She left for two and a half weeks in Paris and the French alps Thursday night.
It's been 41 and a half hours since I last heard from her, which I think is the probably the longest we've gone since July or maybe even June. I keep on over-thinking everything about everything (this letter, that letter, the third letter, the goodbye, the return, the time in between, for her and for me), which I'd forgotten about my tendency to do in the absence of actual contact. That may be the most dangerous aspect, like the cold of the water which kills you long before your legs give out. But I've been trying to keep tabs and caps on my thinking. So I'll just leave it at the dull lull of loneliness and try to focus on other things.
I should be getting more done, for instance. I told her if I didn't feel like I'd made enough of a change by the time she'd gotten back I'd call up my therapist again. I don't want to have to do that. And yet the reason I am the way I am is because it's what's easiest for me.
There's the protein issue, there's the Olympics issue, there's the job issue (no magazine puns, please) and also my new phone is a near constant-disappointment. Strange that something so much newer could be such a step back in terms of functionality in so many regards. But it looks nice, right? The struggles can be private. That's what I always look for in things: can it make me appear problem-free? Because I'm always better at solving problems when nobody's looking. I just need to be able to concentrate. That's why I turn my music off when I'm doing new things out in public, even though I keep my headphones on. I just need to be able to think.
Ironic.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
October 15th: Cashmere Thoughts
I think it's a pretty good thing that I haven't gotten around to posting anything in 6 weeks or so. Don't you? I'm too in the thick of it, and not getting sick of it. It's nice. I think I'll stay, border disputes and all. Maybe it's just the music talking, but I feel like I can do this. Bring it on, if you think you can rock. Confidence is a strange mistress. Like "Happiness is a warm gun," you know. Same sorta sentence structure. Okay, enough for today. I've got a life I can live.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
the September issue
Two weeks from now I'll be contemplating life from the other side of 21. Circumstances being what they are, I s'pose I'll be thinking more about age and time and maturity this 9/16 than usual. Hopefully I'll be too aged and time-worn and mature to condense them into simple equations and straightforward answers, à la Wiesel, though.
Things have been going really well, though. My worry-muscles are atrophying. Slowly. But—
surely.
I'm not thinking too much about school yet. I'm not working too much. I'm not writing but it doesn't bother me too much. There'll be time for that, to write and to un-write, for visions and revisions which a minute will, etc.
A few weeks ago I was hit for the first time by a fear of death. Those that know me know that I can be an uncommonly morbid person at times, but for some reason, the idea of dying never scared me that much, though. Perhaps my morbidity springs from a lack of fear. Perhaps the lack of fear springs from the morbidity. Who knows.
Anyway, I was riding the train home from Oshawa, and wondering what it would be like to be 70. I've never expected to live that long, but it's my grandmother's 70th birthday two days from now. It must be scary to know you're so much closer to death than birth. The mouth looming, the issue but a distant memory. And the inevitability of it. Like the open ocean.
I guess that's why I always wanted to be able to take my own life. It strips much of the fear and powerlessness from it. It becomes more a personal decision than the end of all that you are. You can even half-trick yourself into believing it won't kill you. (The mind knows nothing of death; it never can. The whole of it is life.) And then it does. Rien de plus simple.
And yet I don't think I've ever wanted to kill myself less. Life's balance-like once again. The more precious living, the more feared dying. Like lyrics in a Conor Oberst song.
Anyway. I have stuff to do. This thing isn't going to live itself for me.
Adios, muchachos.
Things have been going really well, though. My worry-muscles are atrophying. Slowly. But—
surely.
I'm not thinking too much about school yet. I'm not working too much. I'm not writing but it doesn't bother me too much. There'll be time for that, to write and to un-write, for visions and revisions which a minute will, etc.
A few weeks ago I was hit for the first time by a fear of death. Those that know me know that I can be an uncommonly morbid person at times, but for some reason, the idea of dying never scared me that much, though. Perhaps my morbidity springs from a lack of fear. Perhaps the lack of fear springs from the morbidity. Who knows.
Anyway, I was riding the train home from Oshawa, and wondering what it would be like to be 70. I've never expected to live that long, but it's my grandmother's 70th birthday two days from now. It must be scary to know you're so much closer to death than birth. The mouth looming, the issue but a distant memory. And the inevitability of it. Like the open ocean.
I guess that's why I always wanted to be able to take my own life. It strips much of the fear and powerlessness from it. It becomes more a personal decision than the end of all that you are. You can even half-trick yourself into believing it won't kill you. (The mind knows nothing of death; it never can. The whole of it is life.) And then it does. Rien de plus simple.
And yet I don't think I've ever wanted to kill myself less. Life's balance-like once again. The more precious living, the more feared dying. Like lyrics in a Conor Oberst song.
Anyway. I have stuff to do. This thing isn't going to live itself for me.
Adios, muchachos.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
the September opening
Well Jesus Christ, I'm alone again. So what did you do those three days you were dead? 'Cause this problem's gonna last more than the weekend.
