As a delicate persian feline licks up the last of the crumbs off the plate, I will pretend to be happy about it.
The masses and I went to Scary Ball tonight. It was a rocking good time, though I was initially afrighted by the stupid discovery that it was intended to be more of a "sit down" venue. Of course, this never prevents people from doing stupid things anyways, like dancing on stage or in front of it, and suffice to say, much dancing and emphatically alternative head-nodding was had by all. Three Little Cupcakes, No Arms, Whitey Houston, Twin Fang and Champion Alberta, to name a few, played that night. And they were awesome. All of them were good, though Champion didn't put on as good a show as usual. It is just me or is that lead singer getting more of an attitude that I don't like as time progresses? He was sort of a snot head tonight, indulging in first, robot abuse, and then just dwelling on his monitor and tiny adjustments constantly. I've always concieved him as a whiny bitch, but regardless, they still put on a decent show. I wish they would have played when I was in a better mood though. My good spirits sort of dissipated after Whitey Houston, though I ran into Naders on stage, which was nice. Also, can we say Halloween burlesque? That was awesome. I don't think I would possess the cohones to go on stage and shake my thang with nipple caps and scanty panties, but these girls sure did. For some reason, my first contrivances of burlesque were not images of such scantily clad women, and I later realized I'd been thinking of can-can girls who leave considerably more to the imagination.
It was at this show that I had a few realizations. One- it doesn't matter how hip or alternative you pretend to be, you're still a total asshole/ignorant biatch when you're drunk, stompin' all over me and other such assholery behavior.
Two- letting go sucks, but when it hits you like a train blazing it's horn and headlight at 90 mph, you just have to take it and move on for good. When your knees go weak at the sight of impending mechanical collision, you'll fall, but you will pick yourself up and be composed, because really, you're an idiot, even when no one is watching.
Three- being a good friend is hard work. Something is up with Mr. Smith, though I can't put my finger on it, and also, something is up with the Belly too, but I think that has to do with time and lack of communication- which is admittedly hard to get around, but I have to start trying harder, because I do love the kid.
Four- just because it's an artistic film, doesn't mean you're going to get it.
Five- Robots do embarrassing and destructive things when they're drunk, but still deserve our empathy nonetheless, even if you are friends with the keyboardist who had his set dumped all over the stage and drenched with robot fuel.
Six- everyone else is always out to laugh at your misfortune.
Seven- Lesbians with green hair write amazing poetry- like stake-me-in-the-heart-with-your-fucking-bloody-words amazing. She read this poem about growing up gay, and while I can't necessarily ever say what the hell I would or wouldn't do, it really struck me. It was so accurate my skin prickled.
Eight- Be happy for him, because he deserves it.
Nine- have I mentioned that alternative people are asses when they're drunk? They become raving balls of stupidity with eighties heels on, and make you feel like you'd be doing them a service if you were to say, throw acid in their faces, to bring them back to the reality that they are all just muffled gong instruments useful for only one thing. Hitting gongs in the gong show don la vie.
Ten- I miss Mr. Pink.
Eleven- everyone now has a significant other to cosy the night away with, and I have lying next to me a flickering hologram of memory alone. Whinge whinge whinge.
Eleven- Raw Umber is an excellent person. I admire him because he doesn't fill the air with unnecessary words, and yet, you can always tell where you stand with him. Standing next to him silently listening to music is finding an unexpected and enjoyful comraderie. You can tell what he thinks by looking at his face. He doesn't have to stumble over repetitive adjectives, and can see through you to the point when you end up doing so- absolutely clear vision probing the murky bullshit.
Twelve- I want to write poetry about everything, but I sometimes fear I don't have the words, and fear that maybe I am trying to fit a triangle peg into a circular hole when I attempt it.
After the show I booked it, and walked down to Telus plaza to get a cab. Just my luck that I needed a cab on the night where everyone else in the whole city needed one. In trying to phone a cab, I dialed the wrong number three times in a row, rousing some poor woman who obviously gets it a lot. She repeated the cab number each time, and I still fucked it up, despite the fact that I'd downed copious amounts of coffee only for the night. The last time, she knew it was me again, and hung up, no doubt cursing drunkards to no end. Fridays and Saturdays must be very hard on her sleep, as I doubt I'm the only one that makes this mistake. Had I not gotten a hold of Westjet, I would not have gotten home for a LONG time, which makes me feel awful for reasons I won't elaborate on. I'm a stupid girl, but also decidedly blessed to have friends that are so wonderful to me. Five dollars later.
In other news, Fenton lent me Nunt the other day, and it was truly a savoury read. I didn't want it to end. I hate as well as love how he always knows what kind of literature I'll enjoy. I have never read poetry like that before. It is inequatable to anything else I've ever read in that sense, and disturbingly so. But deliciously disturbing, like seeking pleasure out of making religious people uncomfortable, or talking about your period in front of men to see them squirm, going on and on about the bleeding, the flow, and how much you fucking hate tampons. Cotton wads of four centimeter death by TSS nearing you after every bloody ovum is gone, scrubbing your vaginal walls dry like sandpaper on plaster, scraping, gouging and peeling off layers of you in fetid bloody clumps that you worry about if they are bigger than the half moon on your thumbnail. Disgusting, for the possibility presented each month of bringing new life into a godforsaken fucking awful world. Soylent for which though? Bleeding, or procreating in a time like this?
Fie ! I must away to my lonely bed and closet.
Stupid hormones. Stupid psychic mothers. All this love and caring nonsense...
My mom is so incredibly wierd. She phoned me five minutes before I got in the door (well, technically, she phoned at the exact minute I got home, not taking into account that I would miss the call for a secret cigerette rendezvous. But she phoned at technically the right time, eerily so. And then, upon calling her back, the call goes like this:
"Yeah hey mom, it's me....what's up?" (brave face, brave face...don't tell her what happened!)
"I don't know kyla, what's up?" (she says it in such a knowing tone that I'm immediately transfixed in terror, wondering what she knows that I think she shouldn't know, but has somehow found out)
"Uh....why?" (aah! aah!)
"Because, you've been on my mind all day, and that only happens when something's gone wrong."
This happens once a month, always on the exact one day a month that I cry in an inappropriate place over something ridiculous, like my english prof embarrassing me in front of my whole class by stopping his lecture to pull the sleeve of my sweater that my arm was reaching for onto my arm. Kindergarten. The class was in an uproar of laughter. Any other day than today, and I would have laughed hysterically along with them, but I just felt like an even huger degenerate.
"So what's wrong honey?"
Offend me. Really. Go right ahead.
It has been a weird day. I love to think I can blame weird days on hormones, but really, all that happens is that I stop being callous and thickskinned for a period of about a week. Little jabs become spearpoints tipped with poison, and thus I become human somehow, by being on the verge of bleeding and not meeting certain demise, for seven days. Being human sucks, and it's a messy job.
First of all....Fenton. I had lunch with him as per usual, and the nitpicky banter picked up as usual, but then I started wondering why we always have these mutually depreciating conversations, which doesn't usually happen when I lose in them. And the mind went crazy with possibilities on why, and each conclusion was worse than the next one. It makes him feel better to depreciate others? It makes me feel better to depreciate him? Are we mutual eg0-murderers? In anycase, we talked about it, and I took the easy way out by blaming hormones, but really, it has to do with a balance somehow not achieved on his end. I could call him a litany of things having to do with anatomy, in a derogatory manner one day, but at the same time, he knows I value him as a friend. On the flipside though, I just don't know, nor have I ever really known anything as far as..."well, he showed up for lunch today (or some other activity) so I guess that might mean something."
But does it? I think Fenton is an awesome person, and I've always thought so, but I also don't think he necessarily needs me around.
I need your blood. Or a kidney. Or your soul. Hell, give them all up.
