Today I've been working with those new characters I mentioned earlier, Duff and Merrin. Before today all I had down was a bunch of narrative, notes really, no action, covering the backbone of the plot, characterization, and so on.
Pages filled with "telling" sentences such as, "He felt like he was smothering under the weight of the problems held in his sighs." BLECH! I need to go back now and "show" him smothering under the weight of his problems, let the readers come to the conclusion on their own that he is smothering under the weight of his problems. I've got a plan, a list of quick actions I can pop through that should demonstrate just what has happened in this man's life and the effect it has had upon him.
That part will be the beginning of the story I think. But it's gotta be quick, just a couple of paragraphs of set-up before Merrin arrives at Duff's door. It will be challenging no doubt. It will probably take quite a few sittings to get it down the way I want it. I will ponder every word and only the strongest will survive . . . and who am I kidding? Some of the strongest will get axed as well, because that's what I do. But that's all stuff for down the road, in the rewriting stage. It doesn't really matter when I write that part. I can do it last if I want. The main thing is that I've laid out a road map, so I'll know exactly what to do when the time comes. That done, I get to move onto the fun stuff and get right into the action.
So, that's what I was doing today. I don't know if everyone works this way or not (love to hear comments on this from others) but often times when I work on a new scene, especially with new characters, I'll do the dialogue first. The dialogue and nothing but the dialogue. Later I might chop it all to hell, take six pages to a couple of lines, add in some he said/she said clues, or character/scene descriptions or actions or whatever I think it needs. But quite often I start with only the dialogue as the skeleton for a scene.
I think I find this helpful because in the beginning I don't know my characters that well, and by hearing their voices they become more real for me. I get to know them better, burrow my way into their heads a bit more. It brings them into focus for me. So, I force them to talk. And that seems to work for me somehow.
Anyway, this whole story is coming about as the result of a few lines I scribbled into my notebook one day when this idea blindsided me. I had written:
"Excuse me," Duff said. "But have we met? Do I know you?"
She giggled and stuffed a lollipop into her cheek.
"I'm the girl who's gonna save your marriage," she winked and flashed a wicked grin.
It doesn't get any more simple than that, does it? Few little lines scribbled down and I'm off on an adventure. Today, I continued that scene using only dialogue. Thought it would fun to share a little bit of something hot off my fingertips from what I would call the pre-writing stage of this story, where I'm just exploring the characters voices and having fun. So, here it is:
"I'm the girl who's gonna save your marriage."
"What on earth . . . "
"Now, don't get your shorts in a knot, settle down. I heard about your marital dilemma and as it turns out I'm in a bit of a dilemma myself and need a place to crash. So I'm here to help you get your wife back in return for room and board for a few weeks just until I get back on my feet."
"I don’t see how a strange woman moving in will help me get my wife back."
"Ahh, but you see, that's exactly the thing that will help. Gets 'em every time!"
"I really must protest —"
"Ok, ok, if you must know, Agnes sent me."
"Agnes?"
"Yes, Agnes. Your mother."
"But, but that's impossible. Mother is dead."
"Sheesh, she may be dead but she's still got some kinda lungs on her I'll say! Oh, the bellowing! How she goes on and on. Duff this and Duff that. Listen I don't like this anymore than you do, but your mother wants me here and here is where I'm staying until she tells me otherwise."
"I don't understand. Who are you? How did you know my mother?"
"I didn't know your mother, thank the Goddess. I bet she was some piece of work though. High maintenance with a capital H. She's certainly no bouquet of roses on the other side that's for sure. Always hollering, demanding this and that, you'd think she was the first soul ever to cross over. My name's Merrin, by the way, pleased to meet you. How do you do?"
"Ohh, I get it. I think I understand now. Ms. Merrin, do you perhaps reside over at the Lilyfield House? Forget to take your medication, dear? Would you like me to call the doctor? An ambulance perhaps?"
"Christ Almighty! You're not the brightest bulb on the tree, are you? I'm not crazy. I'm psychic. Have you not been listening to me? Your mother sent me to help you get that God-awful wife of yours back, though why anyone would want her is beyond me, not that it matters. I'm here to help and help I shall. Anything to give me a little peace."
"Psychic?"
"Listen, it's really quite simple. You want your wife back, I want my life back, and the only way we're both going to get what we want is if I move in here with you for awhile and we pretend to be madly in love with each other."
"That's preposterous! Nobody will ever believe it! Janice will never believe I've fallen for someone . . . well, someone like you."
"Watch it buster, you're on thin ice. I admit I might not look like much right now, but I clean up real nice. They'll believe it all right. If we make it believable."
Sunday, July 31, 2005
New Characters
Have I told you about the new characters I'm living with? I'm just so excited with this bunch. They have nothing to do with Callum and Limbo, it's not part of the pseudo-novel thingy I've been working on forever. This is brand spanking new stuff, and I'm stoked!
It's funny and light, like some sort of cheesy romantic comedy . . . though I do not see Merrin as being played by Meg Ryan . . . she'd be more like a young Cyndi Lauper or Annie Potts . . . I'm trying to think of a younger actress who could do her . . . aha! Of course! Kate Winslet! Merrin is kind of like Clementine only . . . weirder? And Duff is definitely no John Cusack (too tall for starters), though Greg Kinnear might do him nicely . . . Matt Damon maybe, though he's a bit more buff than the role demands . . . Ewan MacGregor might do in a pinch . . . not sure Jude Law would be believable . . . hmmm, Philip Seymour Hoffman, that might really work . . . but wait! Hold the presses! I've got it! The perfect Duff would be played by Joaquin Phoenix! Excellent.
Of course, I'm not actually writing a screenplay. It's a short story at best. Still . .. it's fun to cast all the roles in my head.
It's funny and light, like some sort of cheesy romantic comedy . . . though I do not see Merrin as being played by Meg Ryan . . . she'd be more like a young Cyndi Lauper or Annie Potts . . . I'm trying to think of a younger actress who could do her . . . aha! Of course! Kate Winslet! Merrin is kind of like Clementine only . . . weirder? And Duff is definitely no John Cusack (too tall for starters), though Greg Kinnear might do him nicely . . . Matt Damon maybe, though he's a bit more buff than the role demands . . . Ewan MacGregor might do in a pinch . . . not sure Jude Law would be believable . . . hmmm, Philip Seymour Hoffman, that might really work . . . but wait! Hold the presses! I've got it! The perfect Duff would be played by Joaquin Phoenix! Excellent.
Of course, I'm not actually writing a screenplay. It's a short story at best. Still . .. it's fun to cast all the roles in my head.
Ay! There's the Rub
I dreamt I went on a trip to a tiny country in South America. It was hot. Jungle-like. And in a state of civil unrest. Rebel fighting at all times of the day and night . . . but mostly night. We were fairly safe in our hotel at the heart of the city. In fact as long as you were hidden away in your home within the city walls, you would probably live to see morning. Most of the fighting was happening in the jungle on the outskirts of town.
Stacy was with me. We had picked this particular place to visit because a friend of ours was working there, doing missionary work in the outlying villages. During the day, when the jungle was less dangerous, we would go with him to these villages and help the sick, work with the children. Gut-wrenching scenes. Terrible scenarios. Very real. The suffering was endless. I woke up crying at point, my heart broke as I held a small child as she fought for her two last breaths and then drifted away.
Falling back to sleep, I found myself in the same village, hours later. Dusk was approaching. I sensed danger as the paths back to the city darkened and I knew if we were going to leave, we had to do it now. I couldn't find Stacy, couldn't find our missionary friend. Every second the sky darkened further and the sounds of jungle grew louder. I had heard stories of what the rebel fighters did to women in the villages. I had witnessed the carnage with my own eyes. But what they did to those women was nothing compared to what they would do to a white woman. Death would be too easy. They would take me to their camp and keep me alive for months at the very least, years, more likely. It was a frightening situation to consider. I was terrified. I found Stacy in a hut with an old woman, who was dying with some disease like malaria. She had lost track of time, but didn't seem concerned at all that it was getting dark.
I was literally pulling at her sleeve trying to get her to hurry and come along, and she was chatting with people and stopping to give hugs and kisses, quite unconcerned. Infuriating. Just as we got to the path, machine-gun fire broke out. There were flashes coming from both sides of the path. We dropped to the ground and covered our heads with our hands. The shooting went on for minutes without a break. When it ended I raised my head and looked at the path. Through the haze of smoke and jungle steam I could see a young girl from the village standing on the path. She was about 13 or 14 years old and had been sent into the city to deliver an important message earlier in the day. I guessed she was returning and got caught in the fire. She had her hands up in a show of peace and surrender and was slowly sneaking along the path toward the village. I was terrified for her, terrified of seeing something happen to her. But she edged her way toward us without incident. For now at least, the jungle was quiet.
When she reached us, she kneeled down, put a finger to her lips to hush us (Stacy was being so loud! Not a good sneaker.) The girl pointed toward the path, showed us how she had held up her hands and urged us to go. I was practically paralysed with fear. My body felt like it was weighted with bricks. My legs and arms were heavy to move and lift. Stacy, on the other hand, (maybe she knew it was a dream) scrambled to her feet, threw her hands above her head and started walking toward the city, very calmly. I watched her back move away from me. I counted every step. I held my breath waiting for the sound of gunfire. She disappeared from sight without a sound.
I took a deep breath and proceeded, cringing at every step, expecting at any moment to be knocked off my feet by shots or rebel boys or something even worse. My head seemed to be pounding with my heart beat. This went on for a really long time until finally I rounded the last turn and could see the city gates before me. The last 100 feet, and Stacy was nowhere to be seen. I felt some relief that she at least had made it back safely. And I felt some anticipation and hope that I would too. Each step took me closer to the gate and my hotel room and a hot bath and a good glass of wine. My spirits were starting to soar. Almost there. 80 feet. 75. 50. 45. 30 . . . and the unmistakable sound of a guns cocking. Loud. I froze. Turning my head slowly to the right I saw a boy about 13 years old dressed completely in black from head to toe. Only the whites of his eyes were really visible . . . and the barrel of the gun pointed straight at me. I swung my head to the left and saw another boy about 13 years old dressed completely in khakis from head to toe. The barrel of his gun was also pointed straight at me. I realised they were aiming for each other but I was in the way. I would be caught in the crossfire. If I moved would they let me pass? Or would my movement trigger the gunfight? I didn't know. But I knew if I stayed there I wouldn't stand a chance . . . I stepped.
And a brilliant flash of white light exploded in my brain. It was the brightest light I had ever seen. Beautiful. Blinding. I thought about Mom and Dad and my sisters and brother and the kids, especially Samuel. I could hear Samuel saying, "It's a beautiful day of raining!"
And then I woke up.
Mood: spirited
Drinking: water, water, everywhere
Listening To: Bryan Adams, Do I Have to Say the Words?
Hair: could it possibly get any thicker?!
Stacy was with me. We had picked this particular place to visit because a friend of ours was working there, doing missionary work in the outlying villages. During the day, when the jungle was less dangerous, we would go with him to these villages and help the sick, work with the children. Gut-wrenching scenes. Terrible scenarios. Very real. The suffering was endless. I woke up crying at point, my heart broke as I held a small child as she fought for her two last breaths and then drifted away.
