Month: September 2004

Jen posted a quiz result and as I really have naught better to do, I took the silly thing.

I loved the answer in regards to my week.

who knew?

I went to sleep finally at seven o’clock. What bad thing did I do to deserve only two hours sleep? It’s not like I’m a junkie for the stuff, but dreaming would have been nice.

Outside looks like a crisp sunny fall day too. The sort of day to head down to Kitsilano and crash through the sharp toothed bracken chasing after rabbits as the first red leaves fall around you. Maybe even catch one. Squat in your black shoes and look down in wonder at it’s soft struggling fur in your lap as you wish you had a carrot to offer its panic. It’s the beginning of this and I shouldn’t even be showing signs of life. The morning, the morning is for bedding down upon. Sunrise is to tell you to go warm the pillow with your head.

I must be defective. Call me when the world says I have to work, I’m going back to bed.

I’ve come home with literal bags of delicious food and a fine feathered mask. It’s five:thirty the next morning and I work at noon. I’ve been wearing my mask for hours. Little things make me happy. Ridiculous gunfights for example. Being challenged to properly step to turn and shoot was delightful. One Two Three Four Five Turn I Win. I would call it a successful night. I do hope I wasn’t too odd for the group by the table. I caught them looking at me as if I were mad a few times. A red velvet girl in a bright feathered mask flashing past… Usually when I was running after someone about to take them down with the archery set. It’s dangerous to give me such a thing. That’s when the deep throated laughter sets in and people suddenly learn my aim. It’s not.. unsuccessful. I think we were all shot rather a lot, especially once people were armed with more than one gun each and the rocket launcher was brought out. We’re dangerous people, after all. We play video games.

The sky is lightening. When this day begins for me, when I wake, I know I will join the ranks lined up to march and I will type my tapping way to the Towers. One sombre step after another. I’ll create respect in the childrens chat. I will not hold for mockery. Until then, I hold my day on hiatus. Light cannot burn away walls like these. It’s not tomorrow until I wake up or deal with an authority. I play defiant to the sun. He may burn away morning, but my yesterday stands strong.

The smell of rain is invading my room. There’s a word for it. James told me once. I can enjoy the fresh air without a clinical name though. The wash of cars going past and sending waves throught he puddles is calming. I’m not worried about running late, though I should be. For the past three hours I’ve been waiting for Ian and Ethan to show up. I have my tranchcoat laid out against the weather. As if to spite all conventions, I’ve even put on socks.

This week starts the Fringe. Today, in fact and I’m blowing it off for Victorias party. I’m not sure how certain folk will feel about that. It’s going to be sordid, darlings. Divorce is alway smessy.

Damn this bloody hang-up. I’m caught. Trapped by my own pathetic useless brain today. I need to go out and get things done but I can’t manage to leave the house. I’ve reached the front door three times so far and each time I stop, my hand on the handle, unable to turn the knob. Futily, I run inventory in my head. Coat, shoes, hat, keys, bankcard, phonebook, pen for writing, I know where I’m going, I know what bus to take, I know.. I know I’m not turning the damned knob is what I’m knowing. Judge and jury are bearing witness and I am condemned. It’s not exactly fear, but an inability. I was left alone too much last year. I turned, went weird. I’m aware that as soon as I’m at least a block away, the anxiety will drain as if I’m a jog upended.

I’m slowly breaking myself of this, but not damned well fast enough. Left alone far too much. Solitary, trapped in an empty house without the busfare for escape, without anyone to leave with. The few times I went out, I was punished for leaving when I got back. It’s left a behaviour. I was taught strong. I can help this, I can work on it. I refuse to be a girl with her eyes blank and red. I’m looking for answers to this what confronts me. I’m calling people to find someone who can rescue me. It’s been a few months since I haven’t been able to break past. There must be a word. A term for my failing. I want to know what it is so I can lashingly mock myself with it. Reach into myself armed with knowledge and shatter the block of stone sitting there that leaves me immobile.

Don’t tell me that I’m an idiot, I know it already, just tell me you’ll come over and help me leave the house.

This is for the students. Written by a teacher and worth a read. Go cringe and laugh. The run-down of proffessorial pain in thirteen points.

Bonus:  A medical doctor has recreated the experience of schizophrenia.  A closely researched recreation of visual and aural hallucinations, based on interviews of real schizophrenics has been plugged into a computer. Viewed as a hospital ward, in first person, it’s apparently a disturbing set-up. Voices, shifts in perception and hallucination. I want to try. 

When the disaster hits, when Minerva looks down and grants us our earthquakes, our floods, our crashing and knashing of meat and teeth, I would like to think you would find me. I would like to think you would walk over cracked pavement, climbing over rubble to find me. I would like to think that in among the sprayed jets of water flashing into the cloudy sky you would be there, wondering where I was.

What awful things happen in the dark. Victoria and I had a wonderful time, but as soon as we parted the monsters fell. Ticketed for lack of fare to find the busses have been shut down on the Drive. There was a long walk ahead, underneath my feet the pavement stretches forward. It won’t be so bad by the time I reach First, but before I can make it so far a drunk falls into step with me. His long hair would fall into his eyes and he would push it back to look at me out of the side of his face. “You sheem like a nice enough kinda girl. Why doncha come home with me and we’ll see how pretty I can make ya” Unreal conversation. I imagine him talking to many young women on many other nights, but when I tried to imagine what this man must do for a living, I couldn’t think of any realistic possibility. He exists only to be the stranger who begs my steps on this night home. Later he will shrink into the shadows and change, becoming the next odd stranger who picks me to talk to on thier long walk home.

