils avaient envie de rire très près les uns des autres, assez près pour pouvoir en sentir les vibrations, assez près pour qu'ils puissent entendre leur coeur battre. à peu près.
dans le journal de leur vie, il n'y avait rien de comparable à l'émoi dans chaque gorgée, chaque mot, dans les couleurs, dans l'eau, dans la poitrine, ailleurs, à l'intérieur, dans chaque difficulté de la pensée, dans les yeux, la lumière, dans tout en fait, dans l'urine, dans les lèvres, dans le coeur, dans la folie, dans l'imagination, dans les maladies, derrière les fenêtres, sous le lit, dans les mains.
sans or autour des poignets, sans argent non plus, la question était de trouver asile afin de perpétuer les richesses de la nuit, d'étouffer la peur de la césure: la fin de la route était toujours une grande source d'angoisse pour les gibiers de la chimie. & alchimie il y avait. ils prirent le chemin le plus long vers la maison sans jamais se séparer. les envies d'exclamation qui défonce les murs de la maison étaient parties, laissant las les intouchables d'une caste un peu trop palpée. les filles portaient leurs cheveux en écharpe, empreinte du froid sur les corps mal acclimatés. aucun ne pensait à l'avenir, pas même au lendemain. ces touts petits lendemains.
ils ne parlaient plus, regardaient les flocons s'arrondir, des écumes divines alourdies. la neige rappelait la salive épaisse et blanche qui se languissait dans leur gorge. & le venin dans les veines. ils se seraient embrassés mais les étreintes ne portaient en elles aucun fruit. nourritures terrestres qu'ils étaient. les lèvres avaient dérougi et les machoires se déliaient.
elles étaient modernes les mélodies qui les portaient, les transportaient, déchirés et déchéris. certains les décortiquaient jusqu'au noyau. les autres se contentaient de les manger. les perfides.
au lever du soleil, ils avaient oublié la logique & la faim et chacun s'avortait du troupeau avec pour seul but le bain du matin.

Save a blog. Eat a teenager.

What happened? War happened.

The war on cars.

the night owl

A young human from Toronto started CocoRosie's last concert in Montreal. And although Canadian Katie Stelmanis is a real life religious geek, she sure filled the house with her full, reverberating voice; resonating across the theater. It felt as we were on board the fucking Titanic. It felt flabbergasting!

www.myspace.com/katiestelmanis

gloria and the wolf gang.

GLORIA AND THE WOLF GANG.

this is not a love song

The island of Montreal is a playground for young adults, or allow me: people fully grown, yet not fully developed. Each one of its precincts is a different merry-go-round for the mind to play and therefore explore the depths of sanity and insanity. It is, as everywhere on Earth, grueling to keep the balance even for some wandering spirits.

BlackJack

FILL IN THE BLANK

As a result of my latest lack of inspiration, I decided to solicit the most enlightened people around me with a questions session about their life, influences and how they walk the line.

What is your name? Samantha West
Where do you come from? The Big Apple (Manhattan)
Where do babies come from? Cloud 9
How was your childhood? Eccentric, somewhat short lived, and full of stimuli.
Where do you live today? Williamsburg, Brooklyn with one cat and one lovely roommate.
Describe what you do: I am a photographer, I capture the beauty and sensuality of my strange world, hoping, in the meanwhile, to get a visceral glimpse of those people who inspire me and whom I love. I aim to create intimacy and tangibility in my work. What an amazing thing it is to have your perceived view of the world and those around you realised in the form of a photograph...!
Define the world around you: Is a combination of limits and limitlessness. I suppose that is what getting older is about.
Define your world: A constant search for collaborative hearts. Lives can cross one another's pass in the most strange and wonderful ways. My life is full of memories (those made and those currently being made), sensory experiences, inquisitiveness, and often lots unnecessary self analyzing.
The world you would like to live in: The same one I live in but with more financial independence.
Do you think that what you do reaches people? Or would you rather say people affect you in what you do? I hope what I do reaches people on its own. You can't wait for people, or life for that matter, to come to you. From what I have experienced things don't work out that way. One must keep pushing forward.
What inspires you today? Feeling like you can touch someone's lips through a photograph.
What is your guide line? My gut feeling.
How do you maintain the fragile balance between one extreme and another (good and evil, sanity and insanity, decency and decadence, etc...)? Maybe I am learning how to do that at the moment. Though, in the end, it all depends on one's perception of decadence and insanity, doesn't it?
What about guilt? It is always there, you just have to learn when it is actually appropriate.
If you were to write the story of your life, what would be the first word of the book? "Samantha"
One anecdote: My motto has been and always will be: "Be Mighty".
First thing in the morning? Delicious pillows that don't want to be left
The last thing you see before you go to sleep? Glowing light encouraged by deep breaths.
What would you reincarnate into? A wild horse. I would hope to be a woman again though...
What is the most disgusting thing you’ve witnessed? I cannot name one, but often interactions I witness between people, how we choose treat fellow strangers during our day to day lives, it can be either highly uplifting or deeply upsetting and sad.
Internet: addict or retro? I am a proud addict! Often, I think I was born at the wrong time...but what would I do without my MAC?

