by andre r.

It is kind of upsetting when a portrait that is supposed to be me comes out far more attractive...



Part one: Stop

I'm unequivocally detestable as I lie on this carpet watching the ceiling morph into equally abominable species. I lie here. The spot where I lie seems to catch the heat of my body. If I move I will be sucked into the ground, an above ground undertow. There are people here. If I call myself detestable they are far worse than that. I lack morals, logic, and perhaps compassion for comrades. They lack the qualities that make humans even slightly bearable. I can't stand them, I'd rather be alone with an onslaught of nosebleeds than strike up a fair-weather conversation. So I lie here. I hope they leave soon, they're ruining the moment. Maybe if they stopped talking I would feel better, but they don't. They continue in a monotonous drone. I feel paralyzed, pleasantly. Someone sits next to me, the room is still hazy. A voluminous cloud exits from the person’s mouth, for a fraction of a second the warm lamp disappears behind the smoke. This is nowhere. The person sitting next to me was not introduced, brushing hair out of my face. His face finally materializes. I hear muted footsteps edging toward the door. The Repugnant Society has finally left, dragging what’s left of their gruesome miasma onto the street. Their sizable fault? Their lack of self loathing, the fact they love themselves to death. The fact the only reason they pose questions is to revert the conversation back to themselves. True adversaries in the art of small talk, the only art I would grant them the honour of being part of. I feel the lift of their absence. How refreshing.


I love you, Louis


Sarah Palin is horrible, I'm not even American and I have to say it.

Give me some work to do, send me your photography, writing, weird videos, music whatever at marlowetatiana@gmail.com...maybe i'll like it.


can't take me anywhere, I'll take you anywhere

if you have placed an order from me for a zine or what not, it's enroute to you now. I sent them out last week, I'm not very punctual but I DO write personal notes to people who order. forgive me?

I used to rent movies every week with a different theme, for a whole four months I watched a lot of French films,

recently I've watched quite a few Jim Jarmusch films. I've become really into searching for things on youtube, as you can tell that's all I post now. Redhotcar sent me this clip, (because of my tendency to end up on roofs)




We have the same dentist

I'll admit that the only time I ever watch tv is for Gossip Girl, the Hills and I watch Mad Men recordings faithfully. However I never know what to think about the Hills girls, though Lauren's mascara tear tonight was epic, and the jail stint.

Another movie I want to see that premiered during TIFF, aw Michael Cera!!!


get filmfested

The best time of year to be in Toronto is TIFF because it's all flash and bang while you ease your way back into classes. So basically a bunch of parties and movies and beautiful people for a week. I just really want to see this ahahahaha



In a wildly romantic and childish fling of writing I've been trying to get myself to write something about the end of summer. In many ways I wish I had the ability to write down everything, categorized and catalogued. However, I am a private person, mostly and a lot of things never come to public light. Writing is funny that way, because most of the time you write what you know. Sometimes it's not autobiographical, sometimes it's half-fiction.

Something about the heat and the sun regards you to become more beautiful. Somehow it's like your entire body tries to burst through your pores. Like the flush in your cheeks, and the rush of blood to your face. Your tanned limbs and freckled forearms have natural kissability, as if dusted with gold. Your face gleams from the sweat and shimmers like the mist on the trees in the early morning. There's never anything else to do. So we bum around stoops and make lists of laws to break. The simple fact that you have nothing to do tomorrow, procures the reason why you're out tonight. That's why you stay up in the park daring the sky with your stamina. You sit in your apartment all day long, lying on the sofa cringing at moments that slip through your mind like sand, because in fact, if they were ever-present you could no longer dance on tables and urinate in people's gardens out of sheer self-consciousness. Cheers, another round for the ladies. You dumb yourself down, because no one so intelligent could be so brave. You love like no other, a breeze passing through a field, carressing stems and naming every thistle. In the heat of July we rubbed rosemary through our fingers till it stained our forefingers to our pinkies. We kept ice in storage and you wore your crown around the house. In the night we slapped our thighs from invisible bugs and smoked out a pipe like a chimney with dreams of herringbone and the tweed England. As summer comes to a timely close, the weather seems to not want to let off, the afternoons are still spent taping dark scarves to the bedroom window, refusing to let the sun come in and infect our murky rooms with its pervasive heat. We also dreamed of France with its blue waters and low pressure systems, we wished for blisters on our feet from the ancient uneven walkways.

Early in the morning I can smell it. The autumn persuades summer with its colours and attractive dance, in the morning you can almost feel it. Though the salty residue of summer is still strong on your tongue. The rotting crabapples fall in piles, our hair will get darker and our faces lighter. The remorse will be wiped away till next summer. We bargained to keep our secrets close.

We will need to find suitable partners to get us through the winter, perhaps they will have no idea about our defamatory pursuits, and burdening addictions. Perhaps with fall we turn new leaves. Reminder: we are not trees, tigers never lose their stripes.