Rushed.

I.
To me, Leonard Cohen is allegorical of the person i've recently become, or am becoming. On a practical level, this is because I just recently got into his music, and because he is from Montreal, but there are consistent themes in his music i'm finding more and more relevant each time I return to him. Today I can't seem to escape his refrain of "Hey, that's no way to say goodbye."

II.
Tess left for Halifax last night, and already i've found myself missing her much more than I thought I would. I had left in a kind of ackward, sleepy-eyed rush that morning, with a little less hesitation than I should have given. Later to say goodbye over somone else's cell phone static in a crowded department store, with the kind of ambivalence that comes from five people being able to overhear your conversation. Now, since becomming much more comfortable with myself at her apartment than my own, I don't know what to do with myself. You can only pretend you are less lonely than you actually are for so long. BUT:

III.
Friends (M. B. E. A.) from Calgary are visiting and KILLER PARTIES are about to ensue.

I am running extremely low on battery power as I type this so it with just have to be as an addendum that I will mention my new job: It is rediculous. Details to follow.

Saint Valentine's Sweet Life.

I.
Today I celebrated the martyrdom of St. Valentine and last day of unemployment by watching two movies: La Dolce Vita et F for Fake. They were both great. The former chronicles a week in the life of a journalist, Marcello, who is struggling to find meaning in his life. He tries to fill this percieved meaningless with women. He's kind of misogynistic, but in the end I feel for him despite this. One scene in particular struck me as beautiful. Marcello, his date, and his father are having dinner at a restraunt. A lone trumpeter, dressed as a sad vaudevillian enters through these large doors. He plays a terribly sad tune to his feet, which are shuffling toward the centre of the room where balloons lay scattered about. Everyone is quiet watching. He continues his lament through the horn, and the ballons begin to bob around his ankles. Slowly as he came, he begins to shuffle out of the room. Halfway to the doors, he nods at the ballons which all become animate and follow him out of the room. Also: this is the movie that coined the term paparazzi.

F for Fake was something completely different than i've ever seen. Described as a "Free-Form Documentary" it's a frantic potrayal of an art forger, as well as a critique on superficiality in the art market. Honestly, I found it hard to watch. There are quick cuts all over the place, superimpoition and voice overs. One conversation is constantly flowing into another. And the structure drops in and out of documenting Elmyr de Hory's career as an art forger and Orson Welles' narrative on what should be considered reality and what shouldn't. It is crazy. Also: worth watching. I understood it much better upon reflection.

White as a Bedsheet.

Today, I just want to direct your attention to the Rasterbator. It's a downloadable (or web-based, if prefered) prgram that will print out digital images on a large scale using computer sized paper, to be peiced together afterwards like a giant puzzle. You can then put it on your wall. Enjoy.

Congruency.

I.
I awoke yesterday morning, much like so many times before, with a strong inclination to hear a certain song. Perhaps it's just subconcious residue left over from my dreams, but i've always felt it's something stronger, a premonition. These songs usually have some relevance to their respective days. This time it was One More Time by Daft Punk. It's a kind of cheesy post-techno club hit, without much relevance to anything really (except: dancing, partying) and would feel out of place in my apartment on that particular day, my only plans being eating some yogurt and reading a Thomas Pynchon novel. ( The Crying of Lot 49.) But still I searched my apartment High and Low for a copy of this song anywhere, digital library and a stack of mixed cds notwithstanding. I gave up.

II.
Tess, enigmatic, called me hoping I could give weight to one of her options for what she should do that evening. I suggested she go out, which she did. What this meant was any possibility that someone might call me up that evening wanting to hang out was exhausted. I proceeded to the coffee shop to finish my book. A word I couldn't remember haunting me like the song I couldn't listen to that morning.

III.
I was distracted. Oedipa was peicing together the Trystero mystery before me, but I still couldn't keep my mind with her. Justin Timberlake overbearing though the near-empty cafe's speakers. I couldn't place that word! No thesaurus in sight, and unwilling to go back home for it, I was close to calling up T. or J. and asking if they could help me place it. It was a mathematical term, I knew that. I decided to keep reading. A page later, and there it was. That fucking ghost of a word was right there in the book: congruency. For some reason I immediately found this ironic not knowing exactly why, a firing of brain synapses later I realized why: Justin Timberlake had given way to Daft Punk's One More Time.

It's not a trick.

Tommorow I have an interview for a job, which, if given, I will have the noble task of interupting families during their dinners, or on their way out their doors to try and sell them services from some of the largest corporations on earth. Such jobs are only taken, at least here in montreal, by three types of people: ignorants, maladroits, and anglophones. Belonging to the third catagory I, until now, hadn't much luck finding work elsewhere, so I was relieved at the prospect. But i'm still conflicted about taking this job. I hope it will just serve its transitionary purposes and I will find myself working somewhere more, shall we say, becoming, of my personal beliefs. Freud said that work gives the illusion of purpose. A statement which, in this case isn't true on the surface, but once underneath it couldn't be more true. It's exactly that, an ILLUSION.