Falling back to sleep, I found myself in the same village, hours later. Dusk was approaching. I sensed danger as the paths back to the city darkened and I knew if we were going to leave, we had to do it now. I couldn't find Stacy, couldn't find our missionary friend. Every second the sky darkened further and the sounds of jungle grew louder. I had heard stories of what the rebel fighters did to women in the villages. I had witnessed the carnage with my own eyes. But what they did to those women was nothing compared to what they would do to a white woman. Death would be too easy. They would take me to their camp and keep me alive for months at the very least, years, more likely. It was a frightening situation to consider. I was terrified. I found Stacy in a hut with an old woman, who was dying with some disease like malaria. She had lost track of time, but didn't seem concerned at all that it was getting dark.
I was literally pulling at her sleeve trying to get her to hurry and come along, and she was chatting with people and stopping to give hugs and kisses, quite unconcerned. Infuriating. Just as we got to the path, machine-gun fire broke out. There were flashes coming from both sides of the path. We dropped to the ground and covered our heads with our hands. The shooting went on for minutes without a break. When it ended I raised my head and looked at the path. Through the haze of smoke and jungle steam I could see a young girl from the village standing on the path. She was about 13 or 14 years old and had been sent into the city to deliver an important message earlier in the day. I guessed she was returning and got caught in the fire. She had her hands up in a show of peace and surrender and was slowly sneaking along the path toward the village. I was terrified for her, terrified of seeing something happen to her. But she edged her way toward us without incident. For now at least, the jungle was quiet.
When she reached us, she kneeled down, put a finger to her lips to hush us (Stacy was being so loud! Not a good sneaker.) The girl pointed toward the path, showed us how she had held up her hands and urged us to go. I was practically paralysed with fear. My body felt like it was weighted with bricks. My legs and arms were heavy to move and lift. Stacy, on the other hand, (maybe she knew it was a dream) scrambled to her feet, threw her hands above her head and started walking toward the city, very calmly. I watched her back move away from me. I counted every step. I held my breath waiting for the sound of gunfire. She disappeared from sight without a sound.
I took a deep breath and proceeded, cringing at every step, expecting at any moment to be knocked off my feet by shots or rebel boys or something even worse. My head seemed to be pounding with my heart beat. This went on for a really long time until finally I rounded the last turn and could see the city gates before me. The last 100 feet, and Stacy was nowhere to be seen. I felt some relief that she at least had made it back safely. And I felt some anticipation and hope that I would too. Each step took me closer to the gate and my hotel room and a hot bath and a good glass of wine. My spirits were starting to soar. Almost there. 80 feet. 75. 50. 45. 30 . . . and the unmistakable sound of a guns cocking. Loud. I froze. Turning my head slowly to the right I saw a boy about 13 years old dressed completely in black from head to toe. Only the whites of his eyes were really visible . . . and the barrel of the gun pointed straight at me. I swung my head to the left and saw another boy about 13 years old dressed completely in khakis from head to toe. The barrel of his gun was also pointed straight at me. I realised they were aiming for each other but I was in the way. I would be caught in the crossfire. If I moved would they let me pass? Or would my movement trigger the gunfight? I didn't know. But I knew if I stayed there I wouldn't stand a chance . . . I stepped.
And a brilliant flash of white light exploded in my brain. It was the brightest light I had ever seen. Beautiful. Blinding. I thought about Mom and Dad and my sisters and brother and the kids, especially Samuel. I could hear Samuel saying, "It's a beautiful day of raining!"
And then I woke up.
Mood: spirited
Drinking: water, water, everywhere
Listening To: Bryan Adams, Do I Have to Say the Words?
Hair: could it possibly get any thicker?!
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Playing the Bs (or another stream of conscious rant, best avoided by those who like their rants with punctuation)
listening to winamp, songs going in some sort of weird alphabetical order, must've turned off the random by accident, chatting on msn, joking about abba and ac/dc, it's all good . . . then the b-52's and i'm back in time at flipper's for the biggest backyard party ever to hit mississauga, charging 20 bucks a head to get in, but we're friends and comped, hugs from the host at the gate, there's a live band, a pit full of corn and potatoes, a pig on a spit, burgers and steaks on bbqs, some salads i wouldn't want to chance, drugs piled everywhere in bowls and baggies, pills, powder, plant-life, whatever you want, everyone who enters empties pockets and contributes, patted down for weapons, search is not yet the norm, flipper pats me himself . . . i think nothing of this until later . . . coolers piled upon coolers filled with beer and ice, never seen so many girls in string bikinis, the band's playing b-52s and doing a damn fine job, but i'm drunk and everything sounds awesome, it's late, after the bar closed, people lined up around the block trying to get in, bouncers breaking up fights . . . flipper does not own this home, i think, he rents, there will be damage, they've dug up half the backyard with the backhoe . . . then it occurs to me that this isn't even his house . . . i ask where we are and hon shrugs, smiles, in that easy way things roll off his back . . . and we slowdance barefoot in the dew soaked grass even though the music stopped . . . until the police come . . . slip through the fence, running away, quietly, zigzagging across backyards, lots of yelling behind us, sirens, coming on dawn, grey, i'm tired, all i can hear is my breath and heart beating in my throat, all i can feel is his hand holding mine, pulling me, all i can think is that it's going to be okay, he's got me and i'll follow him anywhere . . . how much of this is memory and how much dream, i no longer know . . .
bto, bad company, blondie, i'm back on msn, remembering the eastwood, dancing to mony, mony, hey mutherfucker, get laid, get fucked . . . the owner tried every night to convince me to go downstairs to work for him . . . stripping . . . i knew a lot of the strippers, the money was good, i was tempted, might have done it, but cooler heads prevailed . . . he promised to take care of me, i didn't need to work, focus on school, he said . . . you can do it, kel, you can do anything, he said . . . and he meant it . . . staying up all night to type my assignments for me so i could sleep two hours before final exams . . . sleeping in shifts with me during the first bush war so i wouldn't miss sadaam . . . i was learning to be a journalist . . . and so was my construction worker hon . . . bought me my first word processor . . . forced me to do things i didn't think i could . . . press conference with the premier, piece of cake . . . interview with great stratford director, just a joke . . . talked me down after the riot, when i didn't know what was happening just that there were people running in the streets, cops running with guns pulled, yelling at us to take cover, screams and crashes in the distance someplace, couldn't tell where, huddled in the payphone on the floor, hiding from . . . not sure who the enemy is . . . sitting on the floor with that other little girl, holding her hand, strangers brought together by circumstance . . . he talked me through it, got me to go back out, helped me find the courage to hang up the phone, disconnect from him, leave the school, get on the subway and go all the way to the end where he was waiting for me . . . more joking on msn, more conversation, remembering the fights at the eastwood, being swept under the table everynight, learning to crawl from one end of the club to the other and out the door into the parking lot without losing table cover, expert escapee . . . and there it is . . . billy joel, she can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes . . . she can ask for the truth, but she'll never believe . . . but she's always a woman to me . . . our song, not because i was such a bitch, but because i wouldn't give the time of day to anyone else, and they were all trying because i was the new chick . . . and young . . . innocent and naive . . . blue cow eyes . . . everybody wanted a piece of me but my loyalty was rock-solid, a one-man woman, maybe that made me a bitch, but it meant something else to us . . . you always remember the first time, the song that was playing, the way the air smelled of poison perfume and rain, electric lips, green eyes flecked with bronze, so serious, intensity . . . in love for the first time . . . it meant something different to him . . . something different to me . . .
bee gees, bob seger, who's your favourite beatle . . . good question, no answer from msn . . . but paul for me, I like paul, tho i didn't say . . . then bon jovi and i'm done for the night, there will be nothing else, i refuse to skip and I've got every song . . . EVERY ONE . . . how much do you love me . . . all of it . . . and the memories jumble, different place, different time, different guy . . . not so rock-solid . . . flimsy really, tattered, how did that happen . . . shit happens, that's what hon would've said, makes me smile, cuz it wasn't cliche then, he meant it . . . and he was right . . . reliable sources tell me he still loves me, never moved on . . . oh no, i say . . . fuck him, they say . . . seems harsh . . . but i don't love him anymore, it's not my fault if he can't work through it . . . i want him to be happy, but there's nothing i can do to help, we tried being friends . . . it didn't work, he always wanted more . . . he wanted marriage and children and a home with a garage and a white picket fence and a little place out back to grow some of the finest weed in the country . . . i didn't want any of that stuff . . . no compromise, sabotaging my birth control, ready to move cross country . . . who asked him, not me . . . uninvited . . . poison, I said . . . we are poison together . . . he saw it too, but refused to acknowledge it, wanted to believe this fantasy he concocted . . . i am not now, nor have i ever been, the woman he thinks he is in love with . . . so, fuck him . . . FUCK HIM . . . i refuse to feel guilty . . . i refuse to feel guilty . . . mantra, if repeated enough times will sink into my soul and set me free . . . i refuse to feel guilty . . . i am not guilty . . . i have no responsibility toward him . . . i don't owe him anything . . . i can't fix this for him . . . the reliable sources are wrong, they could be wrong, they've been wrong before . . . he has moved on, he no longer cares or even thinks about me in any way shape or form . . . yes, he's probably married with kids and a house with a garage and together they are growing some of the best weed in the country out of a shed in the backyard . . . he's finally put together the roadrunner . . . he's happy . . . i'm happy for him . . . i can rest easy, go to bed and sleep have wonderful dreams about new people, interesting people . . . i am not guilty, there is no reason for guilt, it all worked out for the best . . . and then a bon jovi song i've never heard before . . . one of those ballads . . . you know the ones i mean . . . and it's like he's reached out from long branch and grabbed me by the throat, wrapped the telephone cord around my neck again, only this time he means it . . . pulled it tight . . . he's got my attention . . . delivers his verdict . . . guilty as charged
And I would give up tomorrow
And die for one yesterday
I'd lie, beg, steal and borrow
To hear you whisper my name
Tonight there ain't no miracles
Washing up on this beach
The angels left here long ago
But I still believe that
Maybe someday
I will hold your hand
And maybe some way
We'll trace our footsteps in the sand
And just walk away… Baby, someday.