Samantha West on: Blogspot Flickr Facebook YouTube

What is your name? Coursin, Cécile Coursin.

Where do you come from? Je suis d'origine parisienne mais de culture languedocienne.

Where do babies come from? De la fécondation d'un ovule.
How was your childhood? Mon enfance était assez pénible : divorce, obésité et grands pieds.
Where do you live today? Toute seule, chez moi à Paris.
Define the world around you: Monde cruel, mais je suis heureuse de mon entourage et me soucie peu des autres, mais je suis tout de même concernée par les actualités, l'écologie etc...

Define your world: Peinture, sorties, amis.

Do you think that what you do reaches people? Or would you rather say people affect you in what you do? Ce que je peins touche certaines personnes mais ce que je crée provient des sentiments ressentis quand une personne me touche. Donc les deux.

What inspires you today? Inspirée par le temps qu'il fait dehors : càd radieux.

What is your guide line? Richesse. Peinture. Voyages. Amis.

How do you maintain the fragile balance between one extreme and another (good and evil, sanity and insanity, decency and decadence, etc...)? Je suis plus dans les mauvais extrêmes, mais j'essaie d'avoir un équilibre en ayant des semaines saines: pas d'alcool, la gentillesse gratuite, etc...

What about guilt? Je ne sais pas, je crois que je n'en ai pas.

If you were to write the story of your life, what would be the first word of the book? Image.

One anecdote: Depuis 5 mois mon père vit à Dijon avec sa nouvelle famille et m'appelle ce matin pour boire un café avec moi cet après midi à Paris.

First thing in the morning? Je bois mon café.

The last thing you see before you go to sleep? Une série : Dexter.

What would you reincarnate into? En quelqu'un de célèbre et pas trop bête.

What is the most disgusting thing you've witnessed? Ma jumelle qui s'est fracassé le crâne dans une piscine vide. J'avais 7 ans.

Internet: addict or retro? Addict.

Site provisoire: http://www.artspace.fr/Voir-profil-utilisateur.html?user=548

What is your name? XX

Where do you come from? Je viens de la planète Papa et Maman.

Where do babies come from? In utero.

How was your childhood? Mon enfance a fait de moi ce que je suis actuellement et fera de moi ce que je serai dans un futur proche.

Where do you live today? Dans ma tête.

Describe what you do: Combler l'ennui. J'ai commencé à peindre dès que j'ai pu.

Define your world: j'ai créé mon univers où je peux me réfugier quand je le souhaite (une sorte de protection).

Do you think that what you do reaches people? Or would you rather say people affect you in what you do? Je me sens touchée par les gens, ce qui me pousse à les toucher dans ce que je fais, enfin j'espère.

What inspires you today? Ce qui m'inspire c'est l'absurdité de la vie, les paradoxes, les êtres humains, la "liberté".

What is your guide line? Rien dans les poches, tout dans la caboche.
How do you maintain the fragile balance between one extreme and another (good and evil, sanity and insanity, decency and decadence, etc...)? Pour maintenir l'équilibre, je passe par toutes les phases possibles que tu viens de citer. Ça ne peut qu'être équilibré!!!