Slowing pains, growing pains. Miss, miss. I'm trying to quell the familiar melodrama sharkcircling in the dark, peachpit spots in my heart. You know, the poisonous ones. It's been a long time since I've been so emotional day-in day-out. We all know why I'm listening to so much A Wilhelm Scream; to so much Brand New. Why I keep trying to write poetry. Why the novel's on hold again. Why I hang too close to the wrong couples.
Et après un moment de silence—le déluge. Now give me a second to choose between a sweater and a dorky raincoat. Think, think.
Slowing pains, growing pains. Miss, miss. I'm trying to quell the familiar melodrama sharkcircling in the dark, peachpit spots in my heart. You know, the poisonous ones. It's been a long time since I've been so emotional day-in day-out. We all know why I'm listening to so much A Wilhelm Scream; to so much Brand New. Why I keep trying to write poetry. Why the novel's on hold again. Why I hang too close to the wrong couples.
Et après un moment de silence—le déluge. Now give me a second to choose between a sweater and a dorky raincoat. Think, think.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
July 12th. Thought like a wire.
"I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was. She twentythree when we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? Are you not happy in your home, you poor little naughty boy? Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library."
How do you argue with this? How is it possible to say so much in so few words? Out of context this barely even makes sense. Reading it in the context of the story to that point, it made me want to cry. Two words—"Rudy" and "naughty"—and you're done for. Some things are nobody's fault. Little tragedies. We move on like so.
How do you argue with this? How is it possible to say so much in so few words? Out of context this barely even makes sense. Reading it in the context of the story to that point, it made me want to cry. Two words—"Rudy" and "naughty"—and you're done for. Some things are nobody's fault. Little tragedies. We move on like so.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
July 5th. Asleep in your thought.
Writing Windswept has taught me a thing or two about novelry. It's amazing how working on a 2-years-plus project will erect a framework for interpreting the world around the parts of you that collect and analyze sense data. What I mean to say is, stuff that might previously have occurred to you as a charming, if quaint, curiosity, can, under the influence of a novel, suddenly become the seed for something enormous without any warning whatsoever. Case in point, this little segment from one of the chapters near the end, which grew from a play on words on a strange two-word combo—"carrion dawn"—I stumbled across in Mark Z. Danielewski's mind-eatingly good House of Leaves into a paragraph about certain beautiful aspects of nature, and then into a bit about the early stages of hard drug use; sort of a Requiem for a Dream split-second montage in word form. Lemme think what you know.
~~~~
He let the heroin, the miracle drug of it, into him. It was ice cream childhoods all over again. He was on another plane, another plane of mind, he was crossing state lines, he whipped through insanity and unconsciousness and Florida and grace and landed in play, in playful dreams of artless theatre, in lines of dialogue he had memorized in the womb, all those summer moons ago. All the universe's thoughts were laid bare to him, stripped without tease, naked without shame, clear and plain as all the faces he knew in the floating darknesses he was privy to when he closed his eyes to blink. He had the floor-plans, the blue-print, the key-ring to everything.
He smiled, lunar landing, in celebration of things; he gloried the way the guitar's six-stringed theory made madmen and madwomen of us audience all. The way every atom waited for the fall of Troy, for the rise of day. The way we kept inculcating the buzzes we felt in our veins not to stop. The way the highest starkest snows were fragmented yet unimpeachable. The way we loved. The way water ran and jumped when it was asked politely. The way the sky opened up like a breaking origami at the first fold of sun.
So carry on, dawn. Carry on.
~~~~
He let the heroin, the miracle drug of it, into him. It was ice cream childhoods all over again. He was on another plane, another plane of mind, he was crossing state lines, he whipped through insanity and unconsciousness and Florida and grace and landed in play, in playful dreams of artless theatre, in lines of dialogue he had memorized in the womb, all those summer moons ago. All the universe's thoughts were laid bare to him, stripped without tease, naked without shame, clear and plain as all the faces he knew in the floating darknesses he was privy to when he closed his eyes to blink. He had the floor-plans, the blue-print, the key-ring to everything.
He smiled, lunar landing, in celebration of things; he gloried the way the guitar's six-stringed theory made madmen and madwomen of us audience all. The way every atom waited for the fall of Troy, for the rise of day. The way we kept inculcating the buzzes we felt in our veins not to stop. The way the highest starkest snows were fragmented yet unimpeachable. The way we loved. The way water ran and jumped when it was asked politely. The way the sky opened up like a breaking origami at the first fold of sun.
So carry on, dawn. Carry on.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
June 23rd. Thought in the head.
I guess I have, in the ocean-sized great elephant graveyard of my weaknesses, lying among the ancient ivories, perched on the most bleached and dry of gigantic rib-cages, a weakness for beautiful things.
These three paintings are by a New York-based tattoo artist and painter named Regino Gonzales, and they are making me right stupid au moment. Never before have I wanted a tattoo involving a black snake on my body as fervently as I want one right now. And the multimedia aspect, juxtaposing senses of real space and non-real space, is pretty genius.
Those mice are block-tan-coloured! Whole parts of that snake are smudged! The rabbit, tree, birds and random strings are perfectly centered in an empty field of whiteness! But the detail is so good, the mock-nature painting aspect is so spot-on, that it feels almost real enough to transcend the fuzziness, hot pink birds, and strangely contrived situations back into the genre/realm of a still life or something.