Now I don't know how a heart beats
But I sure know how one breaks
Remember how I used to hold you
To share every breath that you'd take
Oh how can I forget
You're every tear that I cry
I know you're coming back
You never kissed me goodbye
Maybe someday
I will hold your hand
And maybe some way
We'll trace our footsteps in the sand
And just walk away…
They say that nothing lasts forever
But we know our two hearts beat together
And though you're far away
Every night I pray
Maybe someday… Someday…
Maybe someday
I will understand
Baby, some way
We'll trace these footsteps in the sand
Just walk away…
Maybe someday
Baby, some way
Maybe someday
Baby, some way
-- Bon Jovi, Maybe Someday
bto, bad company, blondie, i'm back on msn, remembering the eastwood, dancing to mony, mony, hey mutherfucker, get laid, get fucked . . . the owner tried every night to convince me to go downstairs to work for him . . . stripping . . . i knew a lot of the strippers, the money was good, i was tempted, might have done it, but cooler heads prevailed . . . he promised to take care of me, i didn't need to work, focus on school, he said . . . you can do it, kel, you can do anything, he said . . . and he meant it . . . staying up all night to type my assignments for me so i could sleep two hours before final exams . . . sleeping in shifts with me during the first bush war so i wouldn't miss sadaam . . . i was learning to be a journalist . . . and so was my construction worker hon . . . bought me my first word processor . . . forced me to do things i didn't think i could . . . press conference with the premier, piece of cake . . . interview with great stratford director, just a joke . . . talked me down after the riot, when i didn't know what was happening just that there were people running in the streets, cops running with guns pulled, yelling at us to take cover, screams and crashes in the distance someplace, couldn't tell where, huddled in the payphone on the floor, hiding from . . . not sure who the enemy is . . . sitting on the floor with that other little girl, holding her hand, strangers brought together by circumstance . . . he talked me through it, got me to go back out, helped me find the courage to hang up the phone, disconnect from him, leave the school, get on the subway and go all the way to the end where he was waiting for me . . . more joking on msn, more conversation, remembering the fights at the eastwood, being swept under the table everynight, learning to crawl from one end of the club to the other and out the door into the parking lot without losing table cover, expert escapee . . . and there it is . . . billy joel, she can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes . . . she can ask for the truth, but she'll never believe . . . but she's always a woman to me . . . our song, not because i was such a bitch, but because i wouldn't give the time of day to anyone else, and they were all trying because i was the new chick . . . and young . . . innocent and naive . . . blue cow eyes . . . everybody wanted a piece of me but my loyalty was rock-solid, a one-man woman, maybe that made me a bitch, but it meant something else to us . . . you always remember the first time, the song that was playing, the way the air smelled of poison perfume and rain, electric lips, green eyes flecked with bronze, so serious, intensity . . . in love for the first time . . . it meant something different to him . . . something different to me . . .
bee gees, bob seger, who's your favourite beatle . . . good question, no answer from msn . . . but paul for me, I like paul, tho i didn't say . . . then bon jovi and i'm done for the night, there will be nothing else, i refuse to skip and I've got every song . . . EVERY ONE . . . how much do you love me . . . all of it . . . and the memories jumble, different place, different time, different guy . . . not so rock-solid . . . flimsy really, tattered, how did that happen . . . shit happens, that's what hon would've said, makes me smile, cuz it wasn't cliche then, he meant it . . . and he was right . . . reliable sources tell me he still loves me, never moved on . . . oh no, i say . . . fuck him, they say . . . seems harsh . . . but i don't love him anymore, it's not my fault if he can't work through it . . . i want him to be happy, but there's nothing i can do to help, we tried being friends . . . it didn't work, he always wanted more . . . he wanted marriage and children and a home with a garage and a white picket fence and a little place out back to grow some of the finest weed in the country . . . i didn't want any of that stuff . . . no compromise, sabotaging my birth control, ready to move cross country . . . who asked him, not me . . . uninvited . . . poison, I said . . . we are poison together . . . he saw it too, but refused to acknowledge it, wanted to believe this fantasy he concocted . . . i am not now, nor have i ever been, the woman he thinks he is in love with . . . so, fuck him . . . FUCK HIM . . . i refuse to feel guilty . . . i refuse to feel guilty . . . mantra, if repeated enough times will sink into my soul and set me free . . . i refuse to feel guilty . . . i am not guilty . . . i have no responsibility toward him . . . i don't owe him anything . . . i can't fix this for him . . . the reliable sources are wrong, they could be wrong, they've been wrong before . . . he has moved on, he no longer cares or even thinks about me in any way shape or form . . . yes, he's probably married with kids and a house with a garage and together they are growing some of the best weed in the country out of a shed in the backyard . . . he's finally put together the roadrunner . . . he's happy . . . i'm happy for him . . . i can rest easy, go to bed and sleep have wonderful dreams about new people, interesting people . . . i am not guilty, there is no reason for guilt, it all worked out for the best . . . and then a bon jovi song i've never heard before . . . one of those ballads . . . you know the ones i mean . . . and it's like he's reached out from long branch and grabbed me by the throat, wrapped the telephone cord around my neck again, only this time he means it . . . pulled it tight . . . he's got my attention . . . delivers his verdict . . . guilty as charged
And I would give up tomorrow
And die for one yesterday
I'd lie, beg, steal and borrow
To hear you whisper my name
Tonight there ain't no miracles
Washing up on this beach
The angels left here long ago
But I still believe that
Maybe someday
I will hold your hand
And maybe some way
We'll trace our footsteps in the sand
And just walk away… Baby, someday.
Now I don't know how a heart beats
But I sure know how one breaks
Remember how I used to hold you
To share every breath that you'd take
Oh how can I forget
You're every tear that I cry
I know you're coming back
You never kissed me goodbye
Maybe someday
I will hold your hand
And maybe some way
We'll trace our footsteps in the sand
And just walk away…
They say that nothing lasts forever
But we know our two hearts beat together
And though you're far away
Every night I pray
Maybe someday… Someday…
Maybe someday
I will understand
Baby, some way
We'll trace these footsteps in the sand
Just walk away…
Maybe someday
Baby, some way
Maybe someday
Baby, some way
-- Bon Jovi, Maybe Someday
You Spin Me Round
I totally forgot this was a long weekend . . . not that a long weekend is any different for me than any other weekend . . . or really any other day for that matter. I do live in my own little bubble, where night is day sometimes and day is night, where Tuesday can be Saturday and Saturday night can be Monday morning. It's all open for interpretation, right?
So, my whole fam-damily are off at some huge reunion thing in a big field complete with campers and tents and games and feasts . . . just like when I was a kid, except now the kids are adults and the adults are practically seniors and the children are brand spanking new . . . and Grammie & Grandad are absent. I'm curious about this new family dynamic. If I were at home I think I would have actually attended this event. SHOCKING! I know.
For so many years I've distanced myself from that part of the family, bonding more with Dad's side, and for no good reason other than I absolutely can't stand certain people (who shall remain nameless . . . but we all know who they are . . . ) Meanwhile, there are a whole bunch of really cool people in my family that I don't get to see either. Why should I miss out on the one, in order to avoid the other?
Well, it used to be for Mom, because my mother would not want me to ever say anything to these people or be at the heart of a family scene . . . but after two funerals . . . I'm thinking Mom is over that. Should I ever lose my temper and let fly, I don't think I'll be disowned. Not that I can't control myself. I demonstrated perfect control at all recent family gatherings, choosing to say nothing and letting my facial expression and hostile stance do the talking when accosted by the melodramatic nonsense that flutters about these things. This worked well.
They know I think they're nuts . . . I'm pretty sure they're too nuts to fully understand why I think they're nuts, but what does that matter . . . they're nuts! So yeah, if I'm around when things are happening, my mother's family might be seeing more of me . . . and the fruitcakes will just have to either leave me alone or . . .
I miss my kids. Didn't really get to see them all that much on that recent fly-by. I'll get my fill on the Fundy excursion I'm sure. Though thankfully I will not be sleeping with all the children this time in a little double bed. Though having my own bed means I'll miss Samuel's morning announcement that it's a beautiful day . . . regardless of rain or fog or sleet. Looking forward to the trip. I plan to go out with my notebook and just sit and listen to the waves crashing all day and capture some new characters. I've got a real strong feeling about this . . . think I'm going to meet or see something really interesting.
I'd like to go on a hike, something longer than a half-hour and a bit more difficult . . . but I'm terrified to go on my own and I don't think anyone else will be up for it, well maybe up for it but unable to go because of children. The kids certainly aren't old enough yet to go on an all-day hike. I would like to go to the copper mine, haven't done that since Stacy and I were kids and we carved all our initials into trees. "KU luvs RP 4ever!" (Or until I graduate and move away.) Probably killed the poor tree over that, what a shame. That trail was always too long and difficult for the kids . . . but I think it's only 2 hours or something . . . maybe the oldest could do it now.
It's been a couple of years since we've gone to Alma, I hope all the best things are still there . . . like the bookstore! I found some good stuff there last time, good deals. Bought a lot of plays if I remember correctly. Old copies of Shaw in mint condition. Although I really shouldn't spend any more money on books, when I've got so many I haven't read yet. I've got things from Frye Fest sitting on the shelf waiting for my attention still. People will read again! . . . I just don't appear to be one of them. Maybe it's because I'm writing more that I'm reading less. I've heard some people say they can't read anything when they're involved with their own work. Maybe that's it.
I had a good day today. I baked those ribs in Southwest Sauce, scalloped some red potatoes in garlic butter and onions. Did a nice vegetable medley. Yummy. But cooked enough for four people easy, so I'll be eating this all week . . . Felt like something sweet so I baked some cinnamon rolls. Double yummy. Not from scratch. I'm not set-up for baking yet, so they are of the Pillsbury variety. Only five in a package, but I'll never eat them all before they go stale, so I guess I'll freeze them for a rainy day. I know they won't be as good nuked, but still, it'll be nice to have a little something to pop in the microwave from time to time.
Mood: restless (really, really restless)
Drinking: some sort of generic diet soda
Listening To: George Thorogood, Bad to the Bone
Hair: cascading over my shoulders
So, my whole fam-damily are off at some huge reunion thing in a big field complete with campers and tents and games and feasts . . . just like when I was a kid, except now the kids are adults and the adults are practically seniors and the children are brand spanking new . . . and Grammie & Grandad are absent. I'm curious about this new family dynamic. If I were at home I think I would have actually attended this event. SHOCKING! I know.
For so many years I've distanced myself from that part of the family, bonding more with Dad's side, and for no good reason other than I absolutely can't stand certain people (who shall remain nameless . . . but we all know who they are . . . ) Meanwhile, there are a whole bunch of really cool people in my family that I don't get to see either. Why should I miss out on the one, in order to avoid the other?
Well, it used to be for Mom, because my mother would not want me to ever say anything to these people or be at the heart of a family scene . . . but after two funerals . . . I'm thinking Mom is over that. Should I ever lose my temper and let fly, I don't think I'll be disowned. Not that I can't control myself. I demonstrated perfect control at all recent family gatherings, choosing to say nothing and letting my facial expression and hostile stance do the talking when accosted by the melodramatic nonsense that flutters about these things. This worked well.
They know I think they're nuts . . . I'm pretty sure they're too nuts to fully understand why I think they're nuts, but what does that matter . . . they're nuts! So yeah, if I'm around when things are happening, my mother's family might be seeing more of me . . . and the fruitcakes will just have to either leave me alone or . . .
I miss my kids. Didn't really get to see them all that much on that recent fly-by. I'll get my fill on the Fundy excursion I'm sure. Though thankfully I will not be sleeping with all the children this time in a little double bed. Though having my own bed means I'll miss Samuel's morning announcement that it's a beautiful day . . . regardless of rain or fog or sleet. Looking forward to the trip. I plan to go out with my notebook and just sit and listen to the waves crashing all day and capture some new characters. I've got a real strong feeling about this . . . think I'm going to meet or see something really interesting.
I'd like to go on a hike, something longer than a half-hour and a bit more difficult . . . but I'm terrified to go on my own and I don't think anyone else will be up for it, well maybe up for it but unable to go because of children. The kids certainly aren't old enough yet to go on an all-day hike. I would like to go to the copper mine, haven't done that since Stacy and I were kids and we carved all our initials into trees. "KU luvs RP 4ever!" (Or until I graduate and move away.) Probably killed the poor tree over that, what a shame. That trail was always too long and difficult for the kids . . . but I think it's only 2 hours or something . . . maybe the oldest could do it now.
It's been a couple of years since we've gone to Alma, I hope all the best things are still there . . . like the bookstore! I found some good stuff there last time, good deals. Bought a lot of plays if I remember correctly. Old copies of Shaw in mint condition. Although I really shouldn't spend any more money on books, when I've got so many I haven't read yet. I've got things from Frye Fest sitting on the shelf waiting for my attention still. People will read again! . . . I just don't appear to be one of them. Maybe it's because I'm writing more that I'm reading less. I've heard some people say they can't read anything when they're involved with their own work. Maybe that's it.
