Emergency!
Thursday, March 31, 2005
  Is it any coincidence that MEME is "me! me!?"
SWF, 22, smoker, seeking funny, passionate SM for potential long-term relationship. Must be good in the sack and appreciate the value of leather and bondage!

I can't fucking do this. I would never do this.
 
  Disgusting.
Know what I hate? People who put things commemorating their awesome ability to remain monogamous to one person for over six months in their MSN messenger names. Fuck you. I also hate people that talk about how much they love their monogamous partners in terms of what they bought them for anniversary gifts. Instead of saying "I love you sweetums", they should say "I $400 you, sweetums!" If I'm ever with some guy who buys me gifts like that (I'm not saying this to be a bitter single curmudgeon- it's just fact- I've always been like this) for a one year anniversary, I'd send him for financial counselling with a big "retard" sticker on his forehead.

The kicker of the whole conversation that this is commemorating is, "it's a good thing this promise ring was on sale for $400, or else I would have had to spend $800!"

I don't know about anyone else, but if I ever accepted a present like that, I'd feel like a soul-sucking Nazi. Moreso then I already do by merit of being of the female species. Ha ha ha.

Tip: Be thoughtful, not thoughtless. I highly doubt that 14k gold rings with diamonds spelling "I love you so much that I'm financially inept" are going to make me feel warm and fuzzy the next day. This might be a good opinion article to anyone hurting for an opinion article topic.

On that: An esteemed writer for le Papier handed in his resignation the other day. I'm fucking pissed. The type of stuff that went down at that meeting was downright bureaucratic, badly-played, political B.S. This whole thing has been a circus, product of a massive and irrational overreaction. We know the Gateway is risque. We also know, as educated members of society, that when we see the words "heil Hitler" completely out of context in an article, that it is probably just a mistake. I'm really dissappointed that some of the other editors have been bending over backwards to make unnecessary, ass-kissing apologies that blow the whole "Hitlergate" incident out of proportion, and making no apparent attempt to stick up for the editor in question. Because I hope that some of them are realizing just how ridiculous the whole thing is. Ironically, one editor made mention in the letter of apology today that "blah blah blah, professional product." Maybe it's spin, but the whole point of a Hitlerbomb was to make sure the editors were doing their job, and thus ensuring high quality. Sure, the term was risky, but on that note- how the fuck do you miss "Heil Hitler"? If it had been a slip of any other term then this, save "Christianity and/or Islam sucks", we wouldn't be short an editor.

On a different note, the person in question handled the resignation, and the massively unjust "hearing" prior to the request for his resignation extremely gracefully. I think that the Gateway has lost a very valuable voice, and I hope they realize that. The man in question has always given me the impression that he will definately be involved in bigger and better things anyways in the future. So yeah, here's a big "I 'heart' Ross Moroz!" for all you fucking naysayers out there on the U of A campus. Man, look at all these f-bombs. This thing incenses me.

Additionally, and a little inflammatory- I will be glad when this year's opinion section comes to an end. Hopefully next year will bring better prospects who aren't Nancy-boys in the way of contraversy. Because I'll be back next year for sure I hope. We shall see if practicums get in the way or not. Or panty-waist editors. Or, politics regarding me saying that this year's editor was- yeah, you get the point.
 
  The whole famDAMNly.
I would be underscoring the situation if I said this whole experience as of late, is changing the dynamic of the family. All of a sudden, in the last few days, I have been treated like an adult by my father. This is a big thing. I actually have responsibilities in this situation now, and I'm fulfilling them, and surprising a lot of people along the way. I keep getting "you are so much like your father- and thank god for that" lately. I have to admit, maybe this is short term crisis management praise- but to get it and some recognition that I haven't just been a stupid unchanging human bumbling around on earth for the last twenty-two years, is kind of nice, despite the context.

Here's why: I've been counselling some of my aunts. Two of my aunts. My dad asked me to, and I have been, but with the spirit of being completely neutral in the whole mucky mire of things (which is why I say 'counselling'). Things seem actually to be getting better in the dynamic as of today, but there are still some glitches. Aunt Anathema is still only on speaking terms with my dad. My mom has taken a side- something she would deny, but has inevitably occurred anyways because of her general attitude towards Anathema. The misunderstood middle-child is finally starting to stay at the hospital for longer intervals, although Boone (her husband- PTSD from Vietnam) refuses to come upstairs because he fears flashbacks from being surrounded by terminal patients. I ran into him on my way out to class this afternoon, in the cafeteria and talked to him. He and Godzilla had words the other day on her treatment of the misunderstood middle child, and he vows never to apologise to her. And he won't, because a) he's fucking stubborn, b) he loves the MMC dearly and c) he'll probably forget all about it by tomorrow because he's more addled then anything.

Grandma had a really clear hour yesterday where she was actually talking. She can't write anymore, but she was talking to all of us, despite the fact that she's very tired. She told dad to tell me that I need to start dressing better, and that I should take some of her clothes, and she's been telling stories about her childhood. Which is amazing. Troubling though was that before she went back to sleep yesterday, she started asking why she was there (in palliative care) and what was wrong with her, and what was going to happen to her. None of us knew how to answer those questions, and the more I think about it, the more I don't think I'll know what to even say if she asks them again. When I worked at The Pines (extended care facility), the hardest part of the job for me was dealing with issues of senility in the patients in a human way. I hate seeing people dehumanize others because of a lack of faculty. But at the Pines, what made it hard was that I essentially had to lie to them (white lies), or ignore the questions and change the subject. And I hated it, it was despicable. You want to be honest, but you know that honesty could wreck their mindstate more. "Sally" (76) was utterly convinced that her parents were coming to pick her up, everyday, at about two o'clock for lunch. She would ask to use the phone to remind them. I never knew what to say. I provided distractions, and slowly the questions would trickle into nothing as the mindframe of a child who's been left in an unfamiliar place dissappeared. But this would go on and be repeated everyday. Looking at the clock and seeing it was nearing two would automatically trigger this. You knew it was coming, but you had to be a little bit more innovative each time too, because she would sometimes realize that the day before, her parents hadn't come to pick her up, that she'd been left there. She started to cry once, and I was completely at a loss. I didn't even know what to say, and for the whole time I worked there, things like this occurred everyday and I never ever got used to it.

It scares me now though, because it's actually someone I've known all my life. I'm having this whole "before and after" thing going on, and it's scary. Here is the woman who understood the theoretics of the Big Bang and could explain them (an example), who taught me how to paint and draw, and she's completely and utterly helpless, and bordering on a loss of lucidness. I keep thinking too about my parents and my other grandparents (whom I'm much closer to even then my grandmother) and that if this were to occur with them (loss of lucidness) how awful it would be, and if I could even deal with it without becoming a huge mess compounded with concern for them being a huge mess. It's scary.

We talked about Meyer's-Briggs personality tests today in Ed. Psyche and actually did a small condensed version of it. Apparently I'm no longer an ENTP, but an ENFP, meaning that I've become less logical and more "kindhearted". As much as I'm not concerned, it's just funny. But people change I guess. I'm thinking also though that there were a lot less forced answers in the first one I ever did (in Katimavik) because we had 160 questions as opposed to today's ambiguous and paltry 70 questions. Alot of them were even the same questions, just reworded.

WestJet made an appearance today (Fenton and I must have jinxed it by discussing the matter yesterday). True to form, he listened, but turned the conversation to him as often as possible to avoid the touchy feely communions. Which I suppose is all right, because I've still had enough of insincerity for oh...the next three years or so. But yeah, we went for a quick coffee at "the ritzy" Second Cup. On the way back to the car, we went into Lush, on a whim. I never thought I'd set foot in that store based on my constantly recurring instances of thinking about "making quite a profit selling their own fat asses back to them" and other Fight Club soap making references. And I still thought about it when I was in the store- got grossed out by the smell and the industrialness of their presentation of product ("homemade") but still managed to get ripped off $8.50 by buying a 100mL bottle of Narkotik shower gel. It smelled awesome. I didn't even need it. I've never bought anything because I felt sorry for wasting the time of an employee who gives a spiel whenever I make eye contact. Usually I loathe those employees and/or ignore them, but today, I was compelled to buy something because she seemed so....into soap. I don't know. At least I was able to turn on logic long enough to resist her claims of "upsize, it's cheaper."

I still have a date with Seamus. I need to pull it together, and it's already nine o'clock. Aaugh.
 