I wish I was an international playboy. I wouldn't need to work, I could spend my days writing and drawing, and I could solve all my problems by buying and commissioning art, and wearing sunglasses 83% of the time. True fax.
These three paintings are by a New York-based tattoo artist and painter named Regino Gonzales, and they are making me right stupid au moment. Never before have I wanted a tattoo involving a black snake on my body as fervently as I want one right now. And the multimedia aspect, juxtaposing senses of real space and non-real space, is pretty genius.
Those mice are block-tan-coloured! Whole parts of that snake are smudged! The rabbit, tree, birds and random strings are perfectly centered in an empty field of whiteness! But the detail is so good, the mock-nature painting aspect is so spot-on, that it feels almost real enough to transcend the fuzziness, hot pink birds, and strangely contrived situations back into the genre/realm of a still life or something.
I wish I was an international playboy. I wouldn't need to work, I could spend my days writing and drawing, and I could solve all my problems by buying and commissioning art, and wearing sunglasses 83% of the time. True fax.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
May 12th. A whole thought of walking to do.
For some reason, when reading Nino Ricci's very good the Origin of Species this past weekend, the quote "April is the cruelest month"—tossed off in passing by a minor character, and not sourced—stuck in my head as being from Chaucer. That was "April with her showers sweet," though. I guess the cruelty-accusation came from Eliot. Anyway, it hasn't been April for a minute now, so maybe he was wrong.
Last night I dreamt—in my fucked up way of things, and as well as Dan Yemin saying "Hey Alexander!" at the corner of René-Levesque and Greene, and having shampoo-covered sex with some woman who thought my toes were disgusting—that I got an A+ in English Montreal Lit. I'd managed to convince myself, over the past couple days, staring at the blank space where the letter grade was to show up on the My Grades page at My Concordia, that I deserved an A-, maybe—à la limite—an A.
When I got on my computer to check this morning, I remembered the dreamt A+ and the heady glory of it and I realized that it was never going to happen. I cursed my brain. And lo and behold, there, lying in wait for me, was a B+. I really hate myself right now. This is a fucking bird course; 31 people got an A or A-, and I was part of the 20 or so who didn't. English is my fucking thing, man. And the worst of it is that that god-awful B+ in that class I should have been able to ace with my eyes closed was the best fucking grade I've gotten in an English class yet. Basically what I'm saying is that I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me.
Hastie asked me a few weeks ago why I cared so much about marks and all that shit. I didn't give him a very convincing answer. I don't even know if it's something I can rationalize, anymore. I just care. I care so fucking much, and I'm so fucking useless anyway. And that little difference between an A- and a B+ is the difference between a 3.33 and a 3.47 on the semester. It's not like a 3.47 is even respectable, but it's... it's getting there.
I really, really have to get my shit together for next year. Finally I have a bunch of courses I actually want to be in, I'm on top of things, I know how university works. It's gonna have to be a fucking shower of As. I am going to need to bathe in them to be happy. Fuck me. Fuck my life—or at least, the mess I'm making of it. And this is really too melodramatic for me to want to leave here; I feel like I haven't matured a bit since I was sixteen, but I need it to remind me that I need to start fucking trying harder.
Last night I dreamt—in my fucked up way of things, and as well as Dan Yemin saying "Hey Alexander!" at the corner of René-Levesque and Greene, and having shampoo-covered sex with some woman who thought my toes were disgusting—that I got an A+ in English Montreal Lit. I'd managed to convince myself, over the past couple days, staring at the blank space where the letter grade was to show up on the My Grades page at My Concordia, that I deserved an A-, maybe—à la limite—an A.
When I got on my computer to check this morning, I remembered the dreamt A+ and the heady glory of it and I realized that it was never going to happen. I cursed my brain. And lo and behold, there, lying in wait for me, was a B+. I really hate myself right now. This is a fucking bird course; 31 people got an A or A-, and I was part of the 20 or so who didn't. English is my fucking thing, man. And the worst of it is that that god-awful B+ in that class I should have been able to ace with my eyes closed was the best fucking grade I've gotten in an English class yet. Basically what I'm saying is that I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me.
Hastie asked me a few weeks ago why I cared so much about marks and all that shit. I didn't give him a very convincing answer. I don't even know if it's something I can rationalize, anymore. I just care. I care so fucking much, and I'm so fucking useless anyway. And that little difference between an A- and a B+ is the difference between a 3.33 and a 3.47 on the semester. It's not like a 3.47 is even respectable, but it's... it's getting there.
I really, really have to get my shit together for next year. Finally I have a bunch of courses I actually want to be in, I'm on top of things, I know how university works. It's gonna have to be a fucking shower of As. I am going to need to bathe in them to be happy. Fuck me. Fuck my life—or at least, the mess I'm making of it. And this is really too melodramatic for me to want to leave here; I feel like I haven't matured a bit since I was sixteen, but I need it to remind me that I need to start fucking trying harder.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
April 18th. Thought twists.