I had a good day today. I baked those ribs in Southwest Sauce, scalloped some red potatoes in garlic butter and onions. Did a nice vegetable medley. Yummy. But cooked enough for four people easy, so I'll be eating this all week . . . Felt like something sweet so I baked some cinnamon rolls. Double yummy. Not from scratch. I'm not set-up for baking yet, so they are of the Pillsbury variety. Only five in a package, but I'll never eat them all before they go stale, so I guess I'll freeze them for a rainy day. I know they won't be as good nuked, but still, it'll be nice to have a little something to pop in the microwave from time to time.
Mood: restless (really, really restless)
Drinking: some sort of generic diet soda
Listening To: George Thorogood, Bad to the Bone
Hair: cascading over my shoulders
What Band Best Represents Your Persona?
Evanescence best represents your persona. You are
gothic, dark, angsty, and you have a sick sense
of humor. You can also be very intelligent and
great for conversation about the ways of the
world.
What band best represents your persona?
brought to you by Quizilla
gothic, dark, angsty, and you have a sick sense
of humor. You can also be very intelligent and
great for conversation about the ways of the
world.
What band best represents your persona?
brought to you by Quizilla
The Saturday Six
From Patrick's Place
1. What was your favorite childhood movie? When was the last time you saw it?
Good question. I'm trying to think of kid's movies (Disney stuff or cartoons) and have just realised that I didn't really watch kid's movies. I don't know if I didn't care for them or they just weren't an option. As a really small child any movie with Elvis was my favourite. I absolutely loved him!
But of course even Elvis could not survive the phenomena that was Grease, which happened when I was 9 or 10 years old. Fourth or fifth grade I believe. I knew every line, every lyric, every dance move. I wanted to be Sandy (not the dowdy one, but the hot one at the end, I still dream about those shoes) or Rizzo, because she was just cool without trying so hard. I wrote sequels, skits, new scenes (all of which have been destroyed over the years unfortunately). I had every piece of Grease paraphenelia that my parents would buy me.
Other than Stacy and I, the kids our age were not into this movie at all . . . because I think maybe we were perceived as being too young to see it. I've often met girls a few years older than me who totally share this obsession, who did all the things I did, but not many my age or younger (family doesn't count of course, the trickle down effect comes into play).
The last time I watched Grease was probably a good 5 or 6 years ago, maybe even more. Maybe not since the 20th Anniversary edition came out. Wow! I'm due . . . and I've just realised I don't own a copy on dvd. Must add to wishlist.
My Grease obsession was soon followed by a Saturday Night Fever obsession (and NONE of the kids were allowed to watch that one, even I had to close my eyes during the mooning scene on the bridge). Much more difficult dance moves for sure, and I still have a love for disco movies for some reason. But I drew the line at Urban Cowboy, which pretty much crushed my crush on John Travolta. Country! Ewww!
Soon though, there would be a Grease sequel, highly anticipated in my little world. And that started a whole new obsession, with Michelle Pfeiffer . . . I don't think I've ever wanted to be anyone more (except maybe Angelina Jolie . . . nah, even Angelina can't go there). By the time of Grease 2, I was into the terrible teens and the movie was less about learning the songs and dance routines (which of course were terrible) but more about studying the walk, talk, make-up, hair, clothing, smile and so on of Michelle in order to mimic her in my daily life and thus pick up a cool rider of my very own. I think I've probably seen every movie she's ever done. Haven't seen Grease 2 in a really long time though . . . pretty sure I don't need that dvd either.
2. Who is your worst enemy at the moment? (First names only, please.) Why is that person your enemy?
At the moment I don't think I have any enemies that matter anymore. There are people out there who hate me, who will always hate me. But they're not involved in my life in any way, so who cares what they think? I'm certainly not losing any sleep over it. If I do have an enemy right now plotting against me, I have no idea who they are or why they would do such a thing.
3. Which one of the following annoys you most when you encounter a new blog?
a. Constant grammatical errors.
b. Constant spelling errors.
c. Contrived "street" language.
d. Too many "nothing happening today" entries.
Contrived "street" language for sure. I guess I can't relate. The language just gets in the way. Nothing happened today entries are a bit annoying too. I mean, you're writing, something must have happened or don't write. I'm generally very forgiving of grammar and spelling in the blog sense though. I see it as being a different kind of writing, so things that will make me throw the New Yorker across the room are okay in blogdom.
4. Take this quiz: Which alcoholic drink are you?
Cocktail
?? Which Alcoholic Drink Are You ??
brought to you by Quizilla
5. What is the last thing yousaid to a person face to face? Who was that person?
Oh man! I live alone. I know nobody. I communicate through email . . . the last thing I said to someone face-to-face would've been to the cab driver who brought me and my groceries home the other day. He was joking with me at buying so much stuff. (I do sometimes forget that I am not buying for a family of four anymore.) He was an old guy, new driver for me, haven't had him before. He was saying stuff like, "Did you leave anything for anyone else?" Ha! Ha! (And it wasn't really all that much stuff, just a lot of veggies and water which took up a lot of bags). So the last thing he said when he was leaving was for me to be careful and not eat everything all at once (we had been talking about shopping when you're hungry, which is a mistake and I had been hungry that day). And I said, "No worries, thanks." And that would be the last thing I said to someone face-to-face other than maybe an "excuse me" or "pardon me" or something like that to a stranger on the street. I've had phone conversations though, so I'm not totally without some form of speech.
6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #59 from Debi: When you shower, do you ever think of the Alfred Hitchcock movie, "Psycho?"
Absolutely not. Never. And if some creepy shower scene ideas try to creep in, I start singing and visualising clear sunny skies where the blue goes on forever.
1. What was your favorite childhood movie? When was the last time you saw it?
Good question. I'm trying to think of kid's movies (Disney stuff or cartoons) and have just realised that I didn't really watch kid's movies. I don't know if I didn't care for them or they just weren't an option. As a really small child any movie with Elvis was my favourite. I absolutely loved him!
But of course even Elvis could not survive the phenomena that was Grease, which happened when I was 9 or 10 years old. Fourth or fifth grade I believe. I knew every line, every lyric, every dance move. I wanted to be Sandy (not the dowdy one, but the hot one at the end, I still dream about those shoes) or Rizzo, because she was just cool without trying so hard. I wrote sequels, skits, new scenes (all of which have been destroyed over the years unfortunately). I had every piece of Grease paraphenelia that my parents would buy me.
Other than Stacy and I, the kids our age were not into this movie at all . . . because I think maybe we were perceived as being too young to see it. I've often met girls a few years older than me who totally share this obsession, who did all the things I did, but not many my age or younger (family doesn't count of course, the trickle down effect comes into play).
The last time I watched Grease was probably a good 5 or 6 years ago, maybe even more. Maybe not since the 20th Anniversary edition came out. Wow! I'm due . . . and I've just realised I don't own a copy on dvd. Must add to wishlist.
My Grease obsession was soon followed by a Saturday Night Fever obsession (and NONE of the kids were allowed to watch that one, even I had to close my eyes during the mooning scene on the bridge). Much more difficult dance moves for sure, and I still have a love for disco movies for some reason. But I drew the line at Urban Cowboy, which pretty much crushed my crush on John Travolta. Country! Ewww!
Soon though, there would be a Grease sequel, highly anticipated in my little world. And that started a whole new obsession, with Michelle Pfeiffer . . . I don't think I've ever wanted to be anyone more (except maybe Angelina Jolie . . . nah, even Angelina can't go there). By the time of Grease 2, I was into the terrible teens and the movie was less about learning the songs and dance routines (which of course were terrible) but more about studying the walk, talk, make-up, hair, clothing, smile and so on of Michelle in order to mimic her in my daily life and thus pick up a cool rider of my very own. I think I've probably seen every movie she's ever done. Haven't seen Grease 2 in a really long time though . . . pretty sure I don't need that dvd either.
2. Who is your worst enemy at the moment? (First names only, please.) Why is that person your enemy?
At the moment I don't think I have any enemies that matter anymore. There are people out there who hate me, who will always hate me. But they're not involved in my life in any way, so who cares what they think? I'm certainly not losing any sleep over it. If I do have an enemy right now plotting against me, I have no idea who they are or why they would do such a thing.
3. Which one of the following annoys you most when you encounter a new blog?
a. Constant grammatical errors.
b. Constant spelling errors.
c. Contrived "street" language.
d. Too many "nothing happening today" entries.
Contrived "street" language for sure. I guess I can't relate. The language just gets in the way. Nothing happened today entries are a bit annoying too. I mean, you're writing, something must have happened or don't write. I'm generally very forgiving of grammar and spelling in the blog sense though. I see it as being a different kind of writing, so things that will make me throw the New Yorker across the room are okay in blogdom.
4. Take this quiz: Which alcoholic drink are you?
Cocktail
?? Which Alcoholic Drink Are You ??
brought to you by Quizilla
5. What is the last thing yousaid to a person face to face? Who was that person?
Oh man! I live alone. I know nobody. I communicate through email . . . the last thing I said to someone face-to-face would've been to the cab driver who brought me and my groceries home the other day. He was joking with me at buying so much stuff. (I do sometimes forget that I am not buying for a family of four anymore.) He was an old guy, new driver for me, haven't had him before. He was saying stuff like, "Did you leave anything for anyone else?" Ha! Ha! (And it wasn't really all that much stuff, just a lot of veggies and water which took up a lot of bags). So the last thing he said when he was leaving was for me to be careful and not eat everything all at once (we had been talking about shopping when you're hungry, which is a mistake and I had been hungry that day). And I said, "No worries, thanks." And that would be the last thing I said to someone face-to-face other than maybe an "excuse me" or "pardon me" or something like that to a stranger on the street. I've had phone conversations though, so I'm not totally without some form of speech.
6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #59 from Debi: When you shower, do you ever think of the Alfred Hitchcock movie, "Psycho?"
Absolutely not. Never. And if some creepy shower scene ideas try to creep in, I start singing and visualising clear sunny skies where the blue goes on forever.
What Age do you Act?
You Are 26 Years Old |
26 Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax. |
Friday, July 29, 2005
Loopy Lou
I can't get over how tired I am. I did sleep last night, for a little while anyway. I've been working on the BnM email list, which has my eyes crossed, can't stop yawning, feel like I'm in a haze . . . almost like I'm drugged. God, I hope I haven't poisoned myself again . . . kidding, haven't consumed anything yet today, let alone poisonous. I have no questionable meat products in the house. Rest easy, I'm trying not to poison myself nearly as much in the future as I have done in the past. Maybe the humidity is high and crushing my will to live.
I took out some ribs, have some southwest sauce . . . can't get up the energy to cook them today. And really how much energy would that take? Like NONE! Still, can't do it. I see nachos and salsa on the horizon, maybe I can get up enough energy to grate some cheddar and do it up all nice on a plate . . . but there's always the bag and the jar. Think I'll open a bottle of that homemade wine Terry sent me, since I have not been to the liquor store and KNOW I'm not going on that journey today. Just the sort of thing you want with salsa though, Terry's merlot blend.
I've got some new dvds that Stacy gave me for my birthday . . . haven't watched a movie in weeks. Oh yeah, I can see it, I'm getting into it now, the perfect recipe for couch crashing. I think it's a splendid idea! Is it too early to slip into some jammies? I think not!