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
  Dear Aunt Anathema,
I just felt like you should know a few things before you decide to run off and abandon the family, leaving a trail of wrongly villainized people in your wake, or before you decide to kill yourself or some such nonsense:

1. You are the problem. Notice how everyone is cohesive family unit and fine when you are not around? No, you wouldn't, because you aren't around except when you need to boost your confidence with the taint of self-imposed, wrongly asserted martyrdom. As why you are the problem- I'll tell you why:

A. You've been condescending and pretentious. Even when you are mad, you are pretentious with the intent to subdue/baffle us with bullshit. The biggest thing is your constantly patronizing attitude. I've come to realize that you are not even aware of the fact though, and that part of it is because you are a teacher, and more importantly- you seem to have an issue with power. Big words and accusations for such an initially silly woman, but it isn't unfounded. I bring up teacher in juxtaposition with patronization and power, in relation to your familial relationship because I get that you are very insecure in yourself and the only way you can exert any control in your life is to exert control over others- by extension this explains your selective hearing, selective knowlege, and complete obliviousness to the abilities and emotions of anyone around you.

2. We are all adults. If you were treated the way you treat others, you'd kill the person who treated you like that. Luckily, we have not been blessed with the irrational temper that you have, and luckily, we feel more sorry for you then anything. We aren't pushing you away, you are ejecting yourself, and quite effectively, I might add.

3. I'm not afraid or intimidated by you. I can see right through you, and all I see is a fifty-something woman acting like a bossy self-righteous, and self-centered twelve year old.

4. Your son is going to be a hellion, OR severely messed up. Stop censoring what he watches on TV, he's thirteen years old. All I see you "teaching" him is how to be completely apathetic to the world around him, rather then hypersensitive as you might wish. Similarly, stop grooming your son to be the perfect male and antithesis to all the men you hate, and all the men who have wronged you. Newsflash- YOU wronged them too. Every single man I have ever seen you with, you have treated like shit. Just so you know- if your son rebels, you will lose him.
5. What you just did- what you keep doing- at this precise moment, is the most horrible thing I could imagine anyone doing to their sister at a time like this. You, whom I have admired for your literary knowlege and skill, who knows the power of a single word, especially that particular weapon you chose to exercise yesterday. I almost came over and slapped you I was so angry. Step into reality and realize what the hell the consequences of your actions are. Do you want us to be around in the future or not? Do you even need this family? Because you're not acting like it. None of us have ever felt appreciated by you- we're not here for you to laugh and say, "how quaint" at. We're not here to discipline your son and show him what callouses are. We're not here to be your diorama of what middle class means while you pretend to be common and feast on oily free range chicken and butternut squash ("the gourd of the earth people"). We're not here for you to pity. All anyone in this family wanted was respect.

6. I hate the fact that I'm saying this: please get help. I do still love you, and so does everyone else. What it really comes down to is everyone being completely baffled by this "surprise- I fucking hate you dumbasses" behavior, and all the further irrational behavior that has come with it. None of us have done anything to warrant this treatment, and you don't seem to realize that grandma explicitly stated she did not want you bringing your New Age CRAP into her soon-to-be deathbed. Protestant! Anglo-Saxon! Borderline atheist! Rational scientific being!
7. Let go of your grudges and stop stockpiling them for the next nuclear war. Stop saving them for our deathbeds- because it'll just rush us along to heaven, or rotting in our cold damp boxes.

I know it's a lot to take in. Take a minute, and realize that you, the all perfect and all knowing being, have made several mistakes that key in rather majorly to the miserable mess you find yourself in right now.

(I told you it was fucking mean. Don't come down on me too hard, eh? She'll never see it. Although, if things escalate, the idea of some bluntword force trauma has been noodling around in my head. I don't view myself as having anything to lose, but at the same time, I do know that again, this is SO mean and judgemental it's probably not even funny anymore. Keep in mind that this was a vent- always better then actually shooting off my mouth in the heat of the moment.)
 
  Somnabulimia.
I. John Doe with the broken nose and facial lacerations

The world is offal
You are at the bottom.
I see you hungry dirty
voiceless ugly harmless men
Hit by cars who don't stop
Watched as you bleed
By people who don't stop
Cuts needing stitches swabbed with salt water
And left
By ambulances who don't stay
Victimized
No bluish haze of safety
Found under trauma lights and heated interiors.

I see you starving
Watch them giggle behind corners
Reclining gold statues
Who know you will eat anything
If they give it to you.

The clerk doesn't like it when you follow me into the store.
'You're an unknowing accomplice' he says
'A distraction of salvation
while they rob me blind;
We are too dazzled by altruism.'
You can't even button up your jacket
Against biting winds, hurled stones
And disgusted downturned grimaces
Much less fumble for ill-begotten sandwich.

Please stop apologizing.
 
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
  Journalists are jackasses who happen to write.
Just a note to the hizzos:

If you are currently experiencing difficulty with Blogpatrol, (ie- the motherfucker isn't showing any action or stats, and your visitor graph has flat-lined) it is because you need to select a new counter. Do so, and your problems will be solved, your narcissism will be fed, and etcetera.

Still can't focus on the quiz I have tommorrow, and imminent paper. Found out I have a new skill though tonight: I can do jigsaw puzzles like a bat out of hell. I have a tremendous aptitude for it apparently. I became like a sideshow freak for all on the floor as they passed by doing more significantly world-altering things. And I assembled half of a farmyard scene in northern Montana in the span of a half an hour. Completely mindless task. I should do it more often.

After another fight, I wrote a very mean thing to vent my anger. Wanna see? Actually, I should go study, so I'll spare anyone who still reads this shit from the hideousness.
 
Monday, March 28, 2005
  Trust me.
Surfing through the internets today and found a most righteous dude on Craigslist. Admittedly, he is old though. But man, that's the kind of person I need, minus about ten years. I was mightily impressed.

Shit....what else was I going to say...?

I talked to Mr. Pink on the phone today, and it was really nice to hear his voice again. He's doing really well, and contemplating joining the fire department "seeing as the ones on Res are fucking useless." Man, and he would be so good at it. We really had a great talk. And it's funny, because we both acknowleged that we missed the other quite a lot (non-platonically), but at the same time, I can see that we're both a lot happier now too, and so can he. And I think he finally gets that we still have a shot at it sometime in the future if he wants it. If I haven't been swooped up by the thirty-something from Bali of course. Ha ha...

But yeah...I'm procrastinating majorly, and finding it hard to focus. Brain is spread over a six lane highway right now, and the traffic is still a growing speck in the distance. I don't know if I'm going to be able to pull it together for this English essay or not.
 
  WoeoW.
I feel like I haven't said more then five minutes collectively, of anything all day. It's been impossible to know what to say about much, so I've just been quiet and disconsolate.

My brother went home today. I think he was relieved to be on his way back. Too much reality is a bitch sometimes.

Grandma's stomach tube is leaking stomach acids all over her. They're afraid she might go toxic, and the nurses are being quite vigilante. For the last week, she's been sleeping nights in the chair next to her bed religiously (an old brown armchair), avoiding the bed. The last few days, she's been too weak to get out of the chair. Tonight she's in the bed. I don't think she'll leave it. The girls are bickering like mad dogs again, and tonight, they were in full raised voices mode at the hospice, and someone almost called security and had them removed because they were being loud, and rude to the orderlies. My father seems like he's silently imploding through all of this, and I'm really worried about him.

I went out last night, and was completely and utterly fiscally irresponsible. I think I blew sixty bucks in the span of five hours or so. We went to see Smoothride and this really shit band called Crysnd (correct spelling) who actually weren't that shit, but just not what I'm in to- Nickleback rip-offs. My god, the lead singer was even all Chad Kroegered out in the same clothes. Maddening! Mind you, I was singing along to a particular Nickleback cover (it was afterall inevitable that they do one) because it is the only Nickleback song that I absolutely love, inexplicably. I just feel bad for the band, because ....they're not very original...and I don't think that bodes well for them even though they had a pretty tight set for the most part, and good vocals. The kid actually had great vocals, though he tended to -I can't think of the word- uhhh...."ape" a little, with his voice, like he didn't trust his own range or something. At the same time, I can empathize, I used to do that a lot (still do if I do Karaoke, simply because, I don't really care) until I trusted my own voice, or even realized that I sounded good making my own ridiculous noises. Man, it's been a while since I've seriously sang anything though. I should get crackin' on that.

Apre the concert, we went to New City. It was nice, but I wasn't too keen on the music, save for a few songs. And I sort of bottomed out really fast. I didn't drink too much, but what little I did drink made me crash in the middle of some awful attempt at hiphop industrial somethingsomething. It was nice to see Hydrass though, and Fenton...well, he was Fenton. It was fun, but sitting through Change in the House of Flies [1] was sort of depressing and I quickly wanted to go home after that. What have I learned? We need to start not drinking at functions again, and also, swear off the cabs as much as possible.

Interesting news. ... It seems that WestJet has completely estranged himself from me. I can't say that I'm upset, or suprised. It was the first time it wasn't me that ended a conversation on the phone, and the first time he had nothing to say at all to me. Because it was about my life. Fancy that.

Walked through Ikea today, and ended up standing in a sterile white office ensamble watching a fifteen minute train go by, analyzing the graffitti and pretending to have out of body experiences involving scandanavian furniture and Alberta grain cars. I was so still at one point that I thought I would be mistaken for a fake human, standing alongside all the fake pieces of electronics they always have in there.