I am coming apart at the seam. Am I? I am. Compound and compound again, re-tread, overdub, loop back and thread through. I am just a maze of mistakes. A haze of mistakes. You could get lost in them (I frequently do). I remember back in mid-January when Will thought I was going to pieces again. I laughed then, but if I had a job and/or a girlfriend today I wouldn't tomorrow morning.
I'm going to bed. Maybe the next few hours will be a cleansing salve, an opening salvo, a saving grace-period. Until then I'll keep my win-some, lose-some smile on. Nights like these I am all teeth.
Cheers.
I'm going to bed. Maybe the next few hours will be a cleansing salve, an opening salvo, a saving grace-period. Until then I'll keep my win-some, lose-some smile on. Nights like these I am all teeth.
Cheers.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
March 25th. Thought with peril.
A little past midnight, maybe, as I was walking home from Will's place—the usual route, down Northcliffe to Cote St-Antoine and along it to Sherbrooke and along it to St-Marc—I was crossing Metcalfe when I saw a car, a white Chevy Aveo, I think, coming north. It's a stop-sign intersection, but the guy wasn't slowing down, so I stopped around the halfway point to let him pass. As he came closer, without slowing down, he swerved toward me. I only had a second or so to jump backwards, out of the way. I was listening to Wavering Radiant, the new ISIS record, and the volume was a little higher than it usually is because I'd been taking the Metro earlier. The aural disconnect the music provided made it a really strange experience. I didn't get much of a look at him as he whipped past me, other than to see that it was a guy with dark hair, and that he was alone in the car. If I'd been a little slower, or he'd been going a little faster, he would have hit me for sure. I don't think it would have killed me, but I'm not really an expert on car accidents. I had my cell with me, anyway, and I knew enough about the area to have told the operator where to send the ambulance, assuming I'd retained consciousness. I say this because I can't imagine the guy would have stuck around. As it was, I could tell despite the music that he didn't even honk. It was really surreal. I turned around and caught a glimpse of the car as it turned north at the next cross street, which is Forden. I don't think he slowed down at all.
A block or two later I passed the police station I visited when I was in kindergarten. I still remember venturing into a cell with a few other kids and having the cop jokingly lock us in. I can't remember whether or not I got a chance to grip the bars, though. I wondered to myself whether, had I not been recently arrested, I would have ventured over to the parked police car at the corner and talked to the cop inside about it. It's strange how little things affect our perceptions.
I wrote a sort-of will before going to the demonstration. At the time, it was in case I got hit in the head with a rubber bullet, but I guess it would work just as well for noiseless car accidents, too. Maybe when the semester's over I'll look into making it legal. I don't know why then; it just seems like a better time.
I wonder where that nutjob was going, anyway, and why he had to drive so fast to get there. Maybe it's a good thing that I don't have a license. I'm always running behind. God knows I would try to make up for it by speeding down quiet night streets every now and then.
A block or two later I passed the police station I visited when I was in kindergarten. I still remember venturing into a cell with a few other kids and having the cop jokingly lock us in. I can't remember whether or not I got a chance to grip the bars, though. I wondered to myself whether, had I not been recently arrested, I would have ventured over to the parked police car at the corner and talked to the cop inside about it. It's strange how little things affect our perceptions.
I wrote a sort-of will before going to the demonstration. At the time, it was in case I got hit in the head with a rubber bullet, but I guess it would work just as well for noiseless car accidents, too. Maybe when the semester's over I'll look into making it legal. I don't know why then; it just seems like a better time.
I wonder where that nutjob was going, anyway, and why he had to drive so fast to get there. Maybe it's a good thing that I don't have a license. I'm always running behind. God knows I would try to make up for it by speeding down quiet night streets every now and then.
Friday, February 27, 2009
February 27th. Thought the Sun.
I am all about the lyrics to 'Archers' by Brand New right now. Do I know what they are exactly? No. Vaguely? Yes. I am easily swayed by nice drums and harmonies and this and that. Musical terms I don't fully grasp and never will. I'm an aesthete. I know sonic beauty when I sees it.
My sister is 18 now. I think my non-living at home has done her a world of good, but a lot of that I'm sure was just time and friends and the little right decisions that come from seeing situations and knowing which move to make this time around. Anyway I am really happy about the person she's become and about the person she'll have become a year from now or two years from now. I am dreaming of being avuncular to the beautiful children she'll have. I was never named Hank, I never worked for the DEA, I will never live in Albuquerque, but what should go unsaid will go double for me. I can make good, just like that. Snap. I'm twenty, it's as good a time as any to have a mid-life crisis.
I had a good talk with Shirine about attraction and how my little stupidities are maybe sometimes not so stupid. It's nice to feel those hands on my mind's shoulders, the towel, and the reassuring voice in my ear. I can take 'im down in the next round and I can be suave in the round after that and maybe before long the judges decide it's a technical take-out. In the stands there are middle-aged men who have staked their hard earned dollar amounts on my wordplay and they are sweating and chanting my name inside of the caverns that are their skulls. And if I lose? Hey, we're men. We never get anything right on the first try.
I'll see you next time, though. And that's clean money; a tax write-off.