What about guilt? La culpabilité? Pas le temps pour culpabiliser !

If you were to write the story of your life, what would be the first word of the book? Je ne veux pas écrire l'histoire de ma vie, mais la vivre d'abord! 

First thing in the morning? La première chose le matin: un bon gros pipi hihihi!

The last thing you see before you go to sleep? La dernière chose que je regarde avant de m'endormir est mon cerveau noir: tout est confus! Le "néant".

What would you reincarnate into? Je ne voudrais pas me réincarner, c'est déjà bien d'avoir vécu une fois!

What is the most disgusting thing you've witnessed ? La chose la plus terrifiante: un bracage!

Internet: addict or retro? Vade Retro pour internet, mais je suis addict aussi: la preuve!

What is your name? Alia
Where do you come from? de Maman et Papa
Where do babies come from? de maman et papa
How was your childhood? maman et papa
Where do you live today? avec maman (hahaha bon j'arrête)
Describe what you do: je me nourris selon ma faim, je reste assise sur mon lit sans rien faire, je vais chez mes amies, je regarde des dvd, je prends beaucoup le train, je tâte Grossel de temps à autres...
Define the world around you: bien trop de gens inutiles, trop d'enfants et de parents, trop de technologie, mais quelques jolies choses tout de même.
Define your world: ben parfois je l'aime bien et parfois pas du tout.
The world you would like to live in: sans Secret Story et Public et cPloser et les jours angoissants. Mais ou les saisons seraient pittoresques et changeraient tous les mois.
Do you think that what you do reaches people? Or would you rather say people affect you in what you do? certaines personnes connues ou non me touchent profondément.
What inspires you today? n'importe quoi, tout à l'heure une banane devant la fenêtre éclairée par le soleil ou les odeurs, particulièrement en automne. Les films et Kerouac.

What is your guide line? [Quelle est ta ligne de conduite?] les voitures m'effraient.
How do you maintain the fragile balance between one extreme and another (good and evil, sanity and insanity, decency and decadence, etc...)? je me mets au régime pendant une semaine puis je suis hyperphage la semaine d'après, je prends des résolutions tous les jours et les rares fois ou je les tiens sont des bonnes journées.
What about guilt? sortir alors qu'on pourrait être chez soi, être chez soi alors qu'on aurait pu sortir, ne pas être aussi intelligent et cultivé et talentueux qu'on le souhaiterait, manger plus qu'on ne respire, ne pas savoir dire non, ignorer quelqu'un qui fait la manche, avoir peur d'agir.

If you were to write the story of your life, what would be the first word of the book? ‘dimanche’
One anecdote: une femme entre dans une pièce. Un homme est assis à son bureau. Elle ne le voit pas. Lui la regarde. Elle vide son sac sur la table basse, remet ce qui en est sorti sauf une pièce de cinq cents. Elle enlève ses gants noirs et les brûle dans le poêle. Elle dit 'je n'ai jamais porté de gants noirs'. (J'ai vu hier Le Dernier Nabab, un film d'Elia Kazan avec DeNiro dans lequel il raconte cette histoire pour montrer à un écrivain ce qu'est du cinéma.
First thing in the morning? l'angoisse

The last thing you see before you go to sleep? mes étoiles de gamine ou mon vieux t-shirt papa c'est le plus sportif.

What would you reincarnate into? en poêle réincarnée ou en bisounours.
What is the most disgusting thing you’ve witnessed? http://www.abrutis.com/video-bien+percer+un+bouton-19499.html
Internet: addict or retro? retro mais c'est bien pratique parfois.

Sierra & Bianca: The Wind That Shakes The City

turned black sky into watercolors at theater Le National, on September, 7th, with their legendary watery airs and notorious saturated voices.
BLUE SKIES TURN BLACK brought the twisted sisters' shimmery cheeks to live in Montreal.

Now, I can die.

//on Touch and Go Records

This was written to me by A.L. earlier this week.