Mood: can't keep my eyes open, yawning, need sugar fix
Drinking: nothing . . . and maybe that's the trouble
Listening To: 54-40, Love You All
Hair: a mess and I don't care
I took out some ribs, have some southwest sauce . . . can't get up the energy to cook them today. And really how much energy would that take? Like NONE! Still, can't do it. I see nachos and salsa on the horizon, maybe I can get up enough energy to grate some cheddar and do it up all nice on a plate . . . but there's always the bag and the jar. Think I'll open a bottle of that homemade wine Terry sent me, since I have not been to the liquor store and KNOW I'm not going on that journey today. Just the sort of thing you want with salsa though, Terry's merlot blend.
I've got some new dvds that Stacy gave me for my birthday . . . haven't watched a movie in weeks. Oh yeah, I can see it, I'm getting into it now, the perfect recipe for couch crashing. I think it's a splendid idea! Is it too early to slip into some jammies? I think not!
Mood: can't keep my eyes open, yawning, need sugar fix
Drinking: nothing . . . and maybe that's the trouble
Listening To: 54-40, Love You All
Hair: a mess and I don't care
Ketchup with the Devil
I dreamt about the Fireman. Haven't thought about him in years. Can't imagine why I'm thinking about him now. Maybe it's because someone I know is dating a fireman? I don't know. I think I knew his real name at one time, but it's long gone now, though Eric sticks out or something starting with E. No matter. Everyone called him The Fireman because he was a paramedic on the . . . Mississauga force? Or was it Brampton? Again, doesn't make a difference. I don't remember the first time I met him or how these people came to be in our group, but The Fireman and a bunch of his co-workers used to come out to Brown's Line every weekend for Karaoke at Centennial, dancing at the Eastwood and of course the infamous parties on Foch.
The Fireman was educated and I didn't know too many people at the time who were. He read books, kept up with the news, had gone to university, could've been a doctor (his parents wanted him to) but he wanted to be on the front line as a paramedic instead. Thought he could make a bigger difference that way. He came from money, so he wasn't concerned really about the lesser income of a paramedic. He already owned a house, property, cars. And he was only about 25 or 26 years old.
I was always the youngest person. Most of the group were a good 10-15 years older than me. But The Fireman was closer to my age. So it seemed natural that at parties, out at the club, or wherever The Fireman and I would end up in discussion. Well actually, discussion is the wrong word. We debated. We had these twisted war with words about the issues -- abortion, euthanasia, Russia, capital punishment, Quebec, controversial new laws like the one where TO cops were going to have to fill out paperwork every time they drew their guns -- if it was happening in the news in any shape or form we were debating it. If we both agreed, one of us would argue from the other side regardless. I became expert at debating issues I didn't even believe in. And it was so much fun! I would look forward to running into The Fireman on the weekend, store away topics and facts during the week to spring on him. It was strictly friendship, Kevin was there. They were friends too. All was right in the world.
Until Leigh showed up.
Leigh was an ex-girlfriend of one of the guys in the group. She showed up at his place one day with nothing but the clothes on her back having been kicked out by her new boyfriend. She had no job. No money. No prospects. No place to stay. And an expensive habit. He took her in reluctantly and with the agreement that it would be just for a few days until she could find something else. Leigh was TROUBLE. I disliked and distrusted her from the moment I laid eyes on her. I knew she was a manipulator. She was the type of girl who would pretend she couldn't do things, so some guy could feel important helping her out. She would pretend to be stupid so guys would puff up with their knowledge and feel superior. If you mentioned something you heard in the news or something you had done, she always had a story about how this same thing happened to her only worse. God, she was so shallow and transparent. Her acting sucked! And I loathed her. I couldn't believe people were buying into her crap. Giving her things. Welcoming her into their homes. It was enough to make me want to vomit . . . and that was all before she met The Fireman.
I swear that night when she first laid eyes on him, I could see the dollar signs swirling around her little brain. Suddenly she had all manner of illnesses about her. Cat allergies. Smoke allergies. Heart palpitations. Wasn't it lucky we had a paramedic in our midst to check her out and make sure she was okay? *GAG* I remember one night in particular, probably the second night Leigh and The Fireman were in the same room together. We were at Foch, in the basement, quietly buzzed. Probably a dozen or so people, nothing wild and crazy, just mellow. The side door opened and people started coming downstairs. We could hear voices and one of the voices "Hello-ing" down the stairwell was The Fireman. As soon as she heard his voice, Little Ms. Leigh had an asthma attack. Everyone screamed for him to come help. And I couldn't stand to even be in the same room with her anymore. I got up and went out into the other room, sat on the deep fridge. The guy who had been her ex, who brought her into our midst, came out to see if I was okay. I asked him if in the years they had dated, she had ever had allergies or asthma or anything wrong with her. He said she hadn't. I said it was kind of convenient now. He agreed. Then he just patted me on the knee, shrugged, and said, "Leigh wants something, she's going to get it."
I didn't want to believe it. Surely, The Fireman, of all men, would not fall for these absolutely conspicuous ploys. He was the smartest person I knew! I felt like screaming, "What the hell is wrong with you people?! Can't you see what she's doing?" And then they hobbled out of the room, The Fireman supporting Leigh as they shuffled up the stairs, so he could drive her home.
Two weeks later she told him she was pregnant.
Three weeks later he announced they were getting married.
Eight weeks later they got married in a small civil ceremony that none of us attended.
Twelve weeks later she miscarried . . .
Or so she said . . . I've never believed there really was a baby.
And I never heard tell of The Fireman again, though I'm certain his life took some rough turns he never saw coming. It was all a little like a season of some night soap like Dallas or Melrose Place.
So, last night I dreamt about The Fireman. It was actually more like a memory than a real dream. We were at Centennial, debating the proposed law about police having to fill out paperwork every time they drew their weapons. He was against this law, had many cops for friends and thought this was an unnecessary paperwork burden to place upon them, that it would cause them to hesitate before drawing their guns in order to avoid the paperwork, that people could get hurt or killed as a result of this hesitation. I thought that was just absurd. If you're not going to save somebody just because of a little extra paperwork, you really shouldn't be a cop. I thought this was a practice they would've (should've) been following all along. Leigh popped into the conversation then with her story about her sister being raped in the park and the cop standing there watching because he didn't want to draw his gun. It didn't seem to matter that the law hadn't passed yet, that there was no way this could have happened, people listened and patted her on the back and gave her hugs when the tears came as this led into her own rape memories . . .
I got up and went to the bar.
The only thing different from real life that happened in the dream was that as I walked away The Fireman called out to me saying, "I knew. I knew, but I thought I could save her anyway."
And then it made sense.
Mood: coming to consciousness
Drinking: tea, King Cole, with a dash of skim milk
Listening To: what appears to be a kazillion birds in the yard . . . and 3 Doors Down, Loser
Hair: And today it likes being long again . . .
The Fireman was educated and I didn't know too many people at the time who were. He read books, kept up with the news, had gone to university, could've been a doctor (his parents wanted him to) but he wanted to be on the front line as a paramedic instead. Thought he could make a bigger difference that way. He came from money, so he wasn't concerned really about the lesser income of a paramedic. He already owned a house, property, cars. And he was only about 25 or 26 years old.
I was always the youngest person. Most of the group were a good 10-15 years older than me. But The Fireman was closer to my age. So it seemed natural that at parties, out at the club, or wherever The Fireman and I would end up in discussion. Well actually, discussion is the wrong word. We debated. We had these twisted war with words about the issues -- abortion, euthanasia, Russia, capital punishment, Quebec, controversial new laws like the one where TO cops were going to have to fill out paperwork every time they drew their guns -- if it was happening in the news in any shape or form we were debating it. If we both agreed, one of us would argue from the other side regardless. I became expert at debating issues I didn't even believe in. And it was so much fun! I would look forward to running into The Fireman on the weekend, store away topics and facts during the week to spring on him. It was strictly friendship, Kevin was there. They were friends too. All was right in the world.
Until Leigh showed up.
Leigh was an ex-girlfriend of one of the guys in the group. She showed up at his place one day with nothing but the clothes on her back having been kicked out by her new boyfriend. She had no job. No money. No prospects. No place to stay. And an expensive habit. He took her in reluctantly and with the agreement that it would be just for a few days until she could find something else. Leigh was TROUBLE. I disliked and distrusted her from the moment I laid eyes on her. I knew she was a manipulator. She was the type of girl who would pretend she couldn't do things, so some guy could feel important helping her out. She would pretend to be stupid so guys would puff up with their knowledge and feel superior. If you mentioned something you heard in the news or something you had done, she always had a story about how this same thing happened to her only worse. God, she was so shallow and transparent. Her acting sucked! And I loathed her. I couldn't believe people were buying into her crap. Giving her things. Welcoming her into their homes. It was enough to make me want to vomit . . . and that was all before she met The Fireman.
I swear that night when she first laid eyes on him, I could see the dollar signs swirling around her little brain. Suddenly she had all manner of illnesses about her. Cat allergies. Smoke allergies. Heart palpitations. Wasn't it lucky we had a paramedic in our midst to check her out and make sure she was okay? *GAG* I remember one night in particular, probably the second night Leigh and The Fireman were in the same room together. We were at Foch, in the basement, quietly buzzed. Probably a dozen or so people, nothing wild and crazy, just mellow. The side door opened and people started coming downstairs. We could hear voices and one of the voices "Hello-ing" down the stairwell was The Fireman. As soon as she heard his voice, Little Ms. Leigh had an asthma attack. Everyone screamed for him to come help. And I couldn't stand to even be in the same room with her anymore. I got up and went out into the other room, sat on the deep fridge. The guy who had been her ex, who brought her into our midst, came out to see if I was okay. I asked him if in the years they had dated, she had ever had allergies or asthma or anything wrong with her. He said she hadn't. I said it was kind of convenient now. He agreed. Then he just patted me on the knee, shrugged, and said, "Leigh wants something, she's going to get it."
I didn't want to believe it. Surely, The Fireman, of all men, would not fall for these absolutely conspicuous ploys. He was the smartest person I knew! I felt like screaming, "What the hell is wrong with you people?! Can't you see what she's doing?" And then they hobbled out of the room, The Fireman supporting Leigh as they shuffled up the stairs, so he could drive her home.
Two weeks later she told him she was pregnant.
Three weeks later he announced they were getting married.
Eight weeks later they got married in a small civil ceremony that none of us attended.
Twelve weeks later she miscarried . . .
Or so she said . . . I've never believed there really was a baby.
And I never heard tell of The Fireman again, though I'm certain his life took some rough turns he never saw coming. It was all a little like a season of some night soap like Dallas or Melrose Place.
So, last night I dreamt about The Fireman. It was actually more like a memory than a real dream. We were at Centennial, debating the proposed law about police having to fill out paperwork every time they drew their weapons. He was against this law, had many cops for friends and thought this was an unnecessary paperwork burden to place upon them, that it would cause them to hesitate before drawing their guns in order to avoid the paperwork, that people could get hurt or killed as a result of this hesitation. I thought that was just absurd. If you're not going to save somebody just because of a little extra paperwork, you really shouldn't be a cop. I thought this was a practice they would've (should've) been following all along. Leigh popped into the conversation then with her story about her sister being raped in the park and the cop standing there watching because he didn't want to draw his gun. It didn't seem to matter that the law hadn't passed yet, that there was no way this could have happened, people listened and patted her on the back and gave her hugs when the tears came as this led into her own rape memories . . .
I got up and went to the bar.