My sister is 18 now. I think my non-living at home has done her a world of good, but a lot of that I'm sure was just time and friends and the little right decisions that come from seeing situations and knowing which move to make this time around. Anyway I am really happy about the person she's become and about the person she'll have become a year from now or two years from now. I am dreaming of being avuncular to the beautiful children she'll have. I was never named Hank, I never worked for the DEA, I will never live in Albuquerque, but what should go unsaid will go double for me. I can make good, just like that. Snap. I'm twenty, it's as good a time as any to have a mid-life crisis.
I had a good talk with Shirine about attraction and how my little stupidities are maybe sometimes not so stupid. It's nice to feel those hands on my mind's shoulders, the towel, and the reassuring voice in my ear. I can take 'im down in the next round and I can be suave in the round after that and maybe before long the judges decide it's a technical take-out. In the stands there are middle-aged men who have staked their hard earned dollar amounts on my wordplay and they are sweating and chanting my name inside of the caverns that are their skulls. And if I lose? Hey, we're men. We never get anything right on the first try.
I'll see you next time, though. And that's clean money; a tax write-off.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
a few true things:
it's warmish outside and i hate this weather. yesterday when i was going to pay my rent i heard (between the headphone-noises) one guy tell another "winter is always like this in vancouver." i'm glad i don't live there.
i just made guacamole for the first time. i added some salt + pepper and some cheddar and miked it for 22 seconds and ate it with some hella ghetto corn chips my dad sent me home with and it was really really delicious. simple pleasures +1.
i had my american history midterm this morning/afternoon. i think i did well; my studying served me well on the identify questions, but i might have flubbed one or three of the multiple choice. i still think i'll get at least an a-minus. i'm pretty happy.
i'm drinking apple cider right now. i realized i go through drinks too quickly because i buy 2-litre containers and just drink them straight without pouring them into glasses. without a framework to order my drinking i tend to consume them willy-nilly. i considered getting glasses and forcing myself to use them, but then i'd probably just end up with a couple of dirty glasses, no inclination to clean them, and i'd be back to drinking from the carton. i wonder if i will be less of a slob as i age.
i have downloaded a lot of new music in 2009. songs by a wilhelm scream (1), rusty horse band (5), radiohead (1), lykke li (13), bon iver (13), girl talk (14), titus andronicus (1), polar bear club (11), new mexican disaster squad (15), western addiction (4), kid dynamite (23), ninja high school (5), fucked up (11), thursday (11), propagandhi (12), vampire weekend (10), the loved ones (15), the sainte catherines (9) and the tragically hip (1). so... 175 songs. in 43 days. and that's not counting the crystal castles album i downloaded and deleted after deciding i didn't like it. at this pace i'll have 1310 more by the end of the year. and my three-year-old ipod wouldn't even be full yet. the future is crazy.
i need to be writing more. i've knocked off some poems lately but i need to be writing more. and reading more. i'm resolving to spend less time online. and i really want to start working on batroom. so. yuss. goodbye.
i just made guacamole for the first time. i added some salt + pepper and some cheddar and miked it for 22 seconds and ate it with some hella ghetto corn chips my dad sent me home with and it was really really delicious. simple pleasures +1.
i had my american history midterm this morning/afternoon. i think i did well; my studying served me well on the identify questions, but i might have flubbed one or three of the multiple choice. i still think i'll get at least an a-minus. i'm pretty happy.
i'm drinking apple cider right now. i realized i go through drinks too quickly because i buy 2-litre containers and just drink them straight without pouring them into glasses. without a framework to order my drinking i tend to consume them willy-nilly. i considered getting glasses and forcing myself to use them, but then i'd probably just end up with a couple of dirty glasses, no inclination to clean them, and i'd be back to drinking from the carton. i wonder if i will be less of a slob as i age.
i have downloaded a lot of new music in 2009. songs by a wilhelm scream (1), rusty horse band (5), radiohead (1), lykke li (13), bon iver (13), girl talk (14), titus andronicus (1), polar bear club (11), new mexican disaster squad (15), western addiction (4), kid dynamite (23), ninja high school (5), fucked up (11), thursday (11), propagandhi (12), vampire weekend (10), the loved ones (15), the sainte catherines (9) and the tragically hip (1). so... 175 songs. in 43 days. and that's not counting the crystal castles album i downloaded and deleted after deciding i didn't like it. at this pace i'll have 1310 more by the end of the year. and my three-year-old ipod wouldn't even be full yet. the future is crazy.
i need to be writing more. i've knocked off some poems lately but i need to be writing more. and reading more. i'm resolving to spend less time online. and i really want to start working on batroom. so. yuss. goodbye.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
jenwery sebbin. this car iz thought.
im perennially perpetually fucked
and only yesterday and earlier today i was glorying in it
but the snow shits on my parade like in ways it shouldn't
i guess i don't know where i am going
let alone where i am right now. i guess i am big pictures as pauses, two frames as camera pans, i guess i am always laughing at my other selves. and staring at the others, delving in little fits into all the cracks in my walls.
fuck. i need so much godamn shit. i can't function with any semblance of normalcy. i'm too high-minded for the little tasks and it makes the big ones so much harder when you're living in garbage,
my clohes aren't the only things coming apart at the seams. only tonight it'll be all better. until the rnagers score the first goal. right? or do we sixtoo them again? who knows.