I had a great idea yesterday- always being a bit doom and gloom when it comes to the fate of the world's freshwater resources- and decided it should be against the law to use water in commercials or movies, outside of taping around or in natural bodies of water. If you think about it, we're at the point now where feasibly, you could CGI water, instead of actually using gallons and gallons of it in one shitty two minute commercial. And etc, and etc. I thought it was a great idea anyways. Use water only for what it is meant for. Sustenance and bathing. In that order. I think when I move out, with Fenton or not, I'm going to start being a lot more environmentally conscious again, and make the place as eco friendly as feasibly possible. The good thing about doing this, is that my dad will totally chip in on that, because he's all for it. We'll see what Fenton thinks though, I suppose.

Best compliment recieved all week and geniune picker-upper: "'Emerson' [2]...any man stupid enough not to want to be with you is a fool." [3]

[1] I once pledged to sing that in my english 30 presentation (interpretation of the song...don't ask), and chickened out last minute, leaving Thomas the Spikey haired, to do an electric guitar version in front of the class while we all sort of sat there awkwardly for six minutes, because without me singing, the guitar bit was pretty damn redundant.

[2] Pseudonyms have been provided to weakly protect the identity of the author.

[3] My main man "Logan" from the homestead. He and I go way back. Admittedly, I have taken his friendship for granted at times, but he's always there when I need him. I wish I was that good a friend to him, because sometimes I feel like I'm not, and he's always loved me unconditionally, even when I haven't noticed. He's got one of the biggest hearts of anyone I know. But alas, he is stuck in the homestead.
 
Saturday, March 26, 2005
  Bad thoughts in my head
I still can't believe Elliot Smith killed himself. What if it's all unsubstantiated heresay? They thought the guy from Napoleon Dynamite killed himself last week, and it was all a stupid rumor. Apparently, people are entertained by lies involving drugs, car crashes, and celebrities.

I'm in a strange mood. My brother flew in today to see Grandma, and it was sort of hard to see him go in and see her, knowing that after he leaves on Sunday, if she's still alive, that will be the last time he sees her alive. I got a little choked.

We were talking about this earlier, and I still think strongly that my family, other than me, is unable to empathize with Grandma very well. It seems like they are all constructing their own ideas of what is going on in her mind- but I think I see what is going on, because I can read between the lines of what she says, doesn't say, and indicates through her actions of upping the pain meds, and cutting down the hydration. She eliminated subcutaneous hydration yesterday completely. I can't imagine what it would be like to die from dehydration though, becoming a husk of a body, but really I understand that she just wants to hasten the process. She's done. She's so weak right now though, and flipping through pictures of her from last year, it's unbelievable what has become of her. My brother got a huge jolt of reality tonight I think. He just kept saying, "it's so strange. It's so strange to see her like that. Strange."

Hanging out with him tonight has been a little odd. In a way, I feel bad for him, because everything is so good and great for him right now, and now, he's just back in badness. He's been jonesing for a joint ever since we left the hospital, and keeps asking me, "are you sure you don't have any left?"

Earlier, I went and purchased bras at Winners. God my boobs are fucking huge. I should get these slabs of mammarys halved, for the sake of my pocket book. I also got a blue sweater and some grey cargo pants in some weird effort to integrate some color and variety into my mundane and predictable wardrobe. I know it, you don't have to pretend like you didn't know it either. I had like a clothing "schedule". Watched one of the worst Dan Akroyd movies ever, something like an extended drug trip from the eighties, burned cd's for the brother (he lost all his to his tyrannosaurus rex of an ex) and sat around doing nothing. Talking to Fenton.

One thing: I found out that I lost my Pilate cd, and my Hawksley Cd also. Je choked. Sorry, but I like Pilate, so fuck you.

Another thing: Remember how I (ok, no you don't- I kid myself) hit on my brother's friend and possible best man of his wedding last time we went drinking? (I only ever go "drinking" with my brother, drinking occurs as a side-effect with any other people- it's never our ultimate goal to go spend tons of money to get sloshed) Anyways, I confessed that this had occurred to my brother tonight, hoping he wouldn't be upset or anything. BUT, it turns out that he was massively upset, but for reasons I couldn't have even guessed at. It turns out that "Seymour" was my brother's fiancee's ex-boyfriend/common law husband, of like 10 years. Not only that, but in the time that Seymour and she were together, he slapped her around a lot. I asked him then, why they were still even friends- And my brother doesn't even know, but knows that he wants to drop the guy every time he comes to stay. Seymour is apparently at their house right now while he is here, and that makes him nervous. And now, I feel like a total whorey shmuck, because he was seriously pissed that I even entertained the idea of doing anything with Seymour. But fuck, it goes without saying that I'll be avoiding that dude now.

Funnily enough, usually I have inklings about people guilty of things like hurting others, but it seems like I totally overlooked this one. Mind you, I've never really been sober around Seymour. However, one half of me can't help but wonder whether my brother's account might be exaggerated- something he is prone to sometimes, especially when it comes to his women. But, that said, I don't think you can exaggerate on a situation where one person is hitting their partner in any way. But but but...the question remaining is, why would you still be friends with your abuser after the fact?
 
Thursday, March 24, 2005
  Achtung!
Several thoughts lately:

1. Someone--I can't remember who-- told me a long time that if I were to embody any song in the world, it would be "Fuck You Lucy" by Atmosphere. I never thought anything of it, time passed, and then I heard the song recently, and was like, "What The Fuck?" And I wondered if I really was that kind of girl. Do I need a tattoo of Warning! on my persons somewhere? When I look at my track record, I am beginning to think so. I have only had my heart broken once, mashed underfoot by a louse, two crushes turned friends, otherwise leaving a trail of mulched blood pumpers behind me in the dust. I used to feel badly about this, but really...heartbreak makes you stronger- though admittedly as I have experienced, it doesn't seem like it at first. So yeah, whoever told me this song resembled or suited me, I don't know. But it is an awesome song nonetheless. Thought provoking.

2. I really need to get the hell out of this house. I'm really scared that I will get stuck here, though feasibly I won't. My parents both told me yesterday that "after a lot of heavy thinking, we've decided your sanity is more important then cutting costs, so we will help you when you move out if you need it." We'll see about that- I'm still a little leery about continuing to take money from them. I've figured out (with the aid of an unenthusiastic undergrad paper) that it hasn't been my pride at stake necessarily, but maybe even my entire sense of self. Terrifying.

3. I was talking to my friend Misha yesterday and found out she's only 19 years old. I didn't find out she was 19 until I cracked some joke about biological clocks after she told me she wasn't really concerned about finding someone to be with. I don't even know why this is important, but she seems so wizened and all-knowing, like Yoda. I always think of Yoda when I talk to Misha- it's the weirdest thing. With that, I've never seen such a calm and collected 19 year old in my life. She's also Catholic, so we've had some interesting discussions about her religion classes, and I have to admit, I think I'm missing out- on theology courses, not religion.

4. On the note of things I am missing out on....I was reading the paper and hemming and hawing over the St. Paul boycott by the Saddlelake reserve and Kehouin when I caught the name of a U of A prof giving some feedback in the article towards the situation. She's an aboriginal studies prof, and endeavoring to do the "Best Damn ..." on my marginal lit. assignment, I tracked her down on Wednesday. And holy crap- she's awesome. I'd seen her around before and never knew who she was or what she taught, having always assumed the worst of any prof I see in the Ed. building, especially since she had Velocirapter Gospel boy in her class before my Tuesday-Thursday morning classes. But we sat and we talked and man was she helpful. And the books she directed me to! I have this book called "Reservation X" by Gerald McMaster, that is fucking incroyable! And another one (basically, these are catelogues of his work, with some context) he did was called "The Cowboy/Indian Show" and man ... I am honestly getting excited about writing this paper. Ack, digression- We ended up talking about the frigid lake I used to live by, and how the situation was quite similar to that of the bands close to St. Paul, (ie: generalizations, and public segregation/condemnation, racism, etc) and also about what I was planning to teach, and where. And when I told her, I suddenly realized that I've been a complete idiot about my subject choices. I mean, my major and minor are still good (borderline useless perhaps...but at least something to go off) but I have no aboriginal studies background, and want to teach a) up north (read: larger aboriginal populace) or b) rural Australia (again, more aboriginals living outside of urban centers than not) or c) both --> and I've got no fucking background in it. Like, I feel like a retard being all idealistic with the idea I could just apply for a job somewhere like that and tell of all the dead white painters I know and how I can detail all their styles, teach their styles, and history and whatnot, and it's all canonical SHIT, and what the hell was I thinking? And she didn't know this was racing through my head, but she said, "why the heck aren't you in aboriginal studies? We need more students like you!" So...I've formulated a rough plan of action, which seems odd, because I haven't really taken a step forward in "future" planning for a while (fucksakes, I can't even muster the energy to phone SA and give them my SIN number for summer employment), that consists of this: I finish my degree. I go and teach for two years (preferably in Australia- depends), I come back, I do my Master's in Ed. with some aboriginal studies thrown into the degree somehow, *shudder* and then, I go and teach up north. Or rather, try to. I keep having polar bear nightmares. Really fucking bad ones. And of course...there is the rest of my youth that is going to get pilfered away in the process...also something weighing heavily on my mind.

