To Marcel Duchamp

18th of March, 79

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I slipped the newspaper clipping from yesterday's Le Monde, into the pocket of my blue thrift-store blazer. 

DEPARTURE from Marseilles in a violent wind. 

I am trying to leave my years of devotion to gospel teachings. I am in barbaric pursuit of the girl sitting beside me, clad in a soft, airy red dress. We will spend our days along the coastline, subsisting on her trust fund. Absorbing Sartre and Gide.

No! No money for records! She loves swing and she loves chanson. She has an ear for the blues and tears for algerian folk. She will spend all our money on polyvinyl chloride. My stomach begs her to eke out our existence on the coast, 'til our blue fiat reaches the cobblestones of old Milan.

The sun is choleric and offers no respite to my mounting qualms, perspiring onto my poor, weary forehead. We drive into a local ESSO. I walk into the magasin (store) to buy a pack of marlboro reds. As he swipes the black and white code, I tinker with a cassette rack full of "essentials": essential mod, essential elvis, essential bop...etc. Meanwhile the guy is waiting for me to pay up. He has silky long hair, flowing down onto his blue esso collared shirt, concealing a purple tie-die tee underneath. This guy must know time. Maybe he can afford me some advice on my current folly; does my destiny meander with a red dress in Milan? He sways from side to side to a tune, uncomfortably self-conscious of my burning gaze. Most people must walk right past him. But this kid, and he's just a kid in his early twenties, he's adding some momentum to the turbulence in my carotid artery, shooting up to my brain. I almost crush the pack in my palm, with a sudden pang of acid distrust. I place five francs on the counter and run out .

Calm, Fervour

I walk her to the subway wherefrom she came. I was only going out to get some air... only going out to come back in. 

Great large murky puddles fill this road,

Great large blue skies fill the dome above, 

I whistle the tune to a loney, dear song. 

Life is beautiful. 

Oh, why have you not understood that all happiness is a chance encounter and at every moment stands beside you like a beggar by the roadside.

It's Not Me, It's You

A phone goes off with a cheery ringer, in the middle of an embryology lecture. Prof turns around with a smile, "better pick that up, could be your dealer!"

Being an older citizen, he must've had an acid lapse and reminisced back on the 60's when he would drive up clad in leather on his bike, up to the intersection of Huron and Bloor: the drug haven of the north (before they were shut down, dragged out, beaten dead into a petrified stone edifice, only for Uxbridge to become the heir to their throne). Yes thats right, thanks to a good linkster provided by an avid reader of this blog, I've been made aware of the dark history that surrounds my neighbourhood and the University. 

With a little research I found out that Burroughs wrote the script to a Junky's Christmas, right here. In fact, his dealer was a grad student in the Dept. of Anatomy! It all comes together.

Two days from now, they're going to paint a new building-length advertisement along the side of the rochdale project, now named after a dead senator, who was in cahoots with the drug trade and was integral in committing canadians to a north atlantic treaty of infamy.

I'm not a fan of this new Lily Allen record. I need a new teapot! Damnit.