even my robin glasses are no good for seeing the future.
anyway. i guess. elevatoro.
and only yesterday and earlier today i was glorying in it
but the snow shits on my parade like in ways it shouldn't
i guess i don't know where i am going
let alone where i am right now. i guess i am big pictures as pauses, two frames as camera pans, i guess i am always laughing at my other selves. and staring at the others, delving in little fits into all the cracks in my walls.
fuck. i need so much godamn shit. i can't function with any semblance of normalcy. i'm too high-minded for the little tasks and it makes the big ones so much harder when you're living in garbage,
my clohes aren't the only things coming apart at the seams. only tonight it'll be all better. until the rnagers score the first goal. right? or do we sixtoo them again? who knows.
even my robin glasses are no good for seeing the future.
anyway. i guess. elevatoro.
Friday, December 12, 2008
December 12th. Thoughts in my stomach.
It's 5 am. I've been up for the last hour, wasting time, because nothing seems immediate yet. I'm listening to Bobcaygeon on repeat. I know you're not crazy about it but it fucks me up something special; I always thought stuff like "in the middle of that riot / couldn't get you off my mind" was kind of the epitome of love. Well, here I am. So much for the closet; it can have my coat but not my status as romantic.
It's weird how my aptitude for putting off work has worsened as I've grown older. There was always this sense, when I was in high school, that putting things off was okay, because I always got them done somehow on time in the end. "It's okay," I'd tell my mom, "it's not going to not get done." And it always did. But every little instance of pushing it too far sets a precedent, and pretty soon you think nothing of staying up until 7 or 8, just waiting for the urge to strike, and you fall asleep with all the bright lights in your apartment on, steadfastly convinced that you'll start working on your paper any minute now. I guess something in my brain/fingers just lacks that killer instinct.
I guess this is why I prefer exams to papers. There's less leeway. The difference between handing a paper in a day late and not doing an exam is too much for me to blow off showing up at a certain time to a certain place with a handful of pens and a stomach full of knots, ready to fill up this booklet or that booklet with all my empty, stupid thoughts. I miss simplicity, I guess. I remember Grade 10 was all about straight-up facts. That was my jam. I know what chattel means, I know what the tallest peak in Antarctica is, and so on, and so on. I guess it's just a learning process.
"And it was in Bobcaygeon / that I saw the constellations / reveal themselves / one star at a time."
I can't wait until you wake up, light in the curtains, tired smile on your lips, all things shining. We won't have much time together but every moment feels exciting in ways I won't bother trying to explain here. I love you.
It's weird how my aptitude for putting off work has worsened as I've grown older. There was always this sense, when I was in high school, that putting things off was okay, because I always got them done somehow on time in the end. "It's okay," I'd tell my mom, "it's not going to not get done." And it always did. But every little instance of pushing it too far sets a precedent, and pretty soon you think nothing of staying up until 7 or 8, just waiting for the urge to strike, and you fall asleep with all the bright lights in your apartment on, steadfastly convinced that you'll start working on your paper any minute now. I guess something in my brain/fingers just lacks that killer instinct.
I guess this is why I prefer exams to papers. There's less leeway. The difference between handing a paper in a day late and not doing an exam is too much for me to blow off showing up at a certain time to a certain place with a handful of pens and a stomach full of knots, ready to fill up this booklet or that booklet with all my empty, stupid thoughts. I miss simplicity, I guess. I remember Grade 10 was all about straight-up facts. That was my jam. I know what chattel means, I know what the tallest peak in Antarctica is, and so on, and so on. I guess it's just a learning process.
"And it was in Bobcaygeon / that I saw the constellations / reveal themselves / one star at a time."
I can't wait until you wake up, light in the curtains, tired smile on your lips, all things shining. We won't have much time together but every moment feels exciting in ways I won't bother trying to explain here. I love you.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
December 4th. The thought thickens.
It's 7:26 ante-meridian. Blood is thicker than water; and I'd want you all around even if you had cancers. But it ain't all jugs of orange juice, apple-cider, suicide doors. There's more to it than they act.
Stuck here where I sit with the violins and the silence, blotting my ears against the sheet-sirens and the violence of the ink-blood final fantasy mental images, I get nothing done except two (2) times myself. A doppelgänger, if you will.
And the noel-halo? It's over an A this time. But I don't believe in angels, only angles, and from this one the three-point-whatever buzzer-beater's fading fast. Maybe I just have the wrong haircut. I've seen leakings of the future through the seams in my fingers. It's not pretty, three times fast.
Forward, we (I) march, though, then. Forward, onwards, upwards. The fence is up, my tongue is loaded, six-shooter style, with offensive ways to make a mark, and in nets: a scary price to pay for my missed deeds.
So I'll go then, for my refrigerator's sake, and buy off a monster or two; but not more. These days my wallet's as thick as my torso. Which is understandable, maybe; I just might have a rib missing.
Stuck here where I sit with the violins and the silence, blotting my ears against the sheet-sirens and the violence of the ink-blood final fantasy mental images, I get nothing done except two (2) times myself. A doppelgänger, if you will.