More specifically, neediness as a control mechanism: One friend I have is totally giving me a lot of grief lately. Grief to the point where I am later constantly saying bad things about him to other friends. It's been the story of our friendship where he will phone out of the blue no matter what I may be doing at the time, and expect me to talk to him for an indeterminate amount of time. Most specifically, listen to him, for an indeterminate time. If I voice something that may or may not be going alright/bad in my life, in the hopes of finding someone to talk to about it (this is a hopeless endeavor with most of my friends though I realize) he'll just ignore it and talk more about himself, like he thinks he's doing me a favor by telling me more stupid repetitive things. Repetitive repetitive repetitive. If he is running out of things to talk about, he will tell an old story again, the same way, in hopes that you won't remember. If you do remember, he'll tell it again anyways, in all its lame deliciousness. The worst part is, that along with American Psycho, he is a metaphor for the superficial capitalistic eighties. He's driving me nuts, and while I always realized he was drastically different from me, it used to be that he was at a comfortable distance friendship wise. Now I find that there is a second head on my torso mouth-breathing hot stinky breath down my neck constantly.
Later today was also rather dismal I might add. I decided to go look for Macromedia Flash for the laddy, and egads, they want $150 for a computer program? Fuck them. "Fuck them right up their fat asses. "
The Unofficial Gateway Opinion Meeting
Also, I decided to go to the unofficial Gateway meeting. I'd been debating on whether or not to go, and it turns out that I should have followed my initial decision of "no, don't subject yourself to the stupid newbies." I used to be really shy about such things, but I'm not anymore. Ironically, I didn't say much at this little get together in RATT however, but that wasn't from lack of hutzpah. After the quality of conversation took a downhill slide after the first ten minutes, I should have left. Of course, I had to wait until things took a turn for the worst before I packed up my stuff and left without a farewell. That and I had beer to finish.
I think that the worst part is that when this particular little instant happened, I looked around the table to see if anyone else was offended, and instead saw everyone else chuckling or joining in, including some people who I have (had?) a pretty high opinion of. All the while, I was thinking that "this is what happens if there is no senority present..." Sure, we Gateway staff (although at this point, I hardly count) pride ourselves on blatant inappropriateness, but isn't it supposed to be of the intellectual thought provoking sort? This was locker room level- frat boy level, and so much lower, and so so embarrassing.
The thing was this: One opinionist wanted to purloin a U of A team sport jersey somehow, and another brought forward the idea of seducing a member of a woman's team for a jersey. Ok...ha ha. It was funny quip that unfortunately got followed with a disgusting conversation on which females of which team would be acceptable and not hazardous to the health to fuck. With detail. When they got to the dislocation of a hip from having "a rugby player bouncing up and down on top of you" (a rugby player with "no teeth" of course, I might add), I was so revolted that I just left. I was really grossed out and dissappointed by the whole group of them. Had there been one other girl there, they probably wouldn't have even gone there, but for fuck's sake...at least one of them should have stood up and said something pointing towards decency or respect of females in general. And yes, now I'm fucking mad that I didn't say something, but I think that the abruptness of my leave probably indicated something. Hopefully. More than likely I'm just kidding myself. But, the more I think about this the madder I get.
Kiss me You're beautiful right now
I don't know what to dress up for Halloween as. I really want to wear my fishnets and hooker boots (and not be a prostitute/angel/devil/"punk" girl, or some other cliched nonsense). Tarnation! Blast!
Today I actually tried to dodge the Placid Slut- I saw him coming out of the reading room the same time I was, (it's a miracle he didn't detect me while I was in there) and I ducked behind a pillar, immediately feeling terrible for doing it, and coming out and saying hello rather sheepishly. Lucky for me, he was busy though and ran off somewhere after giving me the slippery solicitation he usually does. It's funny, because the fact that I am with Mr. Pink came out a few days ago (monday) and though he was really disturbed about it, he doesn't seem to have taken that as a flashing neon light that shrieks "stop! Desist, or all your heart is going to be chopped up and pureed, along with your entrails!"
Also, I keep running into the dude in my Art H class that switched to my class because he though his former class professor was "inherently bad. She just gave me vibes that she was a distinctly evil person, and I didn't feel comfortable staying there under her tutelage."
*cough* Christian bullcrap!
I keep wanting to press the issue of his evil former prof further, except I get the impression that he's not a big fan of discussing the apparent sacrificing of babies she must have done in front of the class before he ran for the hills. Instead, he felt the need to tell me how bad he was at French, how to conjugate French verbs, and "gollee, did you know French was so hard?" I may be in the bad books though now, bless my lucky stars and dirty soul, because I told him that the easiest way to learn French was to live in a primarily French speaking place. Sure, that part isn't bad, but telling a Christian that the best French to learn right away, as a sort of initiation, is to pick up the profanity-coincidently consisting of words translated to "chalice, tabernacle, sacred blue (MARY), and, my God!" I didn't cite these examples, but told him how to say "shut up you sacred blue mother fucker."
Ok, I didn't tell him that either.
Suffice to say, I will never find out if Heaven exists, but I'm sure the hot tubs in the other place are wonderful. Thankfully, I don't think that I will have to make simpering conversation with that boy ever again.
I ripped my Clash hoody today...more than it was ripped before. Tear... I got sort of emotional about it, my sweater that is falling apart-the very beginning of my individual style revolution...hormones, egads. I need a new hoody!! If I could wear a hoody everyday, I would be in bliss. Ok, not so stylishly revolutionizing to wear a hoody all day, but I've been lulled into a sense of security with them. You can never tell I'm bloated like a dead sperm whale if I wear a hoody. I don't mean fat, I mean, bloated- retaining water. Whoo...this close to joining a stat by saying I'm fat. Well...chubby maybe, but dat's de way I like it, uh huh uh huh. My ideal as a renaissance woman, is to look like a Renaissance woman. Literally, but with smoothed over muscles and tone, not "ladylike" flab. And I look great. Except for my fucking hair. I want it to grow out badly, I hate this short now. Fall is for braids and pigtails, and well, I have hair stubs. STUBS DON'T A GOOD PIGTAIL MAKE!
Damn...I said I was going to bed eons ago.
I had a great image come into my mind today. It's silly because it's associated with the home town bar scene, but I was listening to "Michael" (Franz Ferdinand) and the most glorious image of me and the boys (Mr. Pink included) downing a pint of beer in Legends before moving to cut a rug on the dancefloor came to my mind. Ok, so mostly I was focussing on Mr. Pink and I dancing on the floor of the barn-like bar, but it was awesome. It is awesome that I am with someone who enjoys dancing with me. But yeah, the five of us rocking out to "Michael", something our bars would not even posses in their dingy dj rooms, was quite appealing. Astounding the locals with our amazing hip contemporary selves being footloose is quite to imagine. I'm in such a light mood today, like floating away light. I almost started rocking out to the song right there in the hallway it was that good. I feel like I have to enjoy Franz Ferdinand and all the awesomeness of it before it becomes commercialized in the next Harry Potter movie and little kids start listening to it on their obsessively collected soundtracks.
In other news....there is no news. I picked up a Globe and Mail this morning, seeing as they give them out free like borscht in the business building (this and the Journal...sweet). So there is actually news. Bush leads Kerry in the polls, but Kerry is becoming more admirable in my eyes, despite his bizarre faith contradictions (stating that yes, there should be seperation of church and state, but then going on to preach a service in an Evangelical church for good public relations), because, though he did this weird stunt for african american votes, he did still state the imperative thing that Bush tended to hold his faith up too much in the wrong contexts (Iraq: the war of "good" against "evil") and whatnot.
Interesting to read though was the incredible division that is occuring in the States. Half vehemently Republican, half Democrat: Bush gets the election, and half the country's population will hate him, and vice versa for Kerry. I'm just restating the article, but there is absolutely no middle ground here, which made me sort of curious. What good can come of this, unless Kerry somehow manages to win over a load of Republicans when he wins (if he wins?). Why don't the states have the same sort of middle ground that Canada does? I'm not saying that this makes them any less democratic, but does it? Why not introduce more parties? Or maybe there are more than Republics and Democrats right now, and I'm just ignorant to the fact.
In anycase, I hope that there are some Republicans that see the light soon- that, or the population that abstains from voting out of this apparent lack of middle ground rises up and takes over the White House.