The only thing different from real life that happened in the dream was that as I walked away The Fireman called out to me saying, "I knew. I knew, but I thought I could save her anyway."
And then it made sense.
Mood: coming to consciousness
Drinking: tea, King Cole, with a dash of skim milk
Listening To: what appears to be a kazillion birds in the yard . . . and 3 Doors Down, Loser
Hair: And today it likes being long again . . .
Citrus Seizure
I could use some drugs . . . brain pain. Sometimes I wonder if I could put together BnM while I was high on amphetamines or coke or something uplifting and energising . . . but I don't think I could sit still long enough to accomplish anything. Unless I went into one of those really focused episodes . . . kidding folks, it's just the tunes getting to my adled brain. I have no drugs in my pocket.
I'm smelling things though -- citrus fruit, cigarette smoke -- it's maddening. I don't know where the citrus thing is coming from. I've got lemons in a bag in the refrigerator downstairs, but they are whole, not sliced . . . and they're in the friggin' refrigerator downstairs! Maybe it's coming in the window. I dunno. Driving me nuts though.
The smoke smell is easier explained as the man who owns the house is a journalist from Montreal. Still, he hasn't been here in a couple of weeks, so the workmen must've stirred up the smell being in there today. I do hope the college boys don't smoke . . . they can have parties, bring home a different giggly girl every night, be generally disruptive and rude . . . but PLEASE no cigarettes! Or I will have to relocate.
These smells are like really strong cheap perfume, giving me a headache, but there's nothing to be done about them.
This issue of BnM seems to be killing slowly and with great attention to detail. Murphy's Law is in high gear. I thought I would've been finished on Tuesday . . . it is now what? Friday morning in the wee hours? I'm trying not to think about it too much, because the more I do, the more I screw up. What can I say? I've got Warren in my blood! I can't help but be late.
Mood: a little slow on the uptake right there now
Drinking: green apple soda (an interesting find at the Save-Easy the other day, still deciding whether I like it or not)
Listening To: The Monks, Drugs in my Pocket followed by Rod Stewart, You're in My Heart and Sheryl Crow, All I Wanna Do (some oldies coming out of winamp tonight!) followed by a Traditional Italian Tango (quite the mix, but so far the only piece that's got me dancing) and now the theme from The Twilight Zone (that's just bizarre) then more Italian with Umberto Tozzi, Ti Amo then some Big Band Swing and finishing up with a little Jimmy Rankin, Follow Her Around (perfect, I'm singing now and awake once again, mission accomplished)
Hair: half-up, half-down a.k.a. the almost finished bnm look
I'm smelling things though -- citrus fruit, cigarette smoke -- it's maddening. I don't know where the citrus thing is coming from. I've got lemons in a bag in the refrigerator downstairs, but they are whole, not sliced . . . and they're in the friggin' refrigerator downstairs! Maybe it's coming in the window. I dunno. Driving me nuts though.
The smoke smell is easier explained as the man who owns the house is a journalist from Montreal. Still, he hasn't been here in a couple of weeks, so the workmen must've stirred up the smell being in there today. I do hope the college boys don't smoke . . . they can have parties, bring home a different giggly girl every night, be generally disruptive and rude . . . but PLEASE no cigarettes! Or I will have to relocate.
These smells are like really strong cheap perfume, giving me a headache, but there's nothing to be done about them.
This issue of BnM seems to be killing slowly and with great attention to detail. Murphy's Law is in high gear. I thought I would've been finished on Tuesday . . . it is now what? Friday morning in the wee hours? I'm trying not to think about it too much, because the more I do, the more I screw up. What can I say? I've got Warren in my blood! I can't help but be late.
Mood: a little slow on the uptake right there now
Drinking: green apple soda (an interesting find at the Save-Easy the other day, still deciding whether I like it or not)
Listening To: The Monks, Drugs in my Pocket followed by Rod Stewart, You're in My Heart and Sheryl Crow, All I Wanna Do (some oldies coming out of winamp tonight!) followed by a Traditional Italian Tango (quite the mix, but so far the only piece that's got me dancing) and now the theme from The Twilight Zone (that's just bizarre) then more Italian with Umberto Tozzi, Ti Amo then some Big Band Swing and finishing up with a little Jimmy Rankin, Follow Her Around (perfect, I'm singing now and awake once again, mission accomplished)
Hair: half-up, half-down a.k.a. the almost finished bnm look
Thursday, July 28, 2005
In the News Today
Some stories catching my eye today. Check them out.
SPAM King Murdered
Shall I compare thee to a ... carburetor?
Students read 'guerilla' poetry at Wal-mart
SPAM King Murdered
Shall I compare thee to a ... carburetor?
Students read 'guerilla' poetry at Wal-mart
It's all Fodder
When I was home on the weekend I played the tape from the radio show of me reading one of my short stories at the Read an Ebook week reading in Fredericton in March for my mom. Dad was in the kitchen eating, while this was happening in the living room. So, he couldn't really hear everything. Once Mom got over how much I DID NOT sound like myself, but like my cousin, Jacqueline (I swear had I known at the time I would have broke out into The Rose or something), Mom kept giving me these looks at certain parts of the story.
The part where the father says, "Well" but it sounds like "whale" . . . she raised her eyebrows . . . Thurman, I mouthed.
The part where the father has an ulcer but he can still have a drink . . . Bliss, I mouthed.
The part where the father is tapping the sides of his nose with his index fingers and hissing like a tire going flat . . . Thurman again.
The part she didn't ask about and I didn't need to explain was the part where the father wouldn't shut up . . . or in other words, the entire story. She recognised that character, exaggerated as he might be, and was kind of worried that he might recognise himself and freak out.
After the tape ended, I went into the kitchen to get something to eat. Dad looked at me and said, "I didn't get to hear it all, you'll have to play it again later." I said I could do that.
"What's that story about?" he asked. "You and me?"
I shrugged, I wasn't sure if he was going to light into me or what. "It's fiction," I said.
"Sounded to me like you got more applause than the lady before you," he continued.
I said I hadn't noticed but that the Miramichiers in the back row might have made a difference.
"Guess I'll have to be more careful what I say and do around you from now on, or everyone in the world will know about it when they read your books," he said.
And then he laughed.
He liked that he had played some role in the story. Was proud to have been part of it. Was proud of ME that I had been invited to this reading, that it had been broadcast on the radio.
It's all very bizarre, this thing with my father. I mean if I had known that all I had to do was leave again in order to get back into his good graces . . . I'm sure I could've figured out a way to do it a hell of a lot sooner than what I did. Years of daily fighting, disinherited at every available opportunity . . . and now he's the proud papa . . . the next person who tells me my family is "normal" and not at all dysfunctional like theirs is getting a big ole slap upside the head . . .
Anyway, switching gears . . . I've twice had to go outside and run off a cat. There is a bird or chipmunk or squirrel or something living or hiding in the plants at the back of the house and the cat is trying to kill whatever it is. So whenever I hear panicked squawking I go out and run the beasty off. I'm too chicken to look into the bushes and see what I'm protecting though . . . I think it's birds . . . snakes can't squawk can they?
Listening to some Gavin Degraw earlier this afternoon. Love him! He's got some of my favourite lyrics, like this from Belief:
Tonight, you arrested my mind
When you came to my defense
With a knife
In the shape of your mouth
In the form of your body
With the wrath of a god
Oh, you stood by me
Belief
I just love that! The knife in the shape of the mouth, in the form of the body is one of those very cool things I wish I had thought of first. Could've used it for sure.
Mood: restless
Drinking: cold coffee, black
Listening To: Lynard Skynard, Freebird
Hair: still long and shaggy
The part where the father says, "Well" but it sounds like "whale" . . . she raised her eyebrows . . . Thurman, I mouthed.
The part where the father has an ulcer but he can still have a drink . . . Bliss, I mouthed.
The part where the father is tapping the sides of his nose with his index fingers and hissing like a tire going flat . . . Thurman again.
The part she didn't ask about and I didn't need to explain was the part where the father wouldn't shut up . . . or in other words, the entire story. She recognised that character, exaggerated as he might be, and was kind of worried that he might recognise himself and freak out.
After the tape ended, I went into the kitchen to get something to eat. Dad looked at me and said, "I didn't get to hear it all, you'll have to play it again later." I said I could do that.
"What's that story about?" he asked. "You and me?"
I shrugged, I wasn't sure if he was going to light into me or what. "It's fiction," I said.
"Sounded to me like you got more applause than the lady before you," he continued.
I said I hadn't noticed but that the Miramichiers in the back row might have made a difference.
"Guess I'll have to be more careful what I say and do around you from now on, or everyone in the world will know about it when they read your books," he said.
And then he laughed.
He liked that he had played some role in the story. Was proud to have been part of it. Was proud of ME that I had been invited to this reading, that it had been broadcast on the radio.
It's all very bizarre, this thing with my father. I mean if I had known that all I had to do was leave again in order to get back into his good graces . . . I'm sure I could've figured out a way to do it a hell of a lot sooner than what I did. Years of daily fighting, disinherited at every available opportunity . . . and now he's the proud papa . . . the next person who tells me my family is "normal" and not at all dysfunctional like theirs is getting a big ole slap upside the head . . .
Anyway, switching gears . . . I've twice had to go outside and run off a cat. There is a bird or chipmunk or squirrel or something living or hiding in the plants at the back of the house and the cat is trying to kill whatever it is. So whenever I hear panicked squawking I go out and run the beasty off. I'm too chicken to look into the bushes and see what I'm protecting though . . . I think it's birds . . . snakes can't squawk can they?
Listening to some Gavin Degraw earlier this afternoon. Love him! He's got some of my favourite lyrics, like this from Belief:
Tonight, you arrested my mind
When you came to my defense
With a knife
In the shape of your mouth
In the form of your body
With the wrath of a god
Oh, you stood by me
Belief
I just love that! The knife in the shape of the mouth, in the form of the body is one of those very cool things I wish I had thought of first. Could've used it for sure.
Mood: restless
Drinking: cold coffee, black
Listening To: Lynard Skynard, Freebird
Hair: still long and shaggy
If It's Words You're After
I blogged five times yesterday. I should calculate my average daily word count since moving to Sackville . . . if I could translate even half of it into fiction writing on my various projects I would be laughing.
I've made up my mind . . . not taking the creative writing course at Mount A this fall. Quite simply can't afford it and was getting really stressed about the creative accounting I was going to have to do in order to swing it. I couldn't come up with a concrete good reason to completely starve myself for however many years it would take me to pay off the credit card. Other than the weight loss that might entail, though I'm sure I would pay dearly in the arthritis department. Taking the course would probably set me back financially for at least five years. Five years of hardship at this stage of my life is not appealing. I just can't do it when I don't know why I'm doing it, what difference it will make in my life. It's ONE course, not a degree . . . a degree that wouldn't help me make more money anyway. The only difference I could see was way less sleep as I struggled to stay on top of the course while continuing to work on BnM and with the WFNB. No publishing guarantees. No guarantee I'd learn anything that I can't find out on my own by reading and writing. So, that's that then, I'm not going. Maybe some other time, but not this year. It's just too much, too soon, and I'm not up for it on so many different levels.
The gardeners were here earlier this morning. People think I'm joking when I say that, well that is until they come here and see the place. There is no shortage of lawn and trees and flowers and ferns and all kinds of beautiful things. It smells wonderful! And with my favourite landlord being in Montreal a lot of the time, there are many people who come and go caring for the property.