And the noel-halo? It's over an A this time. But I don't believe in angels, only angles, and from this one the three-point-whatever buzzer-beater's fading fast. Maybe I just have the wrong haircut. I've seen leakings of the future through the seams in my fingers. It's not pretty, three times fast.
Forward, we (I) march, though, then. Forward, onwards, upwards. The fence is up, my tongue is loaded, six-shooter style, with offensive ways to make a mark, and in nets: a scary price to pay for my missed deeds.
So I'll go then, for my refrigerator's sake, and buy off a monster or two; but not more. These days my wallet's as thick as my torso. Which is understandable, maybe; I just might have a rib missing.
Friday, November 14, 2008
November 14th. Thought in a Trap.
Theme for the week: I don't know. Everything keeps slip-sliding. Even the little successes get washed up in the current, eddies, eddies, eddies. I wish eagle-like I could fly above it all. I wish I knew where to put in the right amount of work, the right amount of fear.
The new music—Ninja High School, Inside Out, more Trap Them—has been nice. I only feel like I'm always hungry. More, more. I'm a glutton of the worst kind. It doesn't show on my body—at least, not yet, of course—but I can't stop consuming. I want to read everything, to write everything, to do everything. I want everyone to love me, to want me. I can't stop. I can't.
At least I made a step towards keeping myself linked in. Neon colourchrome giant chain pictures across a swath of black. We're having a party. You're invited. It's going to fuck your bones until you cry out 'rhythm!' and bruise your fucking brain black. This, in my head, is how everyone lives, outside, at night. And tonight: more games, more toying, more eyeing and shying and dying. Maybe Sunday I'll tell my parents. I don't think it would matter. Maybe.
At least I'm too busy to care about the stumblebums in red jerseys and the wrong end of highlight reels. The baby-face beat-down. Let the rest of the city have 'em. I've got too much on my plate to eat my score-words every couple of nights. Besides, I'm always at work, almost, anyway.
I guess that's the real theme of the week. Work. And next week? Less work. Maybe more play? Maybe. Maybe I'll taste the sweet love of victory, and fuck defeat.
Could work.
The new music—Ninja High School, Inside Out, more Trap Them—has been nice. I only feel like I'm always hungry. More, more. I'm a glutton of the worst kind. It doesn't show on my body—at least, not yet, of course—but I can't stop consuming. I want to read everything, to write everything, to do everything. I want everyone to love me, to want me. I can't stop. I can't.
At least I made a step towards keeping myself linked in. Neon colourchrome giant chain pictures across a swath of black. We're having a party. You're invited. It's going to fuck your bones until you cry out 'rhythm!' and bruise your fucking brain black. This, in my head, is how everyone lives, outside, at night. And tonight: more games, more toying, more eyeing and shying and dying. Maybe Sunday I'll tell my parents. I don't think it would matter. Maybe.
At least I'm too busy to care about the stumblebums in red jerseys and the wrong end of highlight reels. The baby-face beat-down. Let the rest of the city have 'em. I've got too much on my plate to eat my score-words every couple of nights. Besides, I'm always at work, almost, anyway.
I guess that's the real theme of the week. Work. And next week? Less work. Maybe more play? Maybe. Maybe I'll taste the sweet love of victory, and fuck defeat.
Could work.
Friday, November 07, 2008
November 7th. Blood Thoughts.
I was working yesterday (first full real cash shift in over a year) and a bunch of people I vaguely know came by. Shirine's Paul, Will's Antoine. I was grateful to certain degrees that they saw me as a cashier and not as a bagger. Makes me feel all accomplished-like, sort of.
The main bit, though, was this one instance. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught this girl in line at my cash kissing her boyfriend. She was tall and had that—that—hair and in just that one second (maybe less) I was just so fucking angry. It wasn't her, obviously. Lots of girls in Montreal probably look like that from out the corner of my eye. It just scared me how emotional I was able to get about it so quickly. I guess I'm still not unbroken again yet. I need to keep working on stuff like that.
I keep toying with the idea of dropping ENGL-227.
We'll see, I guess.
The main bit, though, was this one instance. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught this girl in line at my cash kissing her boyfriend. She was tall and had that—that—hair and in just that one second (maybe less) I was just so fucking angry. It wasn't her, obviously. Lots of girls in Montreal probably look like that from out the corner of my eye. It just scared me how emotional I was able to get about it so quickly. I guess I'm still not unbroken again yet. I need to keep working on stuff like that.
I keep toying with the idea of dropping ENGL-227.
We'll see, I guess.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
November 4th. Thought Your Makeup On.
Fuck. I have the worst love/hate relationship with other people's blogs. I guess, with representations of other people on the internet, period, if my dalliances with MySpace back in the day are anything to go on. Everything just comes out so perfect and enviable. I told Shirine last night my purest loves were ones gone unnoticed. It scared me how true it sounded. And all these—tumblr, wordpress, blogspot, whatever—just kill me. There's a word that fits perfectly but I'll never (redolent) remember what it is.
Note: It was not redolent, after all. Maybe there wasn't a word. Who knows.