The other thing that I've sort of been dwelling on is Guinea pigs. Apparently, they are going to (some of you are tired of hearing me rant about Guinea pigs I realize) introduce them into British cuisine (first the UK, then the world- the UK seeming to be an experimental testing ground for everything weird before it hits the masses (NA), hence 28 Days Later...ha ha ahh...bad movie reference) because apparently turkey is out, and guinea pig is in with very low cholesterol and high amounts of protein. Soon they will have guinea pig mascots for Atkins!
So of course this is kicking up a stink amongst pet owners (yes, the same ones that refrain from eating their cats, dogs and tarantulas (which taste like pecans btw)). More exactingly, 100 000 pet owners who happen to own Guinea pigs in Britain, are protesting the introduction of this petite cusinary delight (tastes like rabbit!). And a big to-do is being had by all. I really enjoy guinea pigs, as a pet, not dinner. Friends of mine have a guinea pig named Gizmo, and while he looks like a mop with two beady little button eyes, he is rather cute. However, they are smelly little things, and his only real endearing quality are the noises that he makes. High little chortling noises that are absolutely adorable. Like the cute noises that Gremlins make pre-water exposure.
But this said, though I wouldn't eat Gizmo, this is the only real redeeming quality he has. He doesn't like to be held, and his teeth are really long and yellow like he's hiding a tobacco related habit indulged in along with his nocturnalism. What the hell good is a pet that sleeps all day anyways?
"Gee, I'd sure love to play with my Guinea pig right now, seeing as I- the master, the pet owner and general source of alfalfa pellets- am awake right now. What's that little buddy? Sleeping? Don't want to play? You're grumpy because you nic out when awake? AAAGH!! Myrtle, the little bastard bit me!"
(Myrtle is such a rad name)
I imagine, though I've never experienced it, that if you wake up a nocturnal animal during the day that you could lose a limb or an eye, much like anyone who woke me up at four a.m. would get the nearest appendage broken with a clock-radio. And their teeth are huge, I mentioned that right? Look what beavers do to big trees, and think smaller, though probably with only a slight decrease in pressure per square inch of toothy Stephen-Harper goodness.
"So honey, what's for dinner tonight?"
I had to buy lunch again (hide your face in shame!) and as usual, the cheapest fare allowable in HUB is A&W. I am really starting to hate A&W. Not only do they suck my dollars away and make onion ring batter out of it, but they give me crap food in return because I can't afford to buy healthy food. "Of course this is their fault...." I know... but goddamn it you money pilfering fast food nazis! Ok, I feel better. And the tragic part was that I left my coquille st. Jacque left-overs sitting on the counter, ready to take them for lunch, and now it's probably gone bad, so it will never get eaten. NEVER. And I don't get to weasel casseroles from my grandmother very often.
My tears run...what are you running from?
Tonight was interesting. Not interesting-exciting, but interesting-fun. I had it in mind today that I would get all my studying done and such before movie time, but alas, I didn't rouse until like a quarter to one, and thus only had four hours to get all the shit in the house together, and rent movies. No studying. Now I'm running a little scared, but will endeavor to study a lot tomorrow. No Shakespeare though, but I'll do that on Tuesday or Wednesday I suppose. We watched were Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Twenty-Eight Days Later, and Westjet took his leave, and three tired boys home at twelve-thirty.
I don't like playing hostess. If it had been my own place, it would have been nicer. But when I'm not even completely comfortable in the place I live, everything seems like it needs to be done properly- including hosting. Stiff, formal, "oh please, let me" hostessing. I feel like a domesticized freak when I do it. But that isn't to say I resent giving the boys a good time either. I wonder if they realize how uncomfortable it makes me to do that though. I suppose that I just wanted everything to go smoothly upstairs, so as to not draw the attention of Godzilla, who, to her credit, kept the guest involvement to a minimal, as well as the interrogations and demanding of food. Maybe I should feel bad, but I don't. This is the woman who, in a desperate bid for attention, interrupts a conversation going in a completely different direction with a compulsory "I am" statement, and then proceeds to talk about herself and her life and all its fascinating drivel for as long as you let her, leaving a trail of silence and awkwardly shuffling feet and nervous side glances in her wake.
I really got to thinking about love tonight. My own concept of love, I suppose, as everyone has a different ideal. "ESOTSM" made me realize that for the first time in a long while, I hadn't been thinking about love and what it meant to me. I could talk about complacency here but I won't. The love between Joel and Clementine seemed touchable though, and after the movie was over, I was swamped with feelings of my ideal love-stuff. More importantly, will I ever know anything close to love again? I love Mr. Pink, but I think I fear the outcome of loving him as much as I love him. I know I shouldn't even question the outcome of loving someone, that I should just put my all into it, and I try to, but I think the older we get, the more a sense of self-preservation starts to imbed itself in our minds. Love thus makes us fall harder though, in our efforts to deny that we have this little green inching glacier of self preservation spreading over our psyche. This is getting too complicated.
I want to have love. Large snow drifts of love to roll around in, bedsheets to hide under and snicker at the outside world from, and shared baths. Walks. Adventures. Lazy days in a cool room with two warm bodies in the centre. Loveletters and poetry, flowers and I'm-sorry's. Heated debate with warm hugs or passionate lovemaking afterwards. Arguments, compromises, teamwork, a shared space of comfort and familiarity. Tears of sadness, dissappointment and frustration, all shared or causal. Trust, respect, equality and mutual understandings. Hopeless fucking idealisms.
I miss Mr. Pink. I was really tempted to call him tonight as I waved off the boys. I should have turned around and gone straight inside, but instead I stood out in the cold on the freshly fallen snow and thought about him and all this love junk. It is better to have loved then to have not known love, but damn if it doesn't worry the hell out of me sometimes.
I don't have the familiarity with Mr. Pink that I have with all my friends even. We've been friends forever, but not in a distinctly commital way in that we know each other's habits very well, if at all. I could tell you what Mr. Smith, Fenton and the like do when they are unhappy, as far as unspoken signs, but it isn't the same with Mr. Pink. We don't know each other's nuances, and while I am eager to find them, time has been sorely lacking. I'm also worried that though this learning is inevitable, if not doomed to be a very slow process, that too many unpleasant realizations will dawn at the wrong time and screw it all up. However, I am not the type to love conditionally though. I just hope he isn't either. I suppose he isn't, seeing as I even ventured a foot to the experience (is attracted to likeminded people) but he's so naive and inexperienced. Incredibly fucking naive and inexperienced, and that scares the shit out of me. At least if there was some residue bitterness or jadedness in that gave him a nice cynical edge I could empathize with, it would be better. We'd be the same damaged goods, and I wouldn't be such a wreck about doing something that pushes him to be that way. This is confusing, I know.
Quantum Physics. Something I never thought I'd think, talk or write about. Ever.
When I was little person, I used to question how I saw things. I always have had a very vivid imagination, and often I wondered about what was beyond the periphery of the things I could see. I wondered what made reality reality, and how it was different from dreams that seemed so real at the time. And tonight in what I originally concieved as a New Age Trip To Crap Logic, I learned that things that make you wonder to the point of making you think you yourself are going crazy, are based on quantum physics. The movie, What the Bleep
was based on the conjectures of some pretty well known scientists and psychics (psychics? right....). Actually, "psychics" was misleading...
"One of the great enigmas that scientists have studied in the last decade is Ramtha, a mystic, philosopher, master teacher and hierophant. His partnership with American woman JZ Knight, his channel, still baffles scholars."
Wouldn't you know it, but what this woman (JZ Knight) was the best person giving narrative towards spirituality and quantum physics in the whole movie. A Tammy Faye Baker with a philosopher's reincarnated spirit within? Everything she said though, was so blunt and exact; about human nature, human function and habit and what needed to be changed about our perspectives towards matter especially.