Honestly, I think I'm fairly certain that I want to do my Master's now, and with this, I know it would open a lot of other doors, so really...I can plan until I'm blue in the face- it doesn't mean much at this point- but direction is good. And I think that if I really put myself to it, I could finish it pretty quickly.

5. I've been hurting to do some art lately. I need to do it, and I have no time. This summer I'm going to try and do more I think. And have a meticulously structured sleeping schedule, unlike last summer. Eight hours a night, max. Sleeping in on weekends only. But I'm going to have to do that anyways, because I need a second job. A restaurant opened in the old car wash by the vet in SA, I might jump down there and see if they need a waitress. Because it's a diner, and I've always wanted to be a fucking waitress in a diner. Or a bartender. It would rock.

6. I think my discs have not been able to properly expand for the last ten days, due to sleeping on the brown couch in the basement. But everytime I feel awful and want to bitch about it I'm like, "oh you dumbass- when you get your bed back, your grandmother is going to be gone. How does that feel?" Admittedly, I could sleep in grandma's room, but I can't even walk into that room without getting bad vibes, even when she was staying in there. In my entire life I have always gotten weird feelings from that room, even after my grandfather died in there- although the trauma of being there when it happened probably is part of my affliction. To go all JoJo's Psychic hotline on you- there is some weird energy in this entire house though. You never feel alone, no matter what the time, or where you are. I try and stay away from the small spaces for this reasoning, and have been more conscious of the dark here then I have ever been, except for St. Andrews which was a hotbed of creepiness.

7. I've been really sort of crabby as soon as I get home from school this week. My parents don't annoy me, but Godzilla feels that she must blame me for all the "customs" my parents (like they're foreigners) have been breaking, as if they're my responsibility, or my children to look after or something. It's like she forgets why they are here, and takes it as personal affront when they put the paring knives into the dishwasher instead of handwashing them and putting them back. Or, when they don't shake out the toaster. Or, when they don't pick up their crumbs off the floor by hand. Or, when they don't put all the plates on one side in order of size, and bowls on the other in the dishwasher. So, I get all the sideways glances, the muttered comments, snide remarks, and other general psychotic behavior channeled in my direction.

8. Grandma has been in good spirits lately. Still really tired, but more cheery then I've seen her in a while. I saw her yesterday and she told me that she was only having issue with how many people were constantly around, saying that, "it's like you're floating, but all these things are constantly walking around your periphery, just out of sight but still making noise." I really love her a lot. Everytime I go and see her though, it's nerve wracking to leave, because I sort of wonder if my goodbyes are good enough everytime I go, in case I don't see her again. And then I wonder what I could do to make my good bye the ultimate goodbye for both of us each time, and I don't know. I know she knows I love her though, and that is the important part.
 
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
  Spontaneous Loss of Control.
I. Anathema
I'm sick of it all.
Sick of the four Gorgon headed snakes,
Sick of the sick
Sick of the slowly dying,
Wasting away with inward glances.
I am nauseated
Will be ill forever
With the smell of lilies and morphine
In an overhot room denying the chill of death
With false vivacity.

She feels useless and redundant.
Her body has failed her
Much like her family secretly endeavors
To do behind her back
Their love is overwhelming
But it also kills her
Worse then a cancer
It is a poison that she has seen
Infiltrating and seeping
Even in the beginning.
One of them is the eldest
Riddled with complexity
Complexes,
All of them so complicated
The puzzling pieces of hereditary traits
never fitting together
Not attempting, nor compromising
But drawing blood
and leaking poison into red swelling wounds
We are all soaked in blood and vileness
Carnivorous orchids crowding for sustenance;
It makes me shake.

Her neck aches
They are tired of waiting in the waiting place.
She feels weak and tired
Death would be a blessing from this depression
-Ritulin just gives her more time to think
Of what won't come soon enough.
Meanly, I am happy it keeps her awake
Making her realize
What 'alive' means
As her senses are heightened
her blood races dangerously.

I wondered long ago
If she was strong enough,
Not so full of pride
With such sense of what is right
Whether she would have done it herself
Whether she'd tried
And no one had noticed the botched attempt
Attributed it to temporary bouts of senility
Feebleness.
I wouldn't have said anything bad.
She's never thought ill of me
I never would think ill of her
Even in death;
A time past consequence
A time past retaliation,
Past power
Like she seems now.
Powerless to live
and unable to die.

"I love her, but I just want her to be happy
- to get what she wants so badly"
Even if it is death
I've never been so afraid
Of what she is not afraid of,
so desperately trying to embrace it.

II. These Peaches Expire Soon
If a man stabs himself in the chest
And slowly dies
Who hears him
Had he not announced it so?
I didn't.
I wouldn't hear a beautiful boy
Killing himself
Because he wanted nothing else
But darkness and eternal quiet
From a racketous
Weeping wound
Of a world.

I loved him before
I would love him if he left unexpectedly.
But I would understand.
I would understand that living life
Is an effort to stave off death
Planned or unplanned
More then likely planned.

The world is full of cowards
More then we would ever acknowlege.
Cowards who walk their dogs
Instead of walking into traffic,
Cowards who do the dishes in the sink
Instead of following them into a winter river,
Gutless people hiding behind music on a bus
Instead of stepping in front of diesel powered cheap transit.
Gutless people golfing on a sunny day
Instead of screaming at gods
Drivers to the wind during a thunderstorm
Spineless selfish idiots who buy expensive cars
-One more reason
However trivial
Not to cross the center line.
Having children
To give themselves reason to stay
Just a little longer
-Tolerate it
Just a little bit longer.

Composting,
Carpooling,
Recycling,
Bicycling;
Stalled suicides?

If you're lucky
You'll die in your sleep.
I'll miss you
When you forget to open the garage.

II. My Bukowski (There are so many names for this poem's existence- 'foolish' is the best one)
You suck.
It sucks
no matter how much
I care for
you
how much I help
you
how much I miss
you
when you're
not around
that one day
inevitably

I will be bumped
to non-existance
the back burner
by a skinny
beauty
who never claims
to understand you,
help you out
inspire you
rather, spending
the little money
you earn
unhappily
in prolific amounts.

And you might
be unhappy
That's the only reason
You'll ever need me
still
Or love me.

I would die
to get you drunk
at your typewriter
to proof-read your work
To do crazy dances
of inspiration
Together

Make your coffee tar
hear you bitch
and complain
of rejection slips
While I do the opposite:
Comfort you
Listen to you.

Slide you food
Under the door.

Paint in sunbeams
While you sleep
Stonefaced
In sloven sheets
Too much of the world
running through your mind.
I know it exhausts you.

Move constantly,
Live paycheck
to miserable paycheck
Foster our little
addictions

Show you
simplicity
And real beauty.

Because I can
be real
Though
you
are impossible
at it.

(As you can tell, I sort of lost it a little tonight.)
 
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
  "Hitler was a bad man. I am glad he was not my pappy."
I haven't posted anything hideously wrong (see title) and gross on here for a while, so I figured it was time to bring back Guts for a gander. One day, I hope to write something not as disgusting as this, but something that makes one sit back in stupified wonder after they're done reading it. And for me, an unsympathetic girl, reading "Guts" puts me into stupid horrified wonder. I've been meaning to latch onto someone and steal some more Palahniuk for the summer, but I know not whom. Except maybe Bento, because he is not as perhaps, possessive and fanatical as someone else I could think of [1].

Today was ok, except I ran into the "Fake Australian" again at Remedy. Pissed me right the hell off, because I absolutely cannot be mean to the guy, but nor can I seem to get away fast enough. And lately, I'm in no mood to sit around making shit talk and be meaningless and placating to other people. So I booted it, but not soon enough, because I got excluded from a dinner at Dantes. Turkey sandwiches, again.

School is starting to become a handful again. I have to sort out a Marginal lit project by Friday, and I panicked today and suddenly figured I had nothing again. And it worries me how quickly the presentation and the essay are going to be upon me. Fuck.

[1] Ah ha ha...I'm joking. And abusing footnotes.


 
Sunday, March 20, 2005
  Ugly socialite- Magneta Lane
Last night was a night of fun and debauchery. Surprisingly enough, after my McNasty meal, I went through my entire bottle of wine and felt nary a thing past a buzz. So much for no more drinking. I didn't write nearly as much as I thought I would, but I did a fair amount. It's quality, not quantity, geez.

