soulsnacking

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frand. u r my groovy frand.

back at ch’ya, my frand. 

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I appreciate your writing a lot Kristen :)

Thank you, friend. I appreciate your kind words. 

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(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N—B5aolrk)

This is a little video that I made just recently.

A couple of days ago, I woke up in the morning and was like, today, I gotta be at the harbour. I just gotta. So I went to the harbour (Canada Place) with my camera and 4 shortbread cookies. I stayed ‘til sunset. It was cold. It was spectacular. 

When approaching dusk, the coral glow that I know would bleed pacific thoughts over the harbour and over the city to let dusk know that it would soon turn orange.

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Fog Wound

I had never seen headlights and streetlights try so hard to stay alive. I watch their vibrant colours hold on to each other in a slow migration - cold wash, gentle cycle, no bleach. I hear grey fabric softener destroys colours. So it must be true. Because the Red I knew is now a chronic wound bleeding into a perpetual evening, loosely bandaged by a dense gauze of innocuous fog that I got for free, today - not a prescription from the pharmacy across the street. Green used to be the mothership of nighttime velocity that gives children of absent fathers permission to go somewhere and leave somewhere. Now, it’s just a green I can’t understand - a fluorescent olive dying in diluted laxative. Lye Orange is the acidic alkaline fire that stands on the tip of aluminium matchsticks. I never pay attention to matchsticks or fire. They always burn too quickly. But today, I remember their names. I had never seen so many faceless shadows. Their inaudible footsteps and monochrome cardboard bodies emerge from faint existence into real life, while my dry arms and waterproof uncertainty drown in the depths of this blanket fog. If Red and Green are too hard to find from here, then I don’t know if there is even such a thing as surface anymore. 

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I ate so much cheese. Still hollow.

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Sometimes, when I’m lucky, light filters through my window blinds and speaks to me in the shape of a spine.

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THE GAP by Ira Glass

video by Daniel Sax

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I’m Not Like You

By Kristen Yee

  I’m just a problem child in your eyes,

  My father’s youngest, my mother’s anchor, their

     Tarnished 5’ 4” acrylic reflection shadowing a city

Corroded by metropolitan acid rain and thick

  Mercury contaminated steam. I ride the SkyTrain to

     Another electric platform, fast paced,

Decked with speed, a bullet horse running

  On breakneck motor, ripping rice paper thin winds apart.

     I cross the yellow line,

Static conversations resonating

  In an underground tunnel, rubber soles ascending

     To ground floor, I step outside and 

Fleeting sirens greet me.

  Chaos in the darkening air,

     Pain in the narrow alleys. No one flinches.

There is no neon crimson in the sky, only Prussian blue

  Morphing into a darker shade, morphing

     Into powdered charcoal. The evening

Seared with blood orange ‘OPEN’ signs, glass doors

  Blanketed with impermanent fumes of

     Warm liquid voices sieving through microphones.

My body – a hollow renegade,

   I echo disappointments,

     Your disappointments, and

Invasive sounds of rubber tires racing 

  On crumbling tar and crushing

     Slick puddles into beads.

I maneuver in a laser maze shot

  By expensive cars. Their headlights impairing my vision and

    Acetous thumbtacks dripping onto my skull, I say to myself –

Don’t shoot me.

  Don’t shoot me for being me.

    This city set me up for failure. I set myself up for failure.

You only see my failures.

  I walk down Davie St, the shivering spine

    Of a runaway harmonizing with loose pennies in a coffee cup,

Cracks in the pavement ingesting acid rainwater for dinner,

  Pigeon feathers wet from no shelter, you say

     I’m no different from this city. You say

I’m just a problem child in your eyes,

  My father’s youngest, my mother’s anchor. I’m not like you,

     But I’m a lot like you.

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I want to write books that unlock the traffic jam in everybody’s head.

John Updike