I have -(fuck, I keep getting interrupted, and I'm fearful of losing everything out of my head before I get it all out) no intention of really dissing this movie. The only way that I could tear it up would be on stylistic choices, and really, since the whole film was just an animated textbook, 'visually appealing' was not supposed to be on their high list. But by animated textbook, I mean it was vividly clear how the very basics of quantum physics relate to us, our perceptions and how their principles make up our environment. And more specifically, how we affect our environment because of quantum physics. I feel like a moron for plugging in "quantum physics" everywhere, but I really don't know the specifics of it, or what's what. This movie did however blow my mind wide open.
What would happen if we exempted all the unattainable ideals that society and the media create, completely? What would happen if we just focussed on searching completely for "enlightenment" (I put this in quotes...because it's a funny thing, that word "enlightenment") and didn't care about the constructs our mind has created based on playing the observer for much too long? The way this film put things, (and it seems so elementry, but it's not) is that WE create our own reality. We influence everything around us in how we percieve it. Until you look at a rock, and actualize it as a rock, it is just a ball of matter. Maybe it's not even a ball. And probably, it's in more than one place- you just percieve it as being where your constructs have placed it. On the ground. In your hand. Does this make sense?
This movie touched a lot on faith and religion. And I was quite jarred by it all. At first I was perversely pleased that all of the people that helped narrate and prod the film along slammed organized religion, but then I was just kind of agape as one by one, they echoed clearer sentiments towards something I feel like I'd been inching my way towards slowly over the years. There is no personified God. "God" is in all of us.
Dr. Fred Alan Wolf (a physicist, writer, and lecturer) even said, "I don't know what God is. I know I believe in something, but I don't know what that something or big thing is." Vague yes? Out of all my theological beliefs or ponderances, this is the concept I usually return to. I can't look anyone straight in the eye and say I'm not spiritual somehow, but I sure as hell couldn't explain it. And I probably never will be able to...but there is a certain spiritual aspect to the way particles are manifested into everything by the perceptions of humans.
And then I wonder if the perceptions of humans work the same way in other animals we ourselves have judged to be capable of thought processes similar to us. There were repeated statements in the film that to achieve the ability to truly manifest reality through the fog of surreality (to achieve "enlightenment") that you'd have to do just that, navigate and irradicate any (completely) previous constructs.
"You may have a smear of positive thinking, but the doubts, uncertainties, and lies you feed yourself are still piled up underneath it." (Ramtha)
This movie was incredible, in that it was very intimidating, but made a lot of sense to me. I'm not sure what I can do with what I learned, but there was this thing that Dr. Joseph Dispenza kept saying about what he does when he wakes up. Right before stroking the bishop, I imagine. Perhaps during. Who knows. Anyways he said he would think immediately upon waking about his day, and set about "creating" it. Creating it how he wanted it to go, but ending by thinking, "but let something surprising happen that I will know immediately as something that I created, that I made happen." This sort of confuses me, but it doesn't...?
Very interesting. Very abstract. And there is much learning and reading to be done about it hopefully. I just hope I jump into the right book first and don't get scared away from it. As for my mom... I've never felt such a weird feeling as I did when I came out of that movie tonight: I just didn't want to talk about the movie at all. I'm ignoring Westjet, I'm ignoring everyone right this moment because I wanted this to digest as much as possible before I lose it to my vociferious black hole of a brain. Point is, I didn't want to talk about it, but she did, and by speaking about it right then outside, it sort of made it trivial, like it wasn't meant for expansive thought, and well- it pissed me off.
Satan backhands our nose in the wind
Snow! The dandruff of the heavens is now flaking upon us, a spirit is suffering scalp itch, and we in Alberta get to bear the brunt of it. A whopping eight inches of it, a small skim of dust on the mantle of a greater being. Oh I love making bad snow analogies. It comes with the whole "pretentious" gig. It is seriously beautiful out though. I've heard nothing but pissing and moaning since it started, but I'm thoroughly enjoying it. At Telus Plaza this afternoon, before boarding the bus home (to get to the muni polls) I stood outside for forty-five minutes in white-out conditions. When I eventually moved to catch the bus, there was a long shadow of un-snowed on ground behind me, starting where my feet had rested, like a radiation shadow.
Black Rider is a play I attended last week that I keep meaning to touch on without just using strings and strings of explicatives like amazing! Awesome! Super-duper! Nifty! Cool! It was based on an old German opera, about a white stag that drags a felon through the forest- legend was that if you could shoot the stag without hitting the man, you would gain perfect marksmanship. The little Chaplin-esque guy (Wilhelm) has absolutely no ability though, and makes a deal with the Devil. The sexy, irresistably smooth and rad Devil. And the guy that played the Devil was so riveting you could hardly take your eyes off him, no matter where he was. The play is actually deemed a musical though- Tom Waits and whatnot, being responsible for the musical score that was amazing. They had a three piece band that synchronized live with sound effects for the whole show, adding song music when necessary and etc. The best parts were the surprisingly unimportant ones though, in the whole production.
One scene is of the ringmaster manipulating a "puppet" consisting of the female protagonist thrown into another role as this old gnarly gypsy/crazy person. She puts on the most deliciously creepy falsetto, and together they spin this little creepy narrative in the corner of an unlit stage (save them) complete with "puppet mastery." It send shivers down my spine, and I can't say I've ever felt that creeped out (in a good way) by a play before. The other part was when the narrator/other suitor for the female protagonist did his little bit towards the end that sort of related the ancient tale to modern day: He went through all these different personalities in a monologue on-stage, changing voices, intent and story (three monologues all in one), and it was freakin' hilarious. He did it so incredibly well-sort of a carnivalesque Jim Carrey thing.
So, the other thing that I was going to talk about (and I'd appreciate wisdom or a slap upside the head if I'm being stupid about it) is the issue of the lifestyle differences with Mr. Pink. I mean, I love the guy to bits, but when he came to my house for Thanksgiving dinner, I was really nervous about it. Not nervous for being with him, but nervous about my family, ready to jump up and defend him if they were assholes to him at the drop of a hat. And I would have, but at the same time, he kept bringing up things like, "wow, you guys are so much different from my family/ you do things so differently." And I didn't know what to say. What I did say is that "everyone's different", which in retrospect, was probably really lame. Another thing that happened though was that after dinner, he and I, plus my mother and father, went for a walk, and on the way out of the driveway, he said something to the effect of, "man, none of my family would have hung around to do the dishes together like that. We finish thanksgiving dinner, and everyone bolts as fast as possible so they don't have to do dishes. I don't understand how all of you chip in like that without being asked." I said something about silent guilttrips and was going on about it (this is true- I don't "help" with something, and it becomes an object of politics in my family-people get shamed), when my mom interrupted (in the kind of way where you know she swiveled her ears and picked up the last three words of the sentence, but still feels like jumping in so she can say something she deems earthshattering, and what I consider hugely impolite) and said, "it's just good manners. If you don't stick around, it means you have bad manners."
My mother has just called my boyfriend, and his entire family bad-mannered. He is quiet, and I valiantly try and stick up for him, by telling her she's wrong. Since she hasn't heard the context of the whole conversation, she continues to rant about good manners and how they're inborne or some shit like that- She doesn't give up. I yell at her and tell her she's wrong, hoping that she'll pick up the tiniest note of desperation in my voice and quit it, but she doesn't. I change the subject abruptly, and fume for half a block, feeling horrible.
It's situations like this, where I am constantly reminded of all the things that Mr. Pink hasn't known, that I have, that I don't know what to say. I have always been glad for my experiences, but how do I reflect on them, what I learned from them, without making him feel bad? Right now, the consensus with myself is that I just don't bring them up. I apply learned knowlege appropriately, but I don't talk about the things I have or do that he doesn't. But when des familles talks about all the road trips and travelling we've done in front of him, then what? What do I say when he says, "man, you've sure done a lot of travelling." Part of me is always bursting to tell him about it- to tell stories about things he'd love to see if he got the chance, but the other part is the part that says, "it's nothing, really." And then (AND THEN!) when I say that, I come across as a completely spoiled brat that doesn't realize how good she's got it, when I really do. It's all so complex.