And as for the rest of our exploits, I'll leave that to my memories alone. It was exactly what I needed though, to get away from all this shit at home, and just be my confused woman-girl self with my silly man-boy friend.

On another note- I saw "I *heart* Huckabees" the other day, and my god....who knew that a gateway review would be accurate? It was fucking good, although admittedly a little lacking in some parts. My favorite parts were, funnily enough, the parts where the two "others" were bicycling to or away from things. Just the way these shots were done, and the way the bicycle was the most effective mode of escape - "a man who knows what he's getting into and leaving behind" I think was the line, as the two of them leaped onto their bikes (the old awesome ones, yes). It was just so strange, because that struck me the most about the whole movie. And a few other things, but I won't go there at this precise moment. Admittedly, it did make me question the value (if any) that we as humans put on coincidences that occur in our lives.

I used to overthink coincidences massively, especially (and unfortunately) regarding the opposite sex. I wrote a poem about it on Saturday:

Tendencies

Falling in love
With a coincidence
Befalls us all.
Shorts us all.

We pick those
So similar,
Inevitably we cancel
Ourselves out.

Out of similitude,
Out of love,
Out of things to say.

The things we say
Are the same
Because we love
Each other

For knowing
The same damn things
Acting the same damn way
Thinking the same damn way

Thinking that this is fine
And proper-- normal even--
What should be expected.

So we get bored and hate them.
By extension,
We hate ourselves
For being like them
Finding out we're not
The Original

The desired individual,
Privileged to be loved.


Overall, it was a good night. I felt alive, and that was nice.

 
Saturday, March 19, 2005
  ...and then I ripped his lungs out.
Weird things that I have done lately that I find to be odd:

1. Germinated an avacado pit to plant

2. Developed affinity for TechN9ne.

3. Picked up vernacular from my professors and used everywhere since.

4. Gotten mildly plastered with classmates and professor.

5. Been a mildly shitheaded friend and more self-absorbed then usual.

6. Been indifferent to males everywhere. Some guy on the bus the other day tried to get me to go for a pint with him, and I flat out refused the advances- highly odd, because usually I do give those nice Irish boys more then a fair chance (I mention Irish, because this was his opening line, "are you an Irish girl?" And yes, it was St. Patricks day). It didn't help that he looked like he was in highschool either, though he later stated that he "goes" to Grant Mac. [1]

I bought blackberry wine. Tonight, we are dark! Moody! Poetic! Inspired! I'm so excited.


[1] This later turned into a full out confession that he didn't actually "go" there, but worked as a cooking assistant in the cafeteria. And I mean, I don't care what you do or where, but damn....be honest about it.
 
Thursday, March 17, 2005
  skeleton plush toys
I haven't been wanting to talk about this on any sort of public venue- but in the interest of getting it off my chest and maybe finding humor where I can find it... which is hard to do lately.

Walking through palliative care tonight for the first time was like walking on the moon. I was so contagious and felt like the grim reaper blowing through those push-doors leading to the optomistically dying.I walked through the whole place, it's quite spread out and open. One half for the family members to relax around in(read: sit around waiting for death to do a jig in while doing jig-saw puzzles), and the other half for the residents. There's a widescreen TV, just like The Pines, with a cable package befitting of only the most uncommitted watcher. The OC was on as I cruised through. A large conundrum about Pep rallies and firewood raged on with intermittent commercials, and everything seemed to move a bit faster onscreen then I remember it doing before. Shelves were full of old romance movies and the entire Alfred Hitchcock collection and some WWF movies. Other shelves held stack upon stack of Harlequins. I thought that if I died while reading one of those, I'd at least hope it would be after chapter nine. Or else it wouldn't have been worth picking up in the first place.

I didn't take off my jacket or my scarf, adding to my spaceman feel as I wandered through with only the slits of my eyes peeking out and glaring at nurses before looking away guiltily, wondering if they could tell by my dilated pupils just how contagious I really was. Everytime my nose itched, I gasped and held my breath and saw spots in front of my eyes, convinced that if I coughed, I'd be kicked out instantly. Possibly hanged for murder.

Optomistically dying. Every person you see crumpled up in a chair or slouching over in a snooze in a beautiful piece of colorful stainproof furniture, is dying. People check in here, and they don't check out. They have plants that take decades to die everywhere though. Scads of fake flowers, or those seemingly immortal and contorted pieces of cane that just look like organic grave markers. And there are little permanent knicknacks everywhere. Things the passed have left behind. Ugly trinkets that children didn't understand the attachment of, and got rid of as soon as possible. Though this place is relatively newly renovated, they line the shelves in scarily profuse amounts. None of them are dusty at all, and I envision some government job dusting objets du morte that rakes in 40Gs a year.

There is a lone piece of witchhazel growing in the hauntingly beautiful twining way that only witchhazel can in an autonomous anenome sort of way, reaching and reaching, but not grasping hold of anything- twisted knots and curls hanging in a space so silent it's vacuous. A cut from an old flower arrangement, we're told, that someone put in a vase and left to "go a little crazy."

Grandma's room is "very tiny" she writes, from the notepad that is now her only mode of communication. To think I'd once joked about that as my preference. Her heat is cranked way above the outside floor, keeping out the drafts, exhausted nurses, and cold spirits. As we sat there and watched her unpack her stuff I thought of liminal spaces, a concept that hadn't made sense to me until that very second. How many people have transitioned (or just stopped engines) in this room. On that bed?

"Should we take your suitcase home then, Mom?"

We decide to leave it in case she changes rooms. Or- to take her stuff home. It dawns on me that there are no real "what-if" alternatives here. This is the end of any exhaustive and fruitless struggle, from where there is no other way out, no other opportunity.

I walked through the whole place, it's quite spread out and open. One half for the family members to relax around in(read: sit around waiting for death to do a jig in while doing jig-saw puzzles), and the other half for the residents. There's a widescreen TV, just like The Pines, with a cable package befitting of only the most uncommitted watcher. The OC was on as I cruised through. A large conundrum about Pep rallies and firewood raged on with intermittent commercials, and everything seemed to move a bit faster onscreen then I remember it doing before. I didn't take off my jacket or my scarf, wandering through with only the slits of my eyes peeking out and glaring at nurses before looking away guiltily, wondering if they could tell by my dilated pupils just how contagious I really was. I refrained from touching anything, felt the curious sympathetic stares of the family members who looked like they lived here. Everytime my nose itched, I gasped and held my breath until I saw spots in front of my eyes, convinced that if I coughed, I'd be kicked out instantly. Possibly hanged for being a murderer.

Everyone is talking about grandma like she's dead already. Godzilla is talking about buying the Explorer, everyone is talking about what will happen to the house, her stuff, everything. But, they are not being honest about their lack of tact either. Honesty would entail saying, "[after grandma's dead {defined as: gone, not on the earth anymore, dissappeared forever)], I think I'm going to buy the Explorer, because it would be good to haul the boat with."

Additionally, everyone's waiting for me to fall apart at the seams. Like I'm going to start spewing brains from my solar plexus. When my mom asks me, and I say yes, she asks, "are you sure?" about four times after, like she thinks she is giving me permission to be emotional. Everyone keeps looking at me as if I'm an ingrate for not bawling my eyes out at every tragic second. Like I should be on 24 hour demonstration, shaving off my hair and eyebrows. Or, everyone keeps asking me if I'm ok, and then they tell me they don't know what to say. I reply that I'm fine- because really, I'd be uncomfortable saying anything else. The best part is when they start saying, "well ah...I hope you know that I don't really know what to say..." because really, that's wonderful that my problem has suddenly turned into your problem and I'm supposed to help you out with that.

Really, I don't care what anyone says, just as long as they don't stand there and say fucking nothing. That would hurt me more then saying something stupid and self-centered or tactless. Or, in the case of one friend, all three in one go, I imagine [1].

And really, of course I'm fucking ok- nothing's even happened yet. I suppose you could ask to get smothered by a pillow on the first night, but realistically, the whole reason the place is so damn pseudo joyful, is because typically the clients don't drop dead on the first night. In fact...I hear that some of them hang around for quite a while, and that the only reason SHE prefers to be there now is because she doesn't like administering her own meds anymore, making her daughters and in-laws not sleep...and eating- which is actually the most serious reason. After a point, nutrition does funky things to a body that is attempting to shut down, and creates more complications than benefits- at this time, focus is switched on to heavy hydration.

I'm still really sick. But better then yesterday. And not obviously dying. We've been eating turkey sandwiches for the last two days though at lunch and dinner, and it's the happiest I've been at meal time for a long time. I could eat turkey sandwiches forever.

[1] This was a joke, even though it wasn't necessarily clear.
 
Monday, March 14, 2005
  Larsonous Lowl fowl
What a good day. It was cool, but sunny- and I had a really good and much needed conversation with Bullshit Proof Vest at our usual coffee time. The man is full of sense, amongst other things. I'm really growing to value the friendship I've found in him, and we always have fun when we hang out, even if we're just bein' goofy. And I don't feel dumb around him, which is pretty important I've realized.