At least Springsteen understands.

Once is Nonce.

I.
Sometimes, instead of songs or ad-jingles, I get phrases or words stuck inside my head. They involuntarily permeate my conciousness and I'll repeat them over and again. Often without any consideration to the meaning or implications of it. I'll just be watching a movie or trying to sleep and some word, as an example i'll use "progeny", will sneak it's way aboard my train of thought. "Hmm, I should get up earlier tommorow progeny. What should I make for breakfast? Progeny. Wait, ew!" and so on.

I just finished The Unbearable Lightness of Being, something i've been meaning to do for a very long time. I had very high expectations for it, and it exceeded every one of them. It's been a long time (about the same length at which I had been meaning to read it) since I read something that brings up certain ideas that I'll constantly be concious of. The ideas brought up in this book stick like the words or phrases I mentioned earlier, with the addition of consideration and contemplation. I've never understood eternal recurrance, (or eternal return, whichever floats) and in fact i still don't. But since reading this book I can't stop thinking about it.

Let's say reincarnation is totally secular. Forget God. And you are born once again with the entire memory and experience you had when you died the first time. You'd probably live your life differently the second time around. But it happens again, and again an infinate number of times. At what point do your influences and choices pleateau so you'd live the same life over and over?

Anyways, I'm not very good at articulating these kind of thoughts. In summary; Milan Kundera: cool dude.

II.
I'd like to make note, for anyone who may actually be reading this, that this blog is entirely self-interested. It is merely a collection of words pertaining to who I think I am. And there is no intended audience, exept myself in about one year hence.

Keats was DEAD by 24.

I.
6:59 pm. Wearing rediculous sweater. Stomach in the wake of a sugary carrot cake and an indoor cigarette. Still no job.

II.
One of my goals for my year here in Montreal, is to make a zine. I haven't an excuse not to do it since, distribution and subject matter being irrelevant to just having MADE one, there isn't much standing in my way. It'll probably end up a disjointed set of short stories, chaotically illustrated and stapled haphazardly. But considering i'd have done something I've been, untill now, only talking about, I'd be happy with it regardless. I'll keep you updated.

La Cité Swallows the Sparrow.

I.
Today walking down Saint-Laurent I came across a burst fire hydrant. This was peculiar for two reasons: It's Febuary in Montréal (cold) and no one seemed to even notice it. A lone city worker stood about ten feet away from it like a sleepy sentry, but nothing about his demeanor said that he was going to do anything about it. Meanwhile the streets were flooding and freezing over while pedestrians just skipped and hopped over the puddles swirling around their ankles. Perhaps it was for a reason, clearing freezing pipes or something. But now all I can think about is how I wish I could have taken a picture.

II.
I'm going to see the band Thundrah tonight, which I am particularly exited for. Upon seeing them live a couple months ago, I decided they were the type of band I could go see every weekend and still find myself exited about it. Unfortunately, in reality, they, being the mysterious types that they are, don't play very often. They sound like Liars caught up in the 90's math rock movement. But with delayed-ayed-ayed-ayed-ayed vocals. Possibly my favourite band out of Montréal right now.

III.
Today's Mix:
edIT - Ants
Venetian Snares - Szerencsétlen
Panda Bear - Comfy In Nautica
Thundrah - Weighing and Wanting
Konono No. 1 - Lufuala Ndgonga

Oh, I've been to Prague.

I.
As you can clearly see, I, Robin Graham, have decided to start blogging again. Gone are the days of diaryland. I've always seen blogspot as a sign of more mature or committed blogging, Which is why i'm here. Now you know. I'm committing myself to a minimum of four (4) entries per week, wherein I will talk about music, Montreal, and hot hot gossip. (And More!) We'll all see how that pans out.

II.
Woke to an empty day, due in part to recent unemployment but mosty in failure to commit myself to anything worthwhile. With the worthwhile replaced by laundry, and financial issues hanging over my head, I kinda of stumbled throughout the earlier hours of today, and found myself here, in the cafe across the street from my apartment, sipping the same cup of coffee for over an hour now. Both the coffee and I have since gone lukewarm (I as in my disposition, not in the literal sense), and the evening is sneaking up on us.

III.
I'm going to Tess's later on, or more specifically, her bed. This bed has this tremendous ability to render any poor soul who might happen to find themselves within it instantly sleepy and unwilling to leave (comfy). So it can go without saying that i've been spending too much time there. I'm thinking about bringing the movie Kicking & Screaming over (The Noah Baumbach one, not the Will Farrell one.) mostly because I'd like to see how she reacts to the line, wherein Prague is mentioned, that they argue about The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

IV
Today's Mixtape:
Stars Of the Lid - Articulate Silences Part 1
Secret Mommy - String Lake
Pan Sonic - Pakoisvoima/ Fugalforce
Drive Like Jehu - Sinews
Stars Of the Lid - Articulate Silences Part 2


Endnote:
I'm sorry for any grammatical errors you may have come across. It's been awhile since I have practised writing of any sort, and I am trying to experiment with a denser vernacular.