My CLit class was wonderful today. We discussed Islam and Islamic culture (two very different things) and also about the image of women in Christianity. A lot of people in our class were butting heads because we have the whole religious rainbow ranging from Catholicism, Muslim, to Islamic, to ....Baptist, and then of course me, the non believer, but oh so critical, thrown in for good measure. The Talker and the Baptist got quite heated at times. She really doesn't like him very much. I hate to say it though, but I agreed with her more than the Talker today. He was off base, but I'll credit him for at least jarring us out of silence with rage.
For example: She elaborated that it isn't religion that can be blamed for oppression of any kind, specifically religious materials. More specifically, the bible. It is we the humans that screw things up with our interpretations, and though I already knew this, she brought up some interesting thoughts about the lifestyles of Hutterite and Mennonite women and how they are more "limited" in their daily lives than many Islamic women are.
Also, another thing that I learned today that I had absolutely no idea about was that the Koran advocated the equal treatment of men and woman, and did not ever advocate woman being in arranged marriages. And it's not an interpretation. It says it all, straight out, in there. The thing about the Taliban specifically though, is that they sort of mushed the Koran together with Hadith (Hadeeth), which is the book of Mohammed the prophet, and took all the parts that they liked and made them relevant to the society that they wanted. Mohammed was married to a business woman, he was her (younger) employee. Not even Mohammed advocated marriage without love, or that women should be insignificant. It was very eye opening, and while I can't pretend to understand a lot about this yet, I really am interested in reading about it now. I still have no idea on what to write the greatest paper in the world on feminist literature about yet though. All these interesting things being thrown at me, but no solid concept to discuss...argh.
Another thing we talked about (and now I realize this very strongly, due to all my "previous" knowlege on this stuff) today was the influence of the western media on the image of the middle east. And it's ridiculous how misled that I, and so many other people have been, due to the convenience of flipping on a biased news report and not going digging for the information ourselves.
For my paper thusfar, I know that I want to write about Zoya's Story
and use the Vagina Monologues
somehow, and more resources yet to be had. Anyone have any ideas on what though? Cheap outs, I know...but I really want to do good by something, so in order to do so, I need to hash together what I want to talk about ...impossible if all my ideas are all floating dust motes right now.
Must go meet the boys for lunch. Will talk about vagina's incessantly. Perhaps.
Oh the pretentia dementia hysteria!
I almost scored a free American election tee-shirt today, but curse those infidels and their exclusively U.S. offers. Although I see their point. A Canadian wearing a Bush tee-shirt is either suicidal, extremely ironic, or just plain silly- inevitably, someone would be making a mockery of someone or someone's country, and while initially this seemed like a good idea, I only wanted to make a mockery of one American. My Favorite American in Office.
The non-foreign head of state. Anyways, to make a long diatribe short: "Three purple hearts compared to a doctor's note."
Yesterday I ran into an old aqquaintance of mine, the Sexy Chilean, at the bus stop. He was there with his latest arm decoration, and my goodness, I thought I'd seen all the stupid girls in my time, but alas, there was one more that slipped from my judgemental gaze. Just an empty face, coupled with an empty mind, like the kid had a sandbag labotomy of her lower cerebellum that went gangrenous. But, I was just sort of shocked. She seemed like such a receptive person (I mean, to be sucked into a relationship with the Sexy Chilean you have to swallow a certain amount of communist dogwash first ) and openly disdainful of pursuing any type of education. And maybe I'm fringing on elitism when I say this...but why the hell not? She reeked of rich kid gone bad (damn the man/my parents, I'll take your money, but damn you man/mom/dad! ) so probably it would be accessable for her to go to school and suck back some education, instead of beers, weed and useless propaganda with a guy like the Sexy Chilean. So I must sound ticked off, but I think the thing that pissed me off to the point where I decided I'd write this total garbage down, was the "and thou shall be saved" stunt I watched her pull.
A homeless woman was walking by with her guitar, woebegone and begging, and "Eleanor" swoops down like an angel of dreadlocked mercy and says, "oh god, are you ok?" (Oh, I'm fine...I have fucking nothing, I live on the streets...but I love it. Really.) Homeless woman mumbles something incoherent. "Oh god, Sexy Chilean, I think she's hungry! Are You HUNGRY?" *pats stomach and talks slowly*. Sexy Chilean grins at me embarrassedly, looks away into space. "Yes...she probably is hungry Eleanor." "Oh my god, I have SUCH a great idea! You should come to Tim Hortons with us! We'll buy you some food!" Homeless woman mumbles something incoherent. Sexy Chilean sighs, weighs consequence of getting good samaritan sex, or getting sex for being a sexy chilean, or possibly getting no sex if he doesn't go along with Eleanor, who is consequently paying his bus fare, and for the very cigerettes that he is smoking. The bus arrives, and I start awkwardly inching away, having said nothing since the whole incident started. "Oooh....look, there's our bus! SC are you coming! That's our bus! The number six! That's right, isn't it? Ha ha, I can never remember these things." Eleanor grabs the Sexy Chilean's hand and dashes onto the bus, and it drives away. I shake my head in amazement, and the homeless woman mumbles something incoherent and shuffles away. I catch up with her and give her the Ramen noodles I have in my bag, and feel like a shithead, because sure, they're cheap and I live off them, but she deserves something better than a 25cent bag of malnourishment and a broken promise.
I have lots to write about still....but also lots of sleep to be had.
Canoe Canoe? I can.
It's Canoe Time!
Somewhat unpredictably, yet not, because I always try and get what I want, I managed to convince Mr. Pink to come to my parent's house on the weekend for Thanksgiving dinner. A little reprieve from the rough couple of weeks he'd been having out at the settlement (seven deaths in the span of three weeks), and a much needed lovefest was had. As soon as he got there though, we ran off to the beach for some privacy and upon spying the canoe he declared that this is how we would pass the time until dinner. He hadn't canoed since he was nine, and I hadn't since, well, since Tall I realized (silently), and we both got paddles and lifejackets, and headed out into the setting sun. The lake was like glass, and we glided along quietly into the shining water, (upon his insistance, we steered towards the sun). It was beautiful. The fall air was crisp, the sky was brilliant blue with low clouds on the horizon, and we were the only ones on the lake as we threw the paddles behind us into the boat and set ourselves adrift, talking and catching up, sneaking kisses carefully, wary of tipping the boat into the frigid water. It was with great reluctance that we headed back to shore when someone yelled that supper was almost ready (yes, the lake is not nearly large enough).
Dinner was great except my brother's girlfriend is perhaps not the turkey whiz that she thinks she is...I felt bad for her, though she'll never be the wiser, when my father threw out a lot of the leftover turkey because it wasn't cooked enough. To her credit, the turkey that was cooked was delicious. Take note: Squeeze two oranges into the inside, and leave one in there, and ten minutes before taking out the bird, brush jelly (like, crab apple jelly, or any jelly) on the outside and broil it). Genius. It was the most tender bird I've ever had.
My brother brought up "the Nephew" also, which was cool, as I enjoy taking dognoxious for walks, even though he pulls too much and is terrified of the horses in the paddock at the end of the street. Also, my brother brought his Le Baron, which is a beast, but a coolly vintage chrysler if there ever was one. It needed new seat covers, and somehow he conned the whole family into helping him redo the whole interior in one day on friday afternoon, and it ended up looking fantastic. All he needs to do is fix up the exterior now, and pray for a fuel efficient engine to fall out of the sky and into the jaws of the vehicle.
That night, the rest of the crew (grandparents, brother/gf, parents) pleaded exhaustion and went to bed early while Mr. Pink and I watched Bubba HoTep, my father claiming that he was too liquored up to drive Mr. Pink home, much to our elation, akin to that of eleventh graders left in a closet too long. Btw, Bubba HoTep is a fantastic movie, I reccommend it to anyone that knows the greatness of Bruce Campbell from the Evil Dead Trilogy. AWESOME.
But of course, all movies come to an end, and of course, all detailed descriptions do too, especially ones describing the lack of sleep that ensued.