There are the gardeners. Two strapping young gentlemen who show off their bronze muscles when they work shirtless and one older man who just sits on the truck tailgate and motions with his hands while he smokes. There is the contractor, who is doing all the renos next door in preparation for the students moving in at the end of next month. He's here now too actually, and today he's got a skinny little boy with him, probably around 12 or 13 years old. Maybe his grandson? The kid keeps swearing and the man keeps shushing him. Having met the contractor (but only once and I can't for the life of me remember his name) he does not seem like the type of man to curse very often. So the child is probably getting on his last nerve with all his trash talk.
There's the plumber. Very French. He spent the day in my apartment one time if you remember. Nice enough fellow. Very quiet. There's the business partner, who I think co-owns other properties with the landlord. There's the girl who picks up his mail for him while he's away. A full cast really. You never know who will be in the dooryard when you wake up in the morning . . . kind of like living at Marty's come to think of it . . . only much more decent and human. I'm never afraid of the people in the dooryard here. Well, I haven't been up to this point . . . with four students moving in next door . . . who the hell knows what sort of craziness might happen.
I'm hoping they are mature and serious students, but not snobs. Nice. But not loud. It's a tall order I think . . . and three of them are boys. I'm praying for nice boys and not bringing home a different girl every night of the week, rugby-playing, loud, obnoxious, jock-like boys. If the place turns into some sort of frat house, I will lose my mind. The perfect boys would be shy cuties, studious, intelligent . . . is it too much to ask for virgins? Probably. Inexperienced will do. I want them to be the kind of students who go to class and then stay all night at the library and only come home to sleep, shower and go back to school. Lord knows what I'll get.
Mood: fuzzy-headed
Drinking: fuzzy coffee
Listening To: fuzzy machinery
Hair: FUZZY
I've made up my mind . . . not taking the creative writing course at Mount A this fall. Quite simply can't afford it and was getting really stressed about the creative accounting I was going to have to do in order to swing it. I couldn't come up with a concrete good reason to completely starve myself for however many years it would take me to pay off the credit card. Other than the weight loss that might entail, though I'm sure I would pay dearly in the arthritis department. Taking the course would probably set me back financially for at least five years. Five years of hardship at this stage of my life is not appealing. I just can't do it when I don't know why I'm doing it, what difference it will make in my life. It's ONE course, not a degree . . . a degree that wouldn't help me make more money anyway. The only difference I could see was way less sleep as I struggled to stay on top of the course while continuing to work on BnM and with the WFNB. No publishing guarantees. No guarantee I'd learn anything that I can't find out on my own by reading and writing. So, that's that then, I'm not going. Maybe some other time, but not this year. It's just too much, too soon, and I'm not up for it on so many different levels.
The gardeners were here earlier this morning. People think I'm joking when I say that, well that is until they come here and see the place. There is no shortage of lawn and trees and flowers and ferns and all kinds of beautiful things. It smells wonderful! And with my favourite landlord being in Montreal a lot of the time, there are many people who come and go caring for the property.
There are the gardeners. Two strapping young gentlemen who show off their bronze muscles when they work shirtless and one older man who just sits on the truck tailgate and motions with his hands while he smokes. There is the contractor, who is doing all the renos next door in preparation for the students moving in at the end of next month. He's here now too actually, and today he's got a skinny little boy with him, probably around 12 or 13 years old. Maybe his grandson? The kid keeps swearing and the man keeps shushing him. Having met the contractor (but only once and I can't for the life of me remember his name) he does not seem like the type of man to curse very often. So the child is probably getting on his last nerve with all his trash talk.
There's the plumber. Very French. He spent the day in my apartment one time if you remember. Nice enough fellow. Very quiet. There's the business partner, who I think co-owns other properties with the landlord. There's the girl who picks up his mail for him while he's away. A full cast really. You never know who will be in the dooryard when you wake up in the morning . . . kind of like living at Marty's come to think of it . . . only much more decent and human. I'm never afraid of the people in the dooryard here. Well, I haven't been up to this point . . . with four students moving in next door . . . who the hell knows what sort of craziness might happen.
I'm hoping they are mature and serious students, but not snobs. Nice. But not loud. It's a tall order I think . . . and three of them are boys. I'm praying for nice boys and not bringing home a different girl every night of the week, rugby-playing, loud, obnoxious, jock-like boys. If the place turns into some sort of frat house, I will lose my mind. The perfect boys would be shy cuties, studious, intelligent . . . is it too much to ask for virgins? Probably. Inexperienced will do. I want them to be the kind of students who go to class and then stay all night at the library and only come home to sleep, shower and go back to school. Lord knows what I'll get.
Mood: fuzzy-headed
Drinking: fuzzy coffee
Listening To: fuzzy machinery
Hair: FUZZY
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
After the Storm
One of the literary sites I like a lot is featuring Italian translations this month. Check it out. I am.
The thunderstorm was a bad one, lightning and thunder happening simultaneously and constantly. Windows rattling. Floor vibrating. House shaking. I worried about Mom and kids crossing the Confederation Bridge today in all this wind and rain. Knowing Jenn and Jason, they probably left at the crack of dawn though and had already arrived before bad weather struck. Mom is a nervous wreck about driving after that fun trip to Sackville with Dad at the helm on Sunday. Next time she's driving, she says. THAT is how bad that whole thing was. I'm convinced only my overwhelming positive energy and focus kept us from being in an accident. There is no logical reason why that truck didn't hit us.
The storm was so bad I fled the loft fearing the roof might get picked up and carried away. I went downstairs into the front room with my favourite chair and all my books. Comfort. Some peace. A sense of security. And the spider. That damn spider, hanging out on the floor, spinning his web. I read poetry out loud to calm my nerves and he seemed to listen, dashing across the floor, wagging his long legs or staying perfectly still as the poem demanded. The longer the storm lasted, the more time I spent studying the spider, seeing how fast he could scurry when spooked, the more I disliked our co-habitation arrangement. Still, I might have let it continue if I hadn't envisioned walking into him in the middle of the night, dangling from his web right in front of my face, if I hadn't thought about him getting in my hair and falling down the back of my shirt, if he hadn't suddenly sprinted toward me like a bull on the attack . . . I could have let him live.
But hey, I warned him to stay out of sight. It's not my fault he didn't listen.
The thunderstorm was a bad one, lightning and thunder happening simultaneously and constantly. Windows rattling. Floor vibrating. House shaking. I worried about Mom and kids crossing the Confederation Bridge today in all this wind and rain. Knowing Jenn and Jason, they probably left at the crack of dawn though and had already arrived before bad weather struck. Mom is a nervous wreck about driving after that fun trip to Sackville with Dad at the helm on Sunday. Next time she's driving, she says. THAT is how bad that whole thing was. I'm convinced only my overwhelming positive energy and focus kept us from being in an accident. There is no logical reason why that truck didn't hit us.
The storm was so bad I fled the loft fearing the roof might get picked up and carried away. I went downstairs into the front room with my favourite chair and all my books. Comfort. Some peace. A sense of security. And the spider. That damn spider, hanging out on the floor, spinning his web. I read poetry out loud to calm my nerves and he seemed to listen, dashing across the floor, wagging his long legs or staying perfectly still as the poem demanded. The longer the storm lasted, the more time I spent studying the spider, seeing how fast he could scurry when spooked, the more I disliked our co-habitation arrangement. Still, I might have let it continue if I hadn't envisioned walking into him in the middle of the night, dangling from his web right in front of my face, if I hadn't thought about him getting in my hair and falling down the back of my shirt, if he hadn't suddenly sprinted toward me like a bull on the attack . . . I could have let him live.
But hey, I warned him to stay out of sight. It's not my fault he didn't listen.
And More Critters
At least once a week a flock of blackbirds descends upon the house. It's insane! I heard them coming today. Probably 40 or 50 of them. They're in the trees, on the roof, walking around the yard, swooping by my window . . . and they are pissed! Not a good thing for anyone into Hitchcock. Squawking, fighting amongst themselves. I stood in the window and watched them for about 10 minutes. It's crazy the way they attack each other. There was one on the pavement right below my window. He seemed to be sneaking along, trying not draw any attention to himself, bobbing his head almost like a pigeon when he walked, pretending to be cool. A gust of wind ripped into the ground close to him and stirred up some dead leaves . . . scaring the shit out him. He jumped and screamed like a child. Funny stuff. While I was watching a chipmunk ran by. Lots of critters here.
BRIGHT IDEA! Do they come on garbage day every week? Hmmm. Something to think about.
Must run. Thunderstorm moving in and all the windows are open.
Mood: wired . . . as evidenced by the amount of posting done already today and it's not even noon yet
Drinking: coffee, dark like the day
Listening To: Billy Joel, You May Be Right
Hair: dreaming of platinum blonde, choppy layers, straightened
BRIGHT IDEA! Do they come on garbage day every week? Hmmm. Something to think about.
Must run. Thunderstorm moving in and all the windows are open.
Mood: wired . . . as evidenced by the amount of posting done already today and it's not even noon yet
Drinking: coffee, dark like the day
Listening To: Billy Joel, You May Be Right
Hair: dreaming of platinum blonde, choppy layers, straightened
Spoke too Soon
The spider has moved to the floor . . . and still I can't kill him. I mean I CAN kill him, much easier than on the carpet, but I just don't have the heart for it. I keep walking by and urging him to go hide someplace where I can't see him. So far, no luck. I would like to take him outside somehow . . . but would he be like a "house spider" now? Unable to survive in the wild? Like a cat declawed? Would the bigger badder outside bugs destroy him instantly? And why am I so worried about the fate of this bug. I HATE spiders!! What's wrong with me?
Cure for Writer's Block
Another meme!
Have you honestly ever...?
1. ... got so drunk u woke up in an unfamiliar bed?
Sadly, yes. But really, I don't drink that much anymore . . . unless it's a special occasion, I'm on vacation, it's my birthday, I'm cooking Italian, I've gone home for the weekend, the sun is shining . . . nah, I'm just kidding. I've woken up and been confused for a second or two about where I am, but that can happen drunk or sober with me. I've never woken up wondering where the hell I am and who is that guy over there. I've always been able to figure it out, given a minute.
I remember a party in Toronto though, one of those insane ones where MB would bring home everyone from the bar, whether she knew them or not and they would stay for days, sometimes a week (is it any wonder I found it difficult to study?) This one time, I remember falling asleep upstairs in the big room with all the beds. There were so many people crashed in this one double bed that I was just clinging to the edge for dear life. I woke up and looked over to the other bed, saw Bob and a little guy (is dwarf a p.c. term?) all alone in this other bed, snuggled in together. The next time I woke up, Bob was alone in the bed.
Things would always turn up after these parties, stuff left behind (I found a double-headed dildo after a party once in my room, even though it was off limits and closed up). So after this party there was a pair of shoes left on the tray by the door. Nobody knew who owned them, nobody every came back to claim them. (Nobody ever claimed the dildo either actually. I always wondered where it came from, how it got into my locked room.)
MB ran into the little guy on the street about six weeks later. Turns out they were his shoes. Apparently, he woke up that morning to find himself in bed with Bob, quite snuggly, and fled the scene barefoot, went straight to re-hab and dried himself out. Maybe you would have to know Bob to understand why this is so funny.
2. ... got so pissed that you almost strangled someone?
Oh hell yeah! My father knows what buttons to push to make me see red. I've been trying to strangle him since I was just a little girl . . . we do better when we're further apart. The Toronto years were the best we've ever had. But Sackville is turning out not too shabby.