My little beauty.
Sometimes, we just have that feeling that people are so sensitive, so beyond every discipline, every one likes controversies. Sometimes, people (just like you, and me) need to feel a little bit surrounded with spirits. I believe that you earn a creative spirit, like no one else does... My darling, sometimes (once again) it is difficult to realize that you've dissepeared in your touching great and FUCKING weird way of feeling things.

un mètre cinquante et un point cinq

The Big Schlep (Essay for Dutch Magazine, August 2000), by Vincent Gallo

My family didn't travel much. Biggest trips of my childhood were before I started school. My mother worked everyday in her beauty parlor that was in the storefront of our house. My father, who didn't want a job, was stuck with me and dragged me seven days a week to various racetracks within driving distance of Buffalo. Lots of traveling. And boy, was it fun. I got to starve all day long, and finally maybe get a hot dog and a cup of warm water, while watching my father lose my mother's hard-earned pay.

I took a trip alone on my bicycle once - as far as I could go - real real far, five neighborhoods away, to a part of Buffalo called the Fruit Belt. The street names had fruit names, you know? Like Banana Street. Let's just say, in this neighborhood there were more than a handful of blacks. Actually, I think I was the only whitey there that day. Soon I was mugged, beaten down and robbed of the only nickel in my pocket by three seventeen-year-old black kids. I was six. When I got home, my father beat me up and told me I was a pussy-fagot. He said why didn't I bring them home to rob the whole house? That was my first trip. I guess you could say travellin's in my blood.

As a kid, I had only seen airplanes on TV. I was from boat-people. I didn't know anybody who actually went on a plane until I was sixteen and living in New York City. I had to hitchhike there from Buffalo. One fag who gave me a ride tried to blow me so I made him let me out. I didn't get another lift for seven hours. It was cold that day.

My first airplane ride was to Europe. I went through one of those messenger services where you get to go for free if you carry a package on the plane. I was seventeen then. It was real easy. All I had to do was sleep at the airport for four or five days waiting for a package that needed to be carried to somewhere in Europe. When I got there all I had to do was find some free food and a place to stay and figure out a way back. Why the hell would poor people travel by plane? Why would anyone? It's such a schlep. A big nasty, schlep. Why would anybody get on a plane unless they were making millions to travel? I really don't get it. People are stinky and planes are stinky too, they're filled with disease. They're so mean at the airport and it's expensive and dirty, it's a hassle. A pure hassle and a pure schlep. Who the fuck would fly on a plane in coach? It's so creepy. A vacation should be sitting in bed eating chips and dips, watching TV, and being massaged and blown by a robot - that's a vacation. That's travelling. Schlepping overseas makes no sense, it's dumb, especially to France, which was the first place I went. How much cheese, tobacco, caffeine, wine and sugar can one filthy, French person shove into their bodies in one day? Not even the filthy polluted air of Paris could cut down the stench off those fermented French assholes.

I smoked pot twice in my life. Pot is bad. I don't like it. I don't like pot people. It's evil, and so are all the people who smoke it. When I take over the world, the first thing I do is to put pot-smokers in a room and tape them together. Anyway, because I was a little afraid of flying, some asshole suggested I smoke a joint on the plane and he gave me one. He must have been a pusher. Remember when people could smoke cigarettes on a plane? They'd smoke the whole flight like pigs. Filthy pigs. Thank God they stopped that. Anyway, I went into the bathroom of the plane and lit up the joint. Soon a Beetle song got stuck in my head and in minutes I was freaking out. I guess it was a month later that I was almost myself again. That was the worst flight of my miserable life. Imagine - pot and people and airplanes, all going to France - four wrongs don't make a right. Right?

Anyway, from France by train I wound up in Italy to fly back to New York from Rome. Just because my last name is Gallo and my parents are from Sicily, don't think I relate to those monkeys either. Real Italians are from Buffalo. At one point on the train ride from France to Italy Italian soldiers filled it up so there was standing room only. I was pressed up against the wall near a window and something blew into my eye and blinded me. By the time I got to Rome my eye was swelled up shut. I stayed at the airport half blind and very hungry, making sad faces 'till someone offered me food. It was old bread and boy was it good, except for the green parts.