We went canoeing the next day as well, this time to the otherside of the lake, and hung out there for a while before we had to head back. Here's where I say I was a little bit of a brat, because I hate having my picture taken, and I was wearing my godawful Cult tee-shirt, so I protested greatly, though to no avail. I hate it when they ambush me with suprise family photo time- I wasn't ready for it but everyone else was, so we return to the childhood trend where I am the oddest of the photo again. And I felt terrible about it- making it an issue, but also for not being ready for it. But, I made them promise that we'd try it again some other time.
There are more things (Tons of thingS) that I still want to talk about. Settlement, The Black Rider, nanowrimo, differences of lifestyle (big). But this dell hell is uncomfortable to write on. And plus I keep farting, and I never know if I have to say excuse me if there is no one in the immediate vincinity, but maybe someone like eight feet away. It's tricky.
"To th' Elaphant!"
Intermission, when writing an essay, justifiably comes in the middle of the second body paragraph, right? No matter how awful it may be? That's what I thought.
Fishing through my bag brings unpleasant surprises sometimes. Withered carrot sticks. And by withered, I mean, little dried sticks
. No longer happy orange, but ...burnt umber brown. It makes me leery that they dried out before they had a chance to get moldy though. I'd love to blame our arrid northern climate....but I have an inkling it has to do with just how those abnormally shaped cute little carrots are farmed. You know the ones...the ones that look like someone chopped the fingers off a toddler and then colored them with "macaroni orange." They didn't get moldy! My bag doesn't smell! It seems pre-ordained that any vegetable left long enough should get moldy before it completely mummifies, right? In anycase, I have enough dried carrots to light my Jerker desk on fire if I so choose to do so in the course of this essay.
Also, someone wrote in the washroom today that they "wonder if either the Oedipus or the Electra complex applies to gay girls." And though I wasn't really going to blog that I graffitied a zoom advertisement in my school....I'm jumping ahead of myself here. I took my little pencil and wrote back some uppity reply and condemned the commenter for their ignorance. Anywho....without much thought, I tagged my blog address along with my E-E, and lo and behold....in a bid of desperate procrastination (oxymoron...YES!) I was checking blogpatrol later tonight. And some girl (with a lot of friends) actually referred to my little bathroom spaz on her blog and linked me. It's so lame that I'm bringing this up, but I dug it.
In other news...Mr. Pink hath not calleth me yet. Le sigh. I don't want to dump on him, I just want to invite him to my house for the weekend, so's we can shack up in the cabin together and make each other feel better about the general suck of life lately. I won't elaborate on his life suckiness....but I have to admit, I'm worried. However, I also concocted a wild plan that I want him to be in on. What happens when you take nudity, throw in a cold lake and nighttime? Fucking Cold Skinny-dipping! Woo hoo! I love skinny-dipping, and not just for the skanky reasons. I like swimming out on a lake of glass and just floating on my back to stare at the stars. And it shouldn't even be that cold, they've only had one frost, and I've swum in far worse a temperature than that.
BZOOM! Enter compulsory italicised flashback!
I remember a silly whim that Mr. Smith and I had one day in Grade 11- that it would be the craziest thing if we had a sleep over at the cabin (ok, I've lived in A LOT of cabins...) I was living in before we moved down the street to the trailer home. The cabin was on Le Lake, the same lake my parents live at now, just down the street from the trailer home that was down the street from the cabin...you dig? We held this sleepover in the throes of January, which in Alberta-ese means minus twenty degrees celcius or colder. After having a little pep/plan talk (very short) we donned each our own swimming gear. Allan in his diving wetsuit, I in my dad's drysuit (wussy, I know- and I later got in huge shit for this), and waddled our way down to the lakeshore with hatchets in hand. The ice was a good month or so old, so it was quite the task to hack a decent sized hole into it for the both of us to jump into. We didn't go particularly deep, just about chest height. The hole itself took a while to cut, but when it was done, we found we could both fit in quite easily. So in we jumped...screaming and howling from the horror of the cold. We stood there for a few moments and commended each other on our bravery and made a swift exit. Hot chocolate was had by all and no ill effects were suffered, other than my travesty of an attemp at learning how to swing dance from "the master" later on.
BUT WAIT! THERE'S ONE MORE!
Skinny-dipping was not something I wanted to try on my own, though it was a desperately romantic notion to me at first, that later degenerated into something to do for shits and giggles, and of course now, merely to demonstrate my eccentricities. The first time I ever went, it was a balmy June night, maybe about three weeks before Tall proposed to me. Tall had never been drunk before, and nor had I, and we'd pledged it would be something we would do together. We each dutifully (if not clinically) chose our poison earlier that afternoon and drank it later that day on the dock, each finishing off a mickey of some vile thing or another. And predictably, we were only slightly buzzed, but now massively bored. So the coast was checked and the clothes were shucked and in we went. Both of us at the time were very shy people so it was not without much circumstance and fuss that we got into the water in not even our skivvies. It was excrutiating, and by now, I swear not to ever be that modest about my body ever again. But once under the cover of the water in the darkness, flaws are not easily revealed, just the closeness of two warm bodies holding hands and looking at the stars together. It was pretty special, and though Tall is a long gone fixture, I'll always remember him for that night.
Somewhere I'm not scatterbrained...
Been thinking a lot about home lately. Thinking about the funeral, thinking about how fall looks from the lake, and how much that place is tied to me as much as a lot of people I know don't know that, or a lot about my life even.
I remembered the Sprite today as I was reading a post on Rad's blog. The Sprite made the trip over from Germany with my grandparents after my grandfather was done his airforce transfer there, out of nostalgia (and I imagine it would have been cheap to do back then). My mother and her sister camped in this trailer when they were infants, and it still exists today, in all it's 63 square feet of glory, in the posession of my brother. For our whole lives we went everywhere with the Sprite, hijinks following accordingly.
Vividly I remember being on the West coast, waiting for the ferry to somewhere in my white and purple flannel two piece pajamas with my little velcro converse sneakers on. My father had parked on the stern of the ferry parking ramp at sunrise, and the four of us had breakfast on the folding table/master bed watching the wake and the mainland spread away from us. That was probably the stillest I have ever seen the sea, and I kept imagining that I saw porpoises in the shadows of the waves spurred by the propellers, and with that, vainly wishing to see one.
On the same trip (I think), I remember finishing a particularly riveting game of Uno on a rainy day with my brother on the same (only) table, as my father blustered in the door with a canvas bag wriggling with movement. Live snow crabs, $1.99 each. It was quite a steal at that time, and my mother quickly got a pot of water boiling on the small gas stove. My father was in charge of unbanding the crabs and throwing them into the pot. My brother and I (both quite small and likeminded at that age) sat on the bench next to the stove watching in curiousity as he wrestled with the substantially sized crustaceans over our paltry stove and the tin pot. And splash, they went in, and sploosh, one came back out. My mother started screaming as the crab plopped to the floor and started scuttling away from its near death experience- and headed for the children- no doubt visions of vengeance whirling around in it's ganglionic mind. And we started screaming too. Three people screaming in such an enclosed space with an enraged crab clacking its claws at the racket, and all my father could do was laugh. Once my brother and I realized that crabs lack vertical ascension abilities, we started laughing too. My mom does this thing though (continues to, actually) where she's sort of frightened but still sees the hilarity in the situation. The laugh/scream. All things said and done (cliches...YES!) the crab got back into the pot eventually.
I think this was weak humor-wise, but it was still worth recapping.
Andy in the Aether
Andy was an average man by all appearances. He was tall, with wispy blond hair, rosy red cheeks and peircing blue eyes. His hands were huge, but not as big as his laughter was. You could hear Andy laughing for at least a kilometer away, loud belly-laughs at whatever had piqued his humor. He was not a particularly educated person, but could fix or build anything. His technological expertise was boundless, and people would come for miles asking for his advice, his help or maybe for some extra materials for a project. He always had extra parts for the asking- always knew exactly where they were in the midst of his own projects that littered their farm.