3. ... got so hungry you feel like eating your own flesh?
Not so much, no. The longer I go without food, the less hungry I get. I run the risk of ceasing to nourish myself if I start skipping meals and things. It's easy for me to fall back into those sorts of destructive patterns. I've been hungry enough to try some food I normally wouldn't, but never my own flesh.
4. ... got so addicted to something that got you in trouble?
Hmmm, I do have a kind of easily addictive personality . . . like for video games, food kicks (I was on popcorn, but have moved on to granny smith apples, olives and cherries), certain drugs, and so on . . . but have I ever got in trouble? Well, that would depend on your definition of trouble. Some might say so, but I think not.
5. ... got so sick you feel like dying?
High school graduation. A solid week of fuzzy navels. Sickness like never before or since. I stumbled home after . . . what was it? Prom night maybe? Stumbled home around 2 in the afternoon, crawled to the couch and hung on for dear life. My family were all away at the camp without me but Mom and Dad dropped in for a minute to pick some stuff up. I begged them to take me with them because I thought I was going to die.
And they didn't want to. Didn't want the relatives to see me in this state. They were going to leave me there to die rather than suffer the embarrassment of having me around. Somehow I found the strength to get up and crawl to the car, climb in and refuse to leave. Begged my father to buy ice cream at the store, fudgesicles. And after much begging he finally gave in. The fudgesicle saved my life, I'm sure.
I made it into the trailer at the camp and spent a very long time on the couch there, recovering. Many years passed before I could eat anything peach or orange flavoured. And I mean MANY years. Like at least 10. That's how sick I was.
Close behind this incident is New Year's Day 2000 . . . projectile vomiting even the fudgesicle couldn't fix. Not my best moment for sure. Not a high spot for me. I believe that might have been the defining moment of bottoming out where I realised I needed to make some changes and I needed to do it quickly. It was a hulluva day, but I can honestly say everyone since then has improved upon the last.
Have I ever been sick naturally without drinking myself there? Yes. Kidney infection in Toronto left undiagnosed and untreated for at least six months. On the last day all I could do was curl into the fetal and cry. Kevin literally had to pick me up in that position and carry me to the Emergency Room. The doctor said in one more day my kidney would have ruptured and I would've been in serious trouble, could have even died. It certainly felt like I was dying . . . or I should say it hurt so bad I prayed I would die and end the pain. But luckily it was all okay after a round of antibiotics.
Tagging anyone who wants to play!
Have you honestly ever...?
1. ... got so drunk u woke up in an unfamiliar bed?
Sadly, yes. But really, I don't drink that much anymore . . . unless it's a special occasion, I'm on vacation, it's my birthday, I'm cooking Italian, I've gone home for the weekend, the sun is shining . . . nah, I'm just kidding. I've woken up and been confused for a second or two about where I am, but that can happen drunk or sober with me. I've never woken up wondering where the hell I am and who is that guy over there. I've always been able to figure it out, given a minute.
I remember a party in Toronto though, one of those insane ones where MB would bring home everyone from the bar, whether she knew them or not and they would stay for days, sometimes a week (is it any wonder I found it difficult to study?) This one time, I remember falling asleep upstairs in the big room with all the beds. There were so many people crashed in this one double bed that I was just clinging to the edge for dear life. I woke up and looked over to the other bed, saw Bob and a little guy (is dwarf a p.c. term?) all alone in this other bed, snuggled in together. The next time I woke up, Bob was alone in the bed.
Things would always turn up after these parties, stuff left behind (I found a double-headed dildo after a party once in my room, even though it was off limits and closed up). So after this party there was a pair of shoes left on the tray by the door. Nobody knew who owned them, nobody every came back to claim them. (Nobody ever claimed the dildo either actually. I always wondered where it came from, how it got into my locked room.)
MB ran into the little guy on the street about six weeks later. Turns out they were his shoes. Apparently, he woke up that morning to find himself in bed with Bob, quite snuggly, and fled the scene barefoot, went straight to re-hab and dried himself out. Maybe you would have to know Bob to understand why this is so funny.
2. ... got so pissed that you almost strangled someone?
Oh hell yeah! My father knows what buttons to push to make me see red. I've been trying to strangle him since I was just a little girl . . . we do better when we're further apart. The Toronto years were the best we've ever had. But Sackville is turning out not too shabby.
3. ... got so hungry you feel like eating your own flesh?
Not so much, no. The longer I go without food, the less hungry I get. I run the risk of ceasing to nourish myself if I start skipping meals and things. It's easy for me to fall back into those sorts of destructive patterns. I've been hungry enough to try some food I normally wouldn't, but never my own flesh.
4. ... got so addicted to something that got you in trouble?
Hmmm, I do have a kind of easily addictive personality . . . like for video games, food kicks (I was on popcorn, but have moved on to granny smith apples, olives and cherries), certain drugs, and so on . . . but have I ever got in trouble? Well, that would depend on your definition of trouble. Some might say so, but I think not.
5. ... got so sick you feel like dying?
High school graduation. A solid week of fuzzy navels. Sickness like never before or since. I stumbled home after . . . what was it? Prom night maybe? Stumbled home around 2 in the afternoon, crawled to the couch and hung on for dear life. My family were all away at the camp without me but Mom and Dad dropped in for a minute to pick some stuff up. I begged them to take me with them because I thought I was going to die.
And they didn't want to. Didn't want the relatives to see me in this state. They were going to leave me there to die rather than suffer the embarrassment of having me around. Somehow I found the strength to get up and crawl to the car, climb in and refuse to leave. Begged my father to buy ice cream at the store, fudgesicles. And after much begging he finally gave in. The fudgesicle saved my life, I'm sure.
I made it into the trailer at the camp and spent a very long time on the couch there, recovering. Many years passed before I could eat anything peach or orange flavoured. And I mean MANY years. Like at least 10. That's how sick I was.
Close behind this incident is New Year's Day 2000 . . . projectile vomiting even the fudgesicle couldn't fix. Not my best moment for sure. Not a high spot for me. I believe that might have been the defining moment of bottoming out where I realised I needed to make some changes and I needed to do it quickly. It was a hulluva day, but I can honestly say everyone since then has improved upon the last.
Have I ever been sick naturally without drinking myself there? Yes. Kidney infection in Toronto left undiagnosed and untreated for at least six months. On the last day all I could do was curl into the fetal and cry. Kevin literally had to pick me up in that position and carry me to the Emergency Room. The doctor said in one more day my kidney would have ruptured and I would've been in serious trouble, could have even died. It certainly felt like I was dying . . . or I should say it hurt so bad I prayed I would die and end the pain. But luckily it was all okay after a round of antibiotics.
Tagging anyone who wants to play!
We are all God's Critters
Is it possible to eat too many black olives? I seem to be obsessed by pits . . . olives, cherries . . . I've been grocery shopping and it's all yummy! I actually got some good sales on meat today at the Save-Easy! Quite the feat, I gotta say. No chicken of course, or ground beef . . . nothing that I could use for tacos, but hey I've got pork and lots of it! Hmmm, maybe I could make pork tacos? It is the other white meat . . . might work . . .
I seem to be embracing the critters that share my house. There is a rather large spider who lives on the stairs. I've tried stepping on him, but he keeps getting away, I guess the carpet cushions him or something, impossible to squish. So, we're co-habitating. He makes webs, catches flies, EATS THEM, and I dust the web away in the morning. It's becoming a pattern. And I'm okay with it. As long as he stays on the stairs where I'm expecting to see him. Should he come up here, into the kitchen, or anywhere off the carpet down there, he's toast. I've told him so. He seems to accept that for now.
A few minutes ago I went down to the bathroom, snapped on the light, looked in the mirrow and saw a HUGE moth resting on my chest. SCREAMED. Then gathered him into a towel carefully and released him outside . . . what is going on? Where is my killer instinct? I'm letting bugs live. Something is afoot.
Oh my God! Chills from that guy singing Lola! Wow! He's hot! What the hell is his name? Mig? Australia? Sweet Jesus, I'm loving this show!
Mood: a little spooked
Drinking: coffee (yes, I am aware of the time, no sleep for the wicked, right?)
Listening To: Rock Star INXS on the tube behind me
Hair: coming undone
I seem to be embracing the critters that share my house. There is a rather large spider who lives on the stairs. I've tried stepping on him, but he keeps getting away, I guess the carpet cushions him or something, impossible to squish. So, we're co-habitating. He makes webs, catches flies, EATS THEM, and I dust the web away in the morning. It's becoming a pattern. And I'm okay with it. As long as he stays on the stairs where I'm expecting to see him. Should he come up here, into the kitchen, or anywhere off the carpet down there, he's toast. I've told him so. He seems to accept that for now.
A few minutes ago I went down to the bathroom, snapped on the light, looked in the mirrow and saw a HUGE moth resting on my chest. SCREAMED. Then gathered him into a towel carefully and released him outside . . . what is going on? Where is my killer instinct? I'm letting bugs live. Something is afoot.
Oh my God! Chills from that guy singing Lola! Wow! He's hot! What the hell is his name? Mig? Australia? Sweet Jesus, I'm loving this show!
Mood: a little spooked
Drinking: coffee (yes, I am aware of the time, no sleep for the wicked, right?)
Listening To: Rock Star INXS on the tube behind me
Hair: coming undone
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Memories of Mount A
The sky here is absolutely amazing, great cloud pictures happening. One night last week there was a vanilla sky and I stopped for 10 minutes to study it before it mutated into something else. A memory came to me last night of when we came here for the drama festival when I was a kid. Not sure what year that would have been. '85? '86? Maybe. I know it wasn't the first festival I went to and it wasn't the last, but it was the only one not hosted by UNB/St. Thomas in Fredericton.
At some point the teacher chaperones had taken us for a walk about town and we noticed a pool hall/arcade (bar maybe?) It's fuzzy whether we slipped away right then and met local boys or whether it happened later, but no matter, we did meet some local boys and promised to meet up with them later in the evening. Our dorm room was on the first or second floor. Not too high for jumping out . . . but as it turned out too high for climbing back in. There were a bunch of us who planned to go. Stacy and I went first and I thought the rest were right behind us . . . but when we ran down to the boys waiting in the car it turned out it was just me and Stace.
Not sure what we did really. I know there was driving around. I know I was in the middle of the back seat between two boys. I know there was drinking . . . maybe some hash (it's fuzzy). I know we drove around some, but not sure if we went in anyplace. I remember the police lights behind us and pulling over and being a little bit concerned that we would have to walk back to campus from the highway, a moment where I was figuring out the lay of the land in my head and gauging the walk, wondering how out of it Stacy was, whether she had any better understanding of where we were or whether it would be all on me to get us out of here.
It seems like the driver had to blow the breathalyzer. It's fuzzy whether he was actually charged with impaired. I'm pretty sure all our open liquor was confiscated. But I'm not certain of anything anymore. Maybe we got away. I remember thinking that these boys weren't the sort of boys that we usually hung out with, they were nervous about the police, jittery, really freaked out. I remember thinking they probably had never done anything like this before, maybe they were geeky boys trying to impress us with their bad boy attitudes. I thought that was kind of sweet.
Regardless of what happened with the police, we didn't have to leave the car . . . I don't think, unless I've completely blocked out a ride in the cop cruiser. I do know we didn't walk back to campus, we got dropped off. Staggered up to the dorm, realised we couldn't climb back into the window, sucked it up, prepared