My flight home was on 'Alitalia'. All right. I fucked myself up with pot going to France, so I'm already a little edgy about flying, I'm just edgy, you know? I'm having flashbacks, whatever... I'm scared, OK? I'm not chicken of the plane crashing, kill me please, go ahead, do me a favor - no, I'm just afraid of my own sick mind locked in a plane. Anyway the flight is overbooked by hundreds. Somehow a hundred people had the same ticket as another hundred people, so they start trying to get people off the plane. I wouldn't budge. After about three fuckin' hours of this shit, they bribe enough dumb travelers off the plane to take off.

Sitting on my right is a fat Italian woman dressed in all black, with her face buried in a black handkerchief, bent over, rocking back and forth, crying for somebody who died. Who knows who. If it were me, I'd be left in my house for six months before anybody noticed I was dead. Somebody would come over to borrow money and they'd find me. They be torn. Torn between whether they should just empty my pockets and leave, or report me dead. Anyway, this old fatass, lady greaseball makes me real nervous with her rocking back and forth and crying. I hate it when chicks cry. They always cry. I didn't do nothin'. Seated to my left was another old bastard, an old Italian man greaseball. There's a lot of old people in Italy, I guess 'cause they never work. All they do is eat. God forbid they should work.

Anyway, halfway through this miserable flight, the Old Italian man greaseball to my left starts choking and gasping for air. He's convulsing. Some slut stewardesses come over and eventually one of the monkey pilots comes with a medical bag. They clear about six of us away while they work on him. I see needles go into his chest, the whole thing is clear, I have a bad feeling. Now there's not one extra fucking seat on this plane so they prop the old bastard in his chair facing out the window with some blankets all over him and they force me to sit back down next to him. I know the guy's dead. He's cold and he's stiff. He's dead, OK? Dead. Dead, dead, dead. They tell me he's just sleeping and he's going to be fine. I fly four more hours next to a dead guy and a crying woman. Both stinky. The Italian man greaseball still with some drool hanging from his mouth. Hanging there uninvited like a rubberized, lazy icicle.

You know, when I negotiate a contract for an acting job if I have to fly my whole salary for the job is based on the pain of the flight. If I have to be in Europe, the price is double. If I have to go to South America or other primitive places, it's triple. You couldn't pay me enough to go to a place like Israel, or Morocco, or Korea, or Albania, or Spain. For a million bucks I wouldn't even go to Harlem. However, I would consider parts of Austria and Germany.

My beautiful home is in New York City. I used to love coming home to New York City from some horrible travelling. It's sad though, when I go back to New York now, it's not the same. How could it be exciting to go back home to a city where a born rich kid like that mini-dwarf, faggot, date-raper Harmony Korine lives. What happened to New York? Remember the old days when a girl like Connecticut Chloe Sevigny would be lucky to blow for a living? David LaChapelle was just an average, purse-snatching, faggot busboy, coke-whore, cleaning up Studio 54? I'm so happy I have a mansion in LA. If that sephartic Guy Osery didn't live in LA, it really would be a perfect city.

I like driving. I'm in my car, and I'm all alone, or I'm in my car and I'm being blown, driving alone or being blown. I get some gas, I get some ass, and no one with me is smoking grass, and if I want to I sure can pass. Drivin' drivin' all alone, with no one no one on my back. Just me alone me alone, in my big black Cadillac.

>Vincent Gallo

My sister's collective memory

What Alia took back home from her whimsical voyage across America could certainly not fit in one picture, but some recollection from the August rush led to this queer memory bank.

THE WORLD VERSUS FRANCIS

Fog City appeared to me as the safest, the most thriving, the swellest city of all. A little bit like soothing balm on dry lips. And leaving San Francisco felt melancholic like the day after Christmas all over again. The month of August '09 will remain as the time when I found a place where the grass is actually greener.

Saint Francis, of all saints, I worship you.

Saint, noun.

A person who is admired or venerated because of their virtue.

ORIGIN Middle English , from Old French seint, from Latin sanctus ‘holy’, past participle of sancire ‘consecrate’.