He was also a father to four amazing children, all of whom reflect their father's characteristics of kindness, compassion, strong spirit, and argumentative nature, amongst others. However, Andy was also the father of many other children on top of their own large family, fostering many children over the years that I knew them. No child left that house unaffected by Andy's unconditional love and listening ear, and guffawing laughter from a particularly bad joke. He could be fierce when you angered him, but chances were, he wouldn't get mad at you unless you were endangering yourself or another person. Andy presented the ability to just be a kid to a child who had not had the opportunity in their former situation, and presented a vast manual of knowlege for making even the most serious child open up, laugh, and learn to live.
I learned from Andy not to judge anyone by a stereotype. I learned more about the simple pleasures in life, and I learned what "need" really meant. He taught me about cars, he taught me not to be afraid of turkeys, he taught me how to ride bareback, he taught me to listen more carefully to the intent behind a word, and to see things from new perspectives. And I learned how to tease someone incessantly, by his own example made of me time and time again.
I don't know how his family and anyone else who knew him is going to do without him around. He was, for lack of a better way of putting it, what everyone always came back to the farm for. Surely not the only reason, but it was always an unspoken desire to be able to simply bask in Andy's glowing character, get a hug, or a pat on the head. He held it all together, a constant for so many people who had never known it, or had a hard time getting hold of it as they were shunted from one home to another. I don't think anyone that has ever met him will ever forget who he was.
He used to jokingly say that he didn't want a funeral, just a celebration of life, full of color ("no black") and laughter. I don't know if such a thing is possible, but I'll be there with bells on for you dude.
It almost goes without saying that I realize what an idiot I've been lately. I wish perspective for a silly girl didn't come with such a painful price though.
What the hell....?
Something odd definitely occurred today. I am pretty sure that I glitzed over everything in the last post, mainly because it just didn't fully kick in until I waved goodbye to Mooki.
I wonder sometimes if I don't take too much into myself, on top of the things in my life that I already can't handle that well. I listened to Mooki. I listen to Westjet. I listen to Fenton. I listen to Mr. Smith. I listen to Sej. I listen to everyone that needs someone to listen to them. But what do I do with the stuff that I absorb through these conversations again? I think I've forgotten, though I'm positive that I used to know how. Or maybe I just know too many people now. I don't know. I think the worst part is that I can't help them. I would help them if I could, but I don't know how, and then I think that this makes me defective. I don't think people come to me with their problems with the intent of bogging me down, nor would I discourage it, but I just don't want people (nor do I like it when it happens) getting pissed off at me if I can't solve them. I can listen, that is all I can do.
I kept thinking about everyone's issues today, including my own, while I wrote my Film and Media exam. Easy exam, if your mind is not a fog of the depressed messages of the depressed. I think I failed it, odd, when I feel like my brain is full to bursting. Fenton has been really getting to me lately. I know he percieves it as joking when he drops his acid wit or casts off some sarcastic remark in my general direction, but damn it...I can't take this crap all the time. Maybe I ask for it, I don't know. But I take it back. I take it all back. I just feel really sort of- when I was on the bus tonight, I just kept feeling like a stupid little girl stuck in the bottom of a huge stainless steel popcorn bowl being filled with whispering kernels of rice, and as I looked at my feet not touching the bus floor from my seat, the feeling was magnified and I felt like a total idiot.
I don't even know why. I'm overwhelmed. I'm tired out. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I can't afford anything. I'm constantly being impulsive. I don't want to be here in this house anymore. I just have had enough. I can't even pretend to be interested in any of my classes, and this, this out of everything is what used to be my thing. My classes used to enthrall me completely. And I just don't know what's wrong with all of this, because by all means nothing is wrong. There is absolutely nothing that I should be complaining about. My parents carry me. I feel like they still resent me for it, despite the fact that it was a decision they made. And while I'm immensely grateful, I wonder if resentment is going to be the trade-off. The thing that kills me the most is other people deal with all this crap on a daily basis, but they deal with it, and everyone just seems so much more mentally sound than I feel I must appear sometimes.
Sej almost (maybe) got raped yesterday. That kills me. I don't want to be here. I want to be there but I can't be, and I don't know if she's got anyone meaningful around there to take care of her. All I can do is sit here and be scared for her. Maybe I should be religious or something afterall. I'm tired out. That song constantly makes me bawl my eyes out. Perhaps I shouldn't listen to it anymore tonight. No more emo shit. Sorry oh few perusers that were expecting anything profound tonight.
Three Pistols came
I had an interesting day....albeit it badly planned out. I have all these goals when I wake up, but on the offchance that I set my alarm clock for 7:20 pm rather than am, of course it becomes impossible to carry out anything more than the rudimentries necessary for pulling off an entirely productive day.
I did study though, momentarily. Hopefully this will be enough for my Film and Media Class, but I sort of think that he promised this one would be easy...so, easy enough for a film buff? Hopefully I can bullshit my way through this one effectually. I had lunch with Fenton, it was decidedly weird and he doesn't like my raspberry pie analogies. Which is fine, because I don't feel the need to put anymore on here about things that are blatantly obvious to the rest of the world anyways. And plus, if a crush is now non-existant, there's no reason to be untruthful anymore.
I suppose I will elaborate on a few other truths. For some idiotic reason, I bought a pack of cigerettes today. First time in months and months. And I'm scared. I've been chainsmoking all day, but this will be a temporary lapse of good judgement, because it's also been awful. I feel like a criminal. And I smell like an inmate. Blech. For some reason I'm just realizing how truly disgusting this habit is. I'm going to throw the rest out tonight, and probably be really sick tomorrow. But goddamn, what bad timing. Now, I have to get it all out of my system before friday and put all appearances up of normalcy for the weekend. God I'm stupid. And the worst part is that I'm scared that some of the disgustingness will linger. I feel like scalding off my first layer of skin and replacing my lungs. Psychotalk, I know, but yuck yuck yuck.
However, as an impossibly silver lining, I met a really cool dude while on my little cancer sojourn today. Mooki is a second year computer dude...and he's awesome. We just sat and talked and talked and talked, impossibly long after I asked for a light. He's just really interesting, riveting to listen to, when prodded for words. Another "real" person. T'was excellent. And a sidenote, not to be read the wrong way, but he's got these amazing blue eyes. Very intense. It was funny though, because we were just immediately comfortable with each other for some reason. Friends in unlikely places under unlikely circumstance? Very much so. But, I suppose I should toddle off to class now.
I've been sort of upset for the whole day. Upset over numerous things, but mostly about Godzilla/Grace Kelly.
I can't live like this anymore. I can't put up with obsessive compulsive cleaning habits compounded with her recluse life, compounded with her immaturity, compounded with her selfishness and her constantly atomic-flash temper. I at least stand up to her, but I hate that every day is a battle that I'm starting to lose again on what my self worth as a person is. I hate that she has alienated my grandmother from me. It isn't just me and grandma anymore having heart to hearts, it's me and grandma with Gozilla carefully supervising in the background, like I'm the one that is constantly bossing her around, like I'm the one that wearies her with explosions of temper, like I'm the one that tells Grandma what she can or cannot do in her own house.
The thing I hate the most about being back, is that it doesn't feel like home anymore. It did, but now it doesn't. I'm just that extra person rooming in the spare bedroom again- the inconvenience to everyone elses life that must be kept track of constantly, for fear of her "young" impulsiveness. It came as a slap of realization as I cleaned the upstairs bathroom. I have two sixteen centimeter shelves in the medicine cabinet for my toiletries, Godzilla has conquered the rest of the room, and the entire bathroom closet. Someone elses life has become more important than my own again, rather than equally as important. These thoughts of where I will be shunted off to next keep entering my mind, and I am finding that I have no other financially sound alternatives. So, of course I know I will tough it out.
One thing is for certain, and everyone knows it except for her, is that Gozilla will never leave this house. It started out as temporary, but now she is too dependent on Grandma to ever leave. I wanted to ask her today if she realized that she would have nothing to account for that was worthwhile in her life if she got hit by a bus tomorrow, nothing to be proud of, no great accomplishments, but realized that it would have been judgemental and very hurtful. So I bit my tongue and took her hurtful words instead, reiterating what I should have fired hotly back in the privacy of my own room.