Interesting thing: I've never stopped and visibly stared at anyone, but the other day at the theatre, there was the most amazing looking guy there that just stopped me in my tracks. I wasn't like openly gawking but keeping a close eye on him while I talked to the boys, and lo and behold, he turned and stared at me. Ducked behind the pillar to buy popcorn, and peeked around the side and stared right at me. Or maybe over me. But it was a good moment, and as fleeting as the moment was, I'll never forget him. He was about half a foot taller then me, and had black hair, thick rimmed black framed glasses, and tattoos all over his arms. Tattoos! Mein Gott! So superficial, but anyways...

I had a great realization today also that I would like to share. For the past year or so, anyone who really knows me knows that I've had some issues with my "voice"- as in, feeling like I constantly have nothing to say that is relevant to anything much, or, that I've been a lot more subdued in my everyday speaking ways. Today, I realized that I think this little funk has finally left me for good. It's been building for the last few weeks, because I've been having these instances where I sit back and think about conversations of the day and go, "damn, you were pretty intelligent today, awesome" as opposed to, "what were you thinking? Why didn't you say that instead of this!" So admittedly, it's been a confidence thing, but hey, it's come back... Whooop whoop whooop whooop whooop whooop whooop...... It totally has left me though as to why I've been like this to begin with. Admittedly, I think some people may have factored into it- but ultimately this means that it has been my culpable self being a dinkface.

Additionally, I've found that confidence levels have been at an all time high lately. Although, I'm not sure if this is confidence or a general indifference to how the world percieves me. Either/or, is good. I don't just walk, I strut with purpose. Admittedly, being "confident" has never been a huge issue with me, but actually feeling it, instead of acting it, is a whole nother ballpark. Oh that's right- I can act it... albeit, horribly sometimes.

So, while this is all fine and great, it seems massively out of place to be making all these joyful observations and realizations right now. I won't elaborate.

Today I dropped off my resume to City Hall in SA, and mucked through the mud to get to the condo to bum supper off the grandparents (five minutes away). Phoned mom roughly a half an hour after arriving- she said the City had phoned her already and had asked her to tell me to get this whole huge list of stuff and bring it to the office as soon as possible. Now, I'm used to bringing in the driver's abstract- that yearly payment of $18.25 on a blank sheet, is what keeps me the job somewhat, but...you'd think that if I'd been an employee there for so long, that they'd keep all the bank crap on record, so, chalk up a blank (void) check for payroll (again, not so bad), but here's where I get mad. A fucking criminal record check? Come ON. . . Luckily, it is free for all city of SA employees, but still, like I have all the fucking time in the world to do all this running around right now. I can see it now (seeing as I'll be doing all this on Friday): Getting to SA (being gassed on the stretch bus by the dust, like I was today), getting to the RCMP station, and then ending up at City Hall just as the HR office closes ...after having to phone the bank in hometown (also, my fault again, for not switching banks yet) to get a void check mailed or something ridiculous like that. This whole bureaucratic hurdle-jumping thing just to be able to get my shitty job back really annoys me. I'm still debating if I want to cut grass this year...but I'm thinking it depends how the crews pan out, because I refuse to be as miserable as I was last year. Similarly, I don't want to work with many of the younger ones (granted, this is somewhat inevitable)- because they're the ones that piss me off the most. SA BRATS. ARgh. Differently, I hope I get to do more training again this year, because I enjoyed that alot.

Long story short- If I get offered building maintenance this year, I'm taking it. Exercise or no exercise. One thing I realized today though too is that a ton of the older seasonal staff won't be back, because they've graduated and joined their rendition of life. I hope the jerks are gone, anyways.
 
Sunday, March 13, 2005
  I've been unfair.
These tinges of guilt and awfulness have been following me around all day, because of the little grumble I posted yesterday. I've been moody as hell for the last two days- space is becoming an issue.

Friday was one of the most enjoyable nights out I've had in a long time at a bar. Lately the bar scene had been holding very little appeal, but going to New City was so amazing. I had so much fun. I've never been there and not had fun- similarly however, I've never been there without a time limit either. It seems that I never have enough time to stay there as long as I want to, but at the same time, I'm grateful for the time we had. And importantly, I was able to prove I have more then one dance move. Even better- I was having so much fun that I didn't get drunk! I had four beers in total, not including the shot of Kahlua I had in my coffee earlier. This seems like the stupidest statement ever, I know, but I'm really trying to get out of this "drink muchly" thing, and it went quite well.

So, who did show up for my little night of debauchery anywho? Not nearly as many people as I'd hoped, but enough that a rocking good time was had...by a little over half of us. Two ducked out to the Roost in the hopes that we'd meet them later, and I haven't seen them since. Also, some of Fenton's friends came, most notably, the ex, and well....it proved not to be their scene. Unfortunately, I was enjoying myself too much to be considerately downtrodden appearing for them though. Fenton, WestJet and I danced around like crazy banshees for most of the time, it was so great. The only time that his friends seemed to enjoy themselves was upon exiting the club and sitting down at Dennys. It was at this time that I realized that I feared ending up being stupid boring and uncomplicated, with the personality of a dead fish. I don't want to talk about income taxes, jobs, working tomorrow, responsibilities, school, exams, other boring things that you're only saying to hear yourself say, for feelings of inclusion, on a FRIDAY NIGHT, when I'm a little tilting and hyper. Thus, I became quickly sedated. It's a miracle that I didn't pass out in my chicken fingers.

As for chronological order...guess what happened before we went out to the bar?

I went to the EAG, even though the Realism display didn't open until the next day, because I wanted to see the surveillance camera landscapes. And I got there 20 minutes before closing, sweetly getting allowed in on a donation, and managed to get through most of the top floor. As for the actual display- it was my favorite kind of painting to see. I love seeing acrylic paintings done with detail, but with precise linear details- not completely expounding the object, but insinuating through ...ok, pretentious art talk that you won't get. It was awesome, and creepy, but delicious creepy. Paintings, of surveillance cameras! So cool! After this, I decided to go to the Japanese Village for dinner, after seeing the boys briefly (didn't think Aaron was going to come later) off, where my phone was constantly going off and ruining my zen state in the dark and cosy restaurant (AND CHEAP! Did I mention that? This is an untapped resource !), as necessary as it was. There were old placards that claimed dress code, but apparently they nixed the rule in favor of not turning away surprisingly scant clientele. Torn Clash hoodies do after all command respect then. For the rest of the night, it was just me and my book then, bonding as I rolled tumultuously and repeatedly throughout each poem, sometimes twice, no, three times!

And last night, we had more fun. Robots, is a fucking awesome movie, it turns out. And the animation is probably the best that I've ever seen. Period. It's. That. Good. Blue Sky productions has really picked up their act. Ice Age was really lacking I felt, but wouldn't you know it, they kicked ass with this one. Kicking ass of Pixar even. Question though: who was responsible for that travesty of The North Pole Express? I can't remember. I don't even want to see it. Anyways, the biggest thing that caught my attention was the use of light- like natural sunlight- the only thing that even came close to that was Pixar's A Bug's Life, but even then, not with the quality that Robots demonstrated. As well, the details to the motion/action in the movie was exquisite. I wish our public transit was like that, perhaps going out wouldn't seem like such an ordeal then. Because it would actually be one. And fucking exciting on top of that, (environmental...cost efficient....those too). Too bad we're fleshies though.
 
  Mad like a hatter, crazy like some awkward ugly thing
It's been a whole week and I still feel like I have nothing to say, further compounded by everyone leading their merry lives around me, and the fact that everything seems trivial. And what if everything is just trivial? I feel like I'm ready to get on to more important things and scenes right now- and the more I work myself into a frothy rabidity about my lack of mobility, the angrier I get at everything else that is inane that surrounds me.

It's funny, because I feel like I've worked so hard to get at the place of fun, calm and intelligence that I'm at right now, and it feels like it's all just caging me in, and that I'm stuck to repeat some vicious cycles anew, over and over again until something dramatic happens and I get some sort of change, because I've become too "safe" to manifest any sort of change on my own. I've been wanderlusty all week. The first time I've actually been alone with my own thoughts didn't hit me until I was sitting in the Likwid Lounge reading Bukowski, and I realized I hadn't been able to sit somewhere by myself, enjoy a full meal by myself, be quite and not talk by myself, in what seems to be ages. And hence, everytime someone interrupted me to comment pretentiously on the book I was reading, I felt like ripping out my hair.

Now I'm back in that crowded place again, constantly affected by everything that is going on. The world, or whatnot. And I'll keep taking the hits, and smiling dumbly, being treated like an idiot, being treated like slime under false pretenses, learning nothing and paying lots to do so, hating myself, and hating others irrationally, and loving the people that suck.
 
