i may never come back...

i got spotted at paris charles-de-gaulle airport yesterday morning.
a music industry agent - a guy who's actually done a lot of work over the last 20 years - who is a frenchman long residing in toronto
he said he heard about me through my booking agency blabalabla compliments blabalba and then he said the shocker -

"your sound reminded me of paris.
and while i sent your stuff to friends from toronto and new york they said it was good, the response i got from friends in italy and france were incredible. it just confirmed that canada isn't really the place where you should be making music - they wouldn't appreciate it."

it so strange how people from over there can "hear" it. i can't quite hear it. i make music to breathe life into my sadness, hoping it won't sound too redundant. i'm starting to think that i might prefer playing music for my walls. i don't like all this exposure. i'm way too senstiive too everthing. i'm overexposed and seen and heard too much. and it's really all in my head. but the more people i meet, the more i feel claustrophobic. like telling my stories for them to write a bio feels like someone stealing my soul as they took my picture.

i don't like the transient aspect to my life right now or ever i guess. nothing is stable. nothing is what it seems. and nothing ever every lasts for long. maybe it's just a consequence of having roots laid in the ocean, in boats. i want to be able to tie myself to a tree that has its flesh digging deep into the earth's core, molten with its lava, pulsating with its beat. i feel as if my heartbeats are all offbeat.

finally, without wanting to, i dote on the people who don't feel shit for me. i dote on people who don't know my worth. i'm too afraid to believe the people who actually do know it because in the end they drop the bomb and tell me they were just ... lying.

i'm waiting for the morning i won't wake up crying.

sadness is infinite bliss...

if only.
back in paris.
going to accept my award.
going to start writing things with more structure on this blog.
make it far more anonymous than it is...
besides,the radio show died....

i've had no luck finding an appartment during my stay. no one will return my calls or anything...

some writing borrowed from my buddy ina julien... here goes:

each noise stings
at the fingertips
a shift of skin
with occupational whim
and the sleeplessness brakes
the strength in my spine
holds it up
and away
out of reach
sensitizing me to sudden
everythings