When I came even with Grandview Park, the man had been left far behind and ahead, where I looked, there were lights. Too many lights. Bright ones, white and yellow and flashing. The sidewalk thick as ants with people. The block of Sweet Cherabim was blocked off for filming, but there was no action and too many people. The crowd seemed too large. “The blue people.. Adventure Four? Fantastic Four”, I thought to myself, coming even with set that changed the lino shop into a cashiers and a blank sheet of sidewalk into a subway staircase. Ahead I found the reason for the traffic clog. The police have taken it upon themselves to come down on De Kine, the store that was openly selling marijuana. Timing it with the filmshoot was an act of pure media grabbing. Last I heard, stopping such a shoot adds up to about $1000/minute and every business along the blocked off area is going to claim for lost business. I cringe for the nine to five folk who pay taxes. The chemist was outside. The sweet long haired hippy of a man who gave me the Snow White tea. Sleep, sweetness, sleep and never wake up. He asked my forgiveness again and filled me in on things. I’m glad to know him. Seems this morning a politician knocking on De Kine’s existance was front page news so it was decided that it was time to crack the house down. Pity, really. I read the bitching earlier this afternoon and laughed that a fuss would be made of such a small establishment. There’s no money there. The window sign sloppily painted on by hand in cheap green paint.

I stood talking for half an hour, collecting all the information I could gather before heading homewards again. The police were reticent, but expected to be. There were some idiot baiters showing us for less than we are, but I left as they started getting louder. I’m sure they’ll make wonderfully incriminating footage. “These are the people who want this place to stay open. This shop, selling it’s illegal drugs, was open on Commercial Drive for a good six months before VPD stepped in to right the law.” Oh, yes, what is this city coming to?

Now I’m home withe my Love on-line. He’s drunk and so a lousy typist, but somehow he keeps his wits. Perhaps one day I will get over my wary love of happy drunks, but so far I still feel thier company is a gift. He’s saying a visit soon. Two weeks as a possible count-down. His collection of roses for me is growing. Dried twisting flowers hanging in a row added to one by one by one. I’m going to ask he add one every week. I count our time apart by the moons flood now. Another week bleeding, another month his absence. Today begins three. World, I demand his presence. World, I demand his breath. Bring me the head of my Saint and lay it for me on my cotton pillow plate. Bring on the spear, bring on the closing lines. That sound will shatter the sky and I want it, oh, I want it to fall.

Hello to the influx of new readers. I don’t know what it is you find interesting here, I have a very small life, but you are more than welcome.

To anyone requiring a ride to Victoria‘s birthday party this Friday, Ray has two seats free. We will be leaving from my box, so no matter where you are, you’ll pretty much be on the way.

Yes already. Thank you. The fish is dead and I didn’t die from drugs. That was last week, this is this week. I’m better now. Your letters are appreciated, but they can have other topics now.

There apparently is no other Johnny Boy. We might as well call off the search. Many apologies to those who are now just as hooked as I am.

Bliss – where on earth does one get ferret litter in this town?

and now the links I keep meaning to get around to;

More on antique german artists, why the states has some hope still, and yet another reason why I should never have a credit card.

Seemingly, one of the latest things here in Van for the geek kids to do is take whatever psychedelics that are lying around, (this being Vancouver and drugs simple to get), turn off the lights, then watch this. Follow it right up with this, then this, then finally this.

I wrote for an hour this morning only to lose every last letter to a system failure. Blue screen of death taking away my dreams of effort. To the wind, to the rain. It’s not like it’s art, it’s not like it was important. I don’t Write, per se. The loss is nothing but a personal irritation, but oh. A day like this, my morning following my night. Irritation borders on the despair of old Steppenwolf authors. In retrospect, trying to brush up on my German before sleep was not the wisest of courses. Not after my less than satisfying evening. The book I was reading was obviously written in the middle of a bleak winter with killing winds howling outside. The writer would hunch over the paper with his pen, looking up occasionally only to stare for indeterminable times into the fire. It used to be I could read from one language to the next without noticing, but it’s been too long. It’s effort now, a constant clicking onto the computer to use a dictionary. In spite of the distraction that causes, even the chocolate cherry truffle Haagen Daz that Ray so kindly left in my freezer could not dispel the gloom that creeped from the yellowing pages to settle on me. It was trying to find sleep. I can’t imagine what dreams I would have had if I had attempted Russian.

Gavool was at the opening of the Douglas Coupland play last night. Unsurprisingly, the man is a brilliant conversationalist. If I could have been anywhere last night, I would have wanted to be there. Red theater seats and laughing technology referances. I look out at the gray rain today and I think of my day upcoming and his. Tonight is to be at the Jack Singer Concert Hall for the unveiling of the new sound system. “Bring your own music” One Yellow Rabbit all the way. Invite only. The rooms will be filled with his friends, his family, the people I want so much to meet. I want to exist in that world. Our time can be so hard sometimes because no-one there knows I exist. I want to be a face, a form, a style that laughs less bitterly. So far I’m only a name. To a few more, I’m also a picture. The rest know me as an amusing story. “I found her on my porch one day, wrapped in a sheet. An artists dream. I’ll never forget it. I was stricken. See, I didn’t know she was seventeen..” His hands following the story with graceful lines and self-mocking gesture. Why is it I meet the interesting ones through what I look like?

Damn I miss him.