A Tribute to Voyeurism
Get it While You Can
So here's the deal: I need to write more. I want to write more. But my inner geek has turned my own website against me, breaking the content up into categories with stern looks and date stamps. Nice to catalogue my genius for future generations, but it kinda crushes any whimsical musings.
Since I find new flaws with the world on a daily basis, I have decided to spice up the site with these thoughts rather than inflict them in concentration on my poor, nodding girlfriend.
I make no promises as to quality or quantity. Remember, this is for me, not you. "MineInWriting.com" was taken. But at the very least, you'll get a voyeuristic look into my day-to-day life, and maybe even see the evolution of my consciousness, if you have that much spare time.
And on that note, I will snuff the lights. Cloak myself in anonymity, a black figure on a black background. Looking out on the city, I see clusters of beehive buildings; every window is a cell, holding life, holding back life, holding back the desperate, hot death of the Great Out-There. In the tenements beyond the parking lot, a man in an undershirt scrubs his toilet. In the new condo at the end of the street, a slumped figure in an overstuffed couch reflects his television in the shiny, greased screen of his forehead. In the four-star hotel across the intersection, a silhouette with long hair defines itself more sharply at a bright window as something-- a robe, a dress, an inhibition-- falls slowly to the plush carpet. She pushes the thin white curtain aside with the index finger that raided the bar fridge, and steps to the glass.
I smile. What I am doing now, looking at a woman who cannot see me, may soon be illegal in Canada if new voyeurism legislation passes. But until then, I trust my conscience and the posture of a silhouette in a window, a visitor to Vancouver, watching the city watching her.
Since I find new flaws with the world on a daily basis, I have decided to spice up the site with these thoughts rather than inflict them in concentration on my poor, nodding girlfriend.
I make no promises as to quality or quantity. Remember, this is for me, not you. "MineInWriting.com" was taken. But at the very least, you'll get a voyeuristic look into my day-to-day life, and maybe even see the evolution of my consciousness, if you have that much spare time.
And on that note, I will snuff the lights. Cloak myself in anonymity, a black figure on a black background. Looking out on the city, I see clusters of beehive buildings; every window is a cell, holding life, holding back life, holding back the desperate, hot death of the Great Out-There. In the tenements beyond the parking lot, a man in an undershirt scrubs his toilet. In the new condo at the end of the street, a slumped figure in an overstuffed couch reflects his television in the shiny, greased screen of his forehead. In the four-star hotel across the intersection, a silhouette with long hair defines itself more sharply at a bright window as something-- a robe, a dress, an inhibition-- falls slowly to the plush carpet. She pushes the thin white curtain aside with the index finger that raided the bar fridge, and steps to the glass.
I smile. What I am doing now, looking at a woman who cannot see me, may soon be illegal in Canada if new voyeurism legislation passes. But until then, I trust my conscience and the posture of a silhouette in a window, a visitor to Vancouver, watching the city watching her.