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
  Born with eyes wide open
Twenty-two years ago, at 10 a.m. this morning, a misshapen baby emerged into the world, after her mother's water started leaking the day before- two weeks after the baby was due. She was covered in blood and all the slime that gathers inside the placenta. She had a scrape on her nose from her mother's jagged sharp cervix, but opened her eyes by the end of the day and was apparently the prize of the ward after two weeks for these big blue eyes and expressive face. Her dad was not there, but when he walked out of his instrumentation class he was welcomed by a crude banner made by friends depicting that he was now the proud father of a daughter who was 16cm in length, and 5 lbs.

Now, this baby has grown into a woman. She's currently running on four and a half hours of sleep, and a wistful wish to be on the bus home. Her prof declared this morning (after the all-nighter that lasted until 4:30) that they had a week's extension on their massive and boring project. She isn't sure if she will ask that boy on the bus whether he's available or not, but she is certain that she wants to go to bed early tonight. She's really sort of gassy right now, but had an excellent lunch with a friend at lunch, his treat, followed by ice cream afterwards. She's looking forward to the weekend, especially Friday, where she will be able to hang out with those she loves dearly for the night.
 
Monday, March 07, 2005
  "I wonder what it is that I did to make you move in across the way from me..."

Kraken
Originally uploaded by septapus.

The last one and a half days have been not very eventful, but sort of worth mentioning. Firstly, it is significant that I had a rather stupid realization yesterday of what it is my parents are doing for me by providing for me still- this is, the opportunity to revel in my age, and to enjoy my life while I'm young, apparently. And I see that, but the double entendre would be that though they provide for me, I am still scraping along, and thusly blocked from doing anything truly amazing when I'm still young, because I'm still using my sparse allowance to live, for the most part, and still chalking up debts left right and center anyways.

Seriously, I'm in a good mood. I'm not irked at my mum anymore, which is good, because she's spending the week here. It's nice to have her around actually. Classes went well today, and I did surprisingly awesome in my marginal lit. essay. The probable gang member and I pissed through our English class rhyme tossing, something which he is considerably better at then I, but that I still enjoyed. He's been working at it for the last little while (this rhyming scheme) and has gotten quite good at it. It seems so innocuous a thing at first, but they're actually quite crafty- one made me laugh out loud in class at a completely inopportune moment, but oh well. The poet I was thinking of that this reminded me actually expanded into two poets later. First, Gertrude Stein:

In This Way

Keys please, it is useless to alarm any one it is useless to alarm some
one it is useless to be alarming and to get fertility in gardens in salads in
heliotrope and in dishes. Dishes and wishes are mentioned and dishes and
wishes are not capable of darkness. We like sheep. And so does he.

And second: Marianne Moore

Critics and Connoisseurs

There is a great amount of poetry in unconscious
fastidiousness. Certain Ming
products, imperial floor coverings of coach
wheel yellow, are well enough in their way but I have seen something
that I like better--a
mere childish attempt to make an imperfectly ballasted animal
stand up,
similar determination to make a pup
eat his meat on the plate.

I remember a swan under the willows in Oxford
with flamingo colored maple-
leaflike fleet. It reconnoitered like a battle
ship. Disbelieft and conscious fastidiousness were the staple
ingredients in its
disinclination to move. Finally its hardihood was not proof
against its
proclivity to more fully appraise such bits
of food as the stream

bore counter to it; it made away with what I gave it
to eat. I have seen this swan and
I have seen you; I have seen ambition without
understanding in a variety of forms. Happening to stand
by an ant hill, I have
seen a fastidious ant carrying a stick, north, south, east, west,
till it turned on
itself, struck out from the flower bed into the lawn,
and returned to the point

from which it had started. Then abandoning the stick as
useless and overtaxing its
jaws with a particle of whitewash pill-like but
heavy, it again went through the same course of procedure. What is
there in being able
to say that one has dominated the stream in an attituded of self
defense,
in proving that one has had the experience
of carrying a stick?
(1916, 1924)

*
This example of Marianne Moore is not the best one I could think of. My favorite one however, is much too long to write down at this moment ( "An Octopus").

I honestly thought I had much more to say than this, but I think I'm currently too pre-occupied with these two projects due tomorrow.
 
Sunday, March 06, 2005
  Lick me

The backyard
Originally uploaded by septapus.




Last night, as I suppose it has fallen on me to report all the dirty details, was really interesting. To zing through the details- we went to Sugarbowl, after amalgamating at Remedy's prior and getting the bum's rush out because of some ill-planned show they were trying to execute. Sugarbowl, unfortunately is not the best place for a photog venue. Time and time again, they seem to make the mistake of choosing this place, because it was the SAME thing last year that kept us from going in there and- you know- looking at photos. So, yes, lots of smiling, nodding, hob-nobbery, but also- dull as hell.

I hadn't realized who we'd amassed to come with us though until we got there, and ended up taking a whole side of the bar up with people. Awesome- mind you, the exclusionary powers that be- were still exclusionary. One person in particular, did not wave, smile, or say hi, surprisingly- but honestly, I'm past the point of caring.

In anycase, like I said, our time spent there was short. Mooke and I discussed business plans avidly for most of the evening, and then after a while and some restless masses, and bored comments, we took off to Wunderbar. And it was wunderbar. They still have all the conversation nooks in there, so it was great. We ended up picking up another person, always a le papier favorite on our way there, and that was great fun. We talked for quite a while, and laughed at Fenton while he blew everyone's hair back with his bar voice, and of course, some of us drank some more. In the end, we were left with Burnt Umber, myself, Fenton, Bellan (2), after le papier boy and Mooke toddled off home.

Bento's boy let us beg rides from him, for which I'm hideously thankful for. I'm bored. And thirsty.
 
Saturday, March 05, 2005
  Trials
Team Nausea came up for the weekend, so I ended up hanging out with them last night, and this morning. Dad's feeling a little sick-ish which is a little worrisome, but Mum is full on into "annoying" mode. You know those people that don't fully read things and then take it upon themselves to expound on them while integrating an irrelevant personal story into it? Yeah...

I suppose it's my fault that I'm not enjoying their company though. I've seen them too much lately, for all the wrong reasons, and I can't get the whole "traitors all, Team Nausea" thing out of my head. I'm being much too sensitive though I realized, when Mum picked up a dirty penny on the ground today and gave it to me, and scarcely was it rested in my hand, I winged it as far as I could without her noticing until it slapped against the wall of the church we were walking by. On top of that, and bright sunshine, I'm fairly certain I had my "ugly" face on all morning.

I've realized though, that yes, I'm mad about the whole codependency = parental control thing, but also that this is the absolute wrong time to be focussing on myself and my frustrations about this. I feel sorry for my dad, because I think he's more run down lately then he'll admit. But Mum just seems to be putzing along merrily like she always does. It's good, because she distracts Dad with all the little nothings that she passes their time obsessing about, but ...she doesn't seem really really "with" the program either. Everything she says to me especially lately just makes me mad or upset about something.
 
Thursday, March 03, 2005
  Vomit and the compelling power of Christ

Look into my eyeballs
Originally uploaded by septapus.
Came home last night to this sign, crudely scotch-taped to the door.

"No smoking. No open flames. No extreme heat." (Read: Someone who lives here is a smoker who is dying from smoking, who is on oxygen, and still goes on smoking. Enter at your own damn risk.)

So yeah...the oxygen is here to stay. I calculate that there are enough cylinders of it sitting around to fuel a deep sea dive and full decompression.

On the topic of profound and highly unusual morbidity- I can't help it. The minister from the same church my grandfather had his memorial service in (dying of nearly the same thing) is upstairs right now, Glennfiddich in his coffee (on our dime), arranging funeral services. Like, seriously! We just found out that this was even going to happen, like two months ago. Again, "she just wants to be organized", but god knows this just isn't the most depressing thing to do right now.

As soon as I met the minister, he grabbed my hand and looked at me intently in that "I can see your soul" sort of way, and almost crushed me in his grip before I managed a weak "I'm the granddaughter." I can't remember his name- but any sort of ill feelings that I had prior as I was making coffee for the meeting, just sort of magnified when I met him. In this context, he might as well just carry a scythe around with him- to be used only after the donation to the church is enclosed in the will.

I've never been so intensely angry at anyone that I don't even know before. Or, so wrongfully and deliberately angry at someone with a collar on. And worst is this:

"Hmm...my life is wasting away, so I'll spend my last days (months? weeks?) planning the flowers I want at my funeral, and whatever poignant sayings that I, you know, won't even hear. Because I'll be dead." So, yeah, I'm mad at my grandmother, and I have no right to be, I know. I don't want to be in this house right now.

Ugh...I feel really sick and I still have an essay to write on some Sean Casey play.