Godzilla and I took out the boat yesterday and the day before. I sacrificed both days to her, and though I try to be humble about things, I do know when someone is being absolutely ungrateful too, and constantly using other people (myself included) as the means to her own ends. I wondered today if she was a sociopath, as the extent of her selfishness is unequalled with other people, but realized that sociopaths probably don't have tempers like she does. You can't hurt a sociopath's feelings though, I suspect. Godzilla will cry at the drop of a hat, slam the door, punch your arm, slap your face, and sociopaths don't do that. They just kill people who are nuisances.
The real big thing that sucks about this, is that if I told my father how unhappy I was, not at the prospect of living in this house, but residing with Godzilla, he would swoop down and find a solution immediately, give Godzilla whatfor, and solve the problem. But I hate it when he solves my problems, because his problem solving equals my pride swallowing, and I hate doing that when I've already got so little to keep my grubby paws on in the first place. And it isn't like it's unbearable, and Godzilla doesn't love me, she's just got a funny way of showing it.
I really have to get a second job next year though, because if I do that, I can move out. I don't care how little school I may have left, I don't think I can do this again. It gets harder and harder to live with anyone as the years pass, and if I don't find out what it is like to be lonely and feeling like I want someone to move in with me, I may end up as dysfunctional in the relationship department as the holy terror herself. I can't end up like that, or anything like her, and I'm still so afraid that some of it may rub off on me.
In other things, a raspberry pastry is just not digesting and passing through the system as quickly as I'd hoped it would. It's perturbing that pie is confused on its own ingredients and that I know them so well. I tell the pie that I understand it's ingredients, and then give the pie freely away to someone else who might not like or understand the nuances of raspberry pie as much as I do. But of course, pie being an inanimate object, never realizes things like that, and is just happy to be eaten by anybody, not the person who knows and treasures its ingredients so much. But the beautiful housewife who recieves pie eventually, should "get" it, hopefully. However as the fate of the pie has been thus determined from the beginning, I find that my tastebuds still find it benignly pleasurable, but that it still is second to dark chocolate. Dark chocolate I love everything about. The taste, the smell, the complicity of the ingredients and preparation, the touch...everything about dark chocolate is orgasmic. And I'm getting some at the end of this week. Imported.
I'm a little bit stupid, but so are you...
I had this whole drunken post, but somehow in the stupor I lost the whole Thing. Internal service error.
This is what I have to say: Fenton is hilarious when he's drunk. Le Papier staff is also hilarious and unpredictable when drunk. James did not show up for me to puke in his lap. I got really loaded, ha ha. And this is only the second time this year that i've done so. Fenton is also really sortof incoherent when he is intoxicated, and also... yeah. I had a g oo d night. If Mr. Pink had been with me, itwoud have been funner, bu talas...those hijinks don't start until next friday. Poo. I won't bore wit hany more det ai ls. I just want to go sleep in my cur rentl y spinning delerium. Fenton trulyu made more of an ass of himself than I did, which maybe I feel bad for, but maybe also laughed at, because it was awfully funnny of him to phone me at a quarter after two in the morning, to "verify" that he hadn't been killed by rogues in Claireview. Sure sure. So this is still theh real drunken thing. Bed time.
I staggered all the way home, got hit on by cute boys on the bus, talked abou t my desire to urinate badly with the busdriver (who insisted on stretching this bit of conversation for as long as possible...using many female euphemisms), got a "use the special ETS bathrooms at Capilano free" pass that possibly entailed the blowjob I never gave, as a result of said conversation, and then....I am home now. I don't think I can do this sort of thing more than twice a year luckily, though it only cost me five dollars to get piss-plastered tonight, which was undeniably awesome. A good time was had by all. Go team! Yay for flaming inferno man!
Get thee back to thy Mormon Mothership, post haste good Puritan!
THIS JUST IN! MAN GETS SHOT BY DOG IN CROATIA! When will people ever learn that dogs have ingrained homicidal urges? My god, it's so obvious what needs to be done here. Replace cops, with dogs! Sure, innocents would die, but lets face the facts, one out of two people ain't innocent, and as George W. Bush, I approve this message.
I watched the tail end of the "big debate" the other day. Oh yes..."darn that nuclear proliferation, it is wreckin' my gosh darn efforts at being president again! Geez! What more do you people want from me? Isn't my cute six year old expression when I am completely flabbergasted in front of the masses good enough? I could be like Queen Elizabeth...loaded and inactive. But hey, I mean, loaded gun, not loaded off tax dollars...ha ha..."
*cough* Anyways....it was abismal on the end of the incredible-hangdog-that-wanted-to-be-president-again, but I was sort of suprised at Kerry. I mean, everyone thinks he's horribly boring, but I was sort of impressed at some of what he had to say. It seemed so shockingly earnest. And by earnest I mean, "probably not honest, but the best attempt I've heard yet."
I haven't seen any body be quite so asinine and ignorant sounding in a debate like that since high school, when Darci M. would repeat the same thing over and over again- the only difference was that Bush didn't end his repetitive commentary with a screaming crescendo of "swear words." It just baffles me that so many people somehow got sucked in by Bush. But, in the immortal words of Fenton...."Hitler got there because of voter apathy." I see that now. VOTE, DAMN YOU! Pry your American bum offa yo chair and vote for a lesser evil, not the vertex of it.
The day was pretty sweet today. I slept through CLit unfortunately, missing again, Toni Morrision's life story...damn. Well, since I could tell you what I "missed" I didn't actually ignore the lecture, but my notes look like Jackson Pollack monotone abstractions. Calice...I hate how uselessly boring this class seems. It seems like something that should stimulate discussion like all my other Clit classes, but it hardly does. And I wonder if it's because she's given up. The class apathy is awful. Four people didn't show up to "A Doll's House" the other night, so she ended up paying for their tickets out of her own pocket. And Fenton ended up paying full price...eep. She was pissed off rightly about it, and no one said anything except for the really nice girl in the back who got held up by a family event. She is so cute. She's just got this wonderfully alert pert face with big brown eyes, and when she laughs, she makes that sound that a zebra makes when it whinnies. It's hilarious to hear her laugh, but not in a mean way.
After my one class, I was off to the lake with Grace Kelly (present with some one million Godzilla appearances in one day = exhausting!!) to drive the boat to the channel in preparation to haul it out tomorrow. Surprisingly, it went smoothly. I'm always suprised when things go smoothly for Grace Kelly because she's like a magnet for disaster most times. We motored down the lake, in light of a jammed main-sail track (ok, not everything was smooth) that prevented us from sailing with one up. It was nice, but considerably boring. I sang tunes all the way down. The tragically unhip singing the Tragically Hip. Tragic, I know. I haven't listened to "Road Apples" yet, which is surprising, because I just got it. It's virginal- copied from my dad, the one who can "afford frivolity". I have been sort of stuck on Pilate lately, and the Stills and of course the beloved Buck 65 and Co. (Aesop Rock), and Elliot Smith. I need to have money to buy cd's though, not relying on the selective tracks that chose to download while I still had money. And no new Le Tigre. Le sigh. Whoa...digression. We took down all the rigging in the blazing 14 C and I had my delish lunch in solitude while waiting for Grace Kelly to return from the other end with the truck.
The minnows were frothing at the culvert entrance, thick like fluttering feathers on an owl, but seething and boiling in their excitement to get somewhere between shore and not-shore. I didn't really understand the point of all the mass teeming of babies, but it was sadistically enjoyable to watch the occasional one get shot away like a missile bearing when it got to close to the culvert current though. And watching the jackfish move amongst them, just taking big gulps of little minnow chummy while the rest were completely oblivious to the presence of this huge freshwater Death, and indifferent to the remains of their consorts that consequently got flushed out over them. Baptised in the blood of a brother. Sometimes nature is mystifiyingly stupid. What's the point? Deliver us not into the most obvious smorgasbord for other creatures ever? Is that what life is analogous to? I'm getting tired. Sixthirty wakeup roar from my favorite Tokyo invader...le sigh.