I wonder how much of this is that I'm a guy. I got my new copy of the Atlantic in the mail today. They still think I'm Alexander Hanley. The main article so far as I can tell (at least the first of the main ones, pagination-wise) was about gender dysphoria in children. It was a real pleasure to read. Obviously, my problem is not even remotely on the level of a seven-year old boy saying, "Look, Mommy, I'm a girl!" with his penis tucked between his legs. But there's an issue, obviously. I guess at the heart of it it might just be my "grass is greener" fetishization of the Other. If I was a girl I would envy the shit out of guys. It's funny how things work, like that, in my head. God knows there's a lot more separating me from Ian MacKaye than 26 years of age.
Another part of it, though, is my constant envy. Ugh. I'm such a head case. I wish I could just be content as me. I wish I could be a better me in order to be content. At the end of the day, I just wish I was someone else. I told myself I'd go to bed at 10. Then 11, then 12, then 1, then 2. It's almost 3. I have shit I need to do and no inclination to do it. It's murderous.
Then I sit back and laugh at myself because even all the other perfect dolled up undolled up unextravagantly beautiful wreckful girls in the world could read this and not get the same feeling I get out of reading through a year or two of some other stranger's life, some whoever whatever chick who always never manages to mention me (especially when mentioning specifically not me, all the things right around me i couldashoulda been couldashoulda been a part of)
and it fucks me up something special
and to boot i'm not even nano-rhyming. fuckkkkkkkkkk.
(park that car, drop that bomb
sleep on the floor,
Note: It was not redolent, after all. Maybe there wasn't a word. Who knows.
I wonder how much of this is that I'm a guy. I got my new copy of the Atlantic in the mail today. They still think I'm Alexander Hanley. The main article so far as I can tell (at least the first of the main ones, pagination-wise) was about gender dysphoria in children. It was a real pleasure to read. Obviously, my problem is not even remotely on the level of a seven-year old boy saying, "Look, Mommy, I'm a girl!" with his penis tucked between his legs. But there's an issue, obviously. I guess at the heart of it it might just be my "grass is greener" fetishization of the Other. If I was a girl I would envy the shit out of guys. It's funny how things work, like that, in my head. God knows there's a lot more separating me from Ian MacKaye than 26 years of age.
Another part of it, though, is my constant envy. Ugh. I'm such a head case. I wish I could just be content as me. I wish I could be a better me in order to be content. At the end of the day, I just wish I was someone else. I told myself I'd go to bed at 10. Then 11, then 12, then 1, then 2. It's almost 3. I have shit I need to do and no inclination to do it. It's murderous.
Then I sit back and laugh at myself because even all the other perfect dolled up undolled up unextravagantly beautiful wreckful girls in the world could read this and not get the same feeling I get out of reading through a year or two of some other stranger's life, some whoever whatever chick who always never manages to mention me (especially when mentioning specifically not me, all the things right around me i couldashoulda been couldashoulda been a part of)
and it fucks me up something special
and to boot i'm not even nano-rhyming. fuckkkkkkkkkk.
(park that car, drop that bomb
sleep on the floor,
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
October 21st. Dot dot dot. Dash dash dash. Thought thought thought.
I've only cried two times since that fateful haircut in early August of 2001. The first time was December 29, 2005, a few hours after Kat broke up with me, lying in my parents' bed at 346, and realizing I'd never get to hold her side-blubber again. I guess even back then I was a slave to the little things.
The second time was September 17, 2007, two or so days after the first break up with Steph, when I finally watched Finding Nemo, sitting on the living room couch at Claremont, and the cover of Beyond the Sea came on over the closing credits and I just lost it.
Number three is right around the corner. I can feel it lurking in my head, waiting for the right moment. I don't think it'll take that much to set it off anymore. I don't even have anyone that can break up with me. I'm just really fucked up these days.
I have my first midterm of the semester in an hour. After that disaster of a Milton quiz who the hell knows how this'll go. In my head, everything's pretty clear, but.
I haven't done a word of Windswept in over a week now, I think. It's starting to gnaw at me. There's still a timidity to it, but it'll grow.
Days like these and suicide—no matter how distant how far down the line—feels increasingly the only option. Some life.
And in the background: phone calls from no one, and my throat's gagging full of neo-Platonism and
a chorus of voices singing together happy
"We could dance all night..."
The second time was September 17, 2007, two or so days after the first break up with Steph, when I finally watched Finding Nemo, sitting on the living room couch at Claremont, and the cover of Beyond the Sea came on over the closing credits and I just lost it.
Number three is right around the corner. I can feel it lurking in my head, waiting for the right moment. I don't think it'll take that much to set it off anymore. I don't even have anyone that can break up with me. I'm just really fucked up these days.
I have my first midterm of the semester in an hour. After that disaster of a Milton quiz who the hell knows how this'll go. In my head, everything's pretty clear, but.
I haven't done a word of Windswept in over a week now, I think. It's starting to gnaw at me. There's still a timidity to it, but it'll grow.
Days like these and suicide—no matter how distant how far down the line—feels increasingly the only option. Some life.
And in the background: phone calls from no one, and my throat's gagging full of neo-Platonism and
a chorus of voices singing together happy
"We could dance all night..."
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