Update: I forgot to buy a buspass today- again. All this shit change I have is getting blown on shit transfers that are killing trees. Also, for anyone interested in hijinkery...I have a borrowed tape recorder from Ed. until monday that we can tool around with. I'm thinking taping of weird conversation, or beatnik spontaneous spoken word. Finger snapping included.
 
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
  Spontaneous Loss of Bus Transfer
An odd thing happened on the bus home today, where I, Kyla, an Education student at University of Alberta met a boy named Kurtis/Curtis. I'd seen him once before on the same bus, and there is just something massively intriguing about the kid that I can't put my finger on (which, admittedly, is odd given that I hadn't said a single word to him until today. But I'm getting ahead of myself). I interrupted his ipod session with a note written on my transfer that said, "I know it is socially unacceptable to interrupt people listening to music but what are you listening to?" Led Zeppelin. "Classic" I said. Kurtis/Curtis, is an administration techie with a small computer company. Hilariously, it wasn't until after he got off the bus that I realized he'd walked off with my transfer. Why all the details you ask? I not-so-desperately putting some faith into curiousity, technology, and Boolean logic. And so help me deities, if that actually works in any way shape or form (this assumption I'm making that men I meet are more then averagely intelligent), I will write "Boolean" in big letters on my ass with permanent marker. The smart thing to do would be to use Craig'sList, but ...Education students? We're not that smart... plus, I imagine I'll probably see him on the bus again. Probably with his girlfriend though, with all my luck. But, whatever. I'm not desperate.

But on to more important things (bitching goodnaturedly rather, because it's not so bad)...My day has been pretty good, but there were some annoying instances later. Firstly- the education tools office in the basement closes at four-thirty. No transcriber usage for me, unless I get to school at the crack of dawn (seven thirty), or skip an Edpy class, or, cancel the interview I need later this week (and thusly, need to transcribe). Also, the office is not open on the weekend at all, which bites my ass. So I'm going to have to do all my transcriptions old school. So, I grumbled about that for a while, and realized I hadn't bought my buspass yet. Everything to buy a buspass at, is also closed at the same fucking time. So, I bought a slice of pizza, and got enough change for tonight and tommorrow morning. Bahhh..... but the pizza was good. I say that zucchini should appear on pizza more often. And that instead of Louisiana Hot sauce, they should have Frank's there instead (at the Funky Pickle- not so funky without Frank's now, are we?)

I feel a lot better today.
 
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
  Dirty yellow cars, and the false discourse of independence

kremlin
Originally uploaded by septapus.
What an odd day this has been. It'€™s becoming hard to breath, and I am constantly hacking, and forgetting when I last had a cigarette, going out for one, and then remembering I had one like a half an hour prior. In fact, I am forgetting many things, like buying a bus pass yesterday so as to avoid being screamed at by the bus driver tonight. And that Godzilla was outside- leading to me locking her outside accidentally, for ten minutes. I say- it'€™s fucking warm outside tonight eh?

I studied non-chalantly for my tech course today and wrote it easily; except that I was unawares that we would have to decipher binary- leading inevitably to me figuring out my own very very contrived system (I call this an "educated"€ guess, rather then just out and out guessing "€œC"€).

Additionally, as I studied in my same sunny spot by the north entrance to Ed. I thought about the issue I would use for my counseling taping session. One came to me in a surprising manner as I took a break and listened to some Tegan and Sarah for a while- that I think my personality is problematic. I mean, I think that I'€™m an awesome person, but, I feel like I'm too complicated for my own good. I was thinking about the "cult of individuality"€ conversation that I'€™ve been hearing lately, and puzzled how you could possibly come to any sort of good conclusion from that supposition (word?).

But here is a quandary- obviously I'€™m not ever going to dull myself down, because I can't change my life'€™s experiences or education (nor would I want to), but what if I end up alone because I absolutely cannot fit into any social category, personality category (hence the issue with that compatibility test- categories and not fitting) or whatever else? It seems so terrible- like contemplating a metamorphosis into a lemming (and me without my cliff diving helmet). And I'€™m not even having '€œbuts'€ about it really, just questions and contemplations. As I explained to the Tattooed Catholic (my counseling/client taping buddy) when my turn came- I'€™m not in a hurry, or desperate to find anyone, but it still has dawned on me that stage of my life where this becomes much more important is coming up painful quick. Though I'€™m not the type, I'™m afraid it might sneak up on me to make a brash decision in the whole "life mate" area. Compounded with that are my mum's affectionate little comments on how I'€™ve grown, and "€œgee, imagine when I was your age, I was married and had children"€- something that is only going to increase in occurrence when I turn twenty-two soon.

In other news, Grandma went on oxygen today. She's annoyed as all hell by it, so it'€™s somewhat funny to see her grumbling and throwing the long gossamer pipe around, but really, it is hard to see any humor in the situation at all. In the span of the days I was gone on my ski trip, she deteriorated to the point where she has to write down what she wants to say now, because her mouth is too bad. She washes her hair in the sink because she'™s too weak to wash it in the shower. I don'€™t know what to do, just that I should be doing something, but what that is completely escapes me- which makes me feel like a selfish little rot.

I decided that when I get time again, that I'€™m going to make the most comprehensible site for Golden Hars online. Because there is none, and I keep getting hits from people looking for it- and I have enough material that I feel like it could be very valuable to the few of us out there affected by it.

Lastly, I was talking to Godzilla tonight, and she asked me why on earth I would want to move out, like she was taking it horribly personally or something. At least, that'€™s what I assume was in the back of her mind, but it wasn'€™t apparently. I told her that I just thought it was time. She told me I was being stupid, and that there is no reason for it, and condemned me for even thinking it. And really, I didn'€™t care. Until the next few things came out of her mouth. She started spouting off how it was "furthermore"€ infeasible to do, citing my upcoming ITP/ATP semesters, that "though you think you have it figured out, you'€™re going to have to get clothing for that"€ (like it'€™s the most important clothing purchase I'€™m going to have to make in my entire life, and therefore the most expensive). So, this seems all so silly, and I'€™m smiling inwardly because it is just SO silly. And then she nails me with, "€œyou’re going to need a car€."

"€œYou'€™re being a retard"€, I protest, using much nicer language. As if I would need a car. She keeps saying, "what if you land APT in a place on the opposite end of town? You need to have a car- you need to be more flexible then public transit girl." And it'€™s all so very ridiculous. True, I hadn'€™t thought of this to that extent- but I am also convinced that this is so trivial that I could sit down and figure out some sort of contingency if I had to (e.g.: if I did get sent to a school that was really far away). It'€™s always been like that- think up contingency plans for trivial stuff when it becomes imperative that a solution is called for. Not before then. So I'€™m laughing it off, and she does that thing she does when she thinks I'm acting like a child. Her gaze narrows, and I get the "€œyou are so incredibly foolish, god, you never take anything serious because you'€™re too dumb"€ look.

"€œYour dad agrees with me."€

My face turns a little red as I realize the ramifications of this, stupidly watching my black bean soup boil like a tar pit over a red-hot element. If I know that it would be fucking impossible for me to afford a vehicle this summer, to the point that it is entirely laughable (no matter what I were to do- two jobs already being on the agenda)- chances are that my dad has known that for at least one year prior. Unfortunate for her, Godzilla apparently doesn't know when to shut up, I realized, as she continued to gibber on about how vehement she is about not burying my grandmother and moving out of the house that the other sisters want to get sold instantly- by extension, that my dad has also agreed that "the house should be held on to for you (me) and I (Godzilla) for as long as we (her and dad) deem necessary. And your dad and I were thinking you should be here with me."€

"€œNice to know someone is planning my life for me,"€ I said numbly as she left the kitchen. And she laughed, rather then getting the implication of it, like she thought it was funny, and that I should be relieved that my dad and her (and mom by extension) have been plotting this all out behind my back.

And for once in my life, I think I'€™m going to stick out my neck and say screw off. I will kick that gift horse in the face. I don'€™t want a car. I don'€™t want someone else still behind the reigns of my life. I knew that I was still a dependent, but now I think that I didn'€™t know the full extent of it. It's like I've found out that I'm just being allowed to play dress-up, that "you're so grown up and mature now" was just a ruse. I was thinking about "spoiled rich kid"€ syndrome earlier (partially concocted, partially not)- where, in the Hollywood-ized version, the kid is provided for so much that he fucks around a lot, has no responsibility, no pride, no need to have valuable life skills, and ends up overdosing on coke in the lap of a whore named Elsie. They think they'€™re helping me, but they're not. I should be grateful, but I'm not going to be if I keep getting treated like I would be incapable of taking care of myself if I tried. I do have pride- I'€™d like to hold onto it, instead of constantly feeling like it'€™s slipping through my fingers like mercury.

I talked to the Harlot tonight. I don'€™t dare take the risk of trusting her (she being one of the Aunts), but it seems that all of a sudden, she'€™s become sane, and actually a decent person to talk to again.
 
Death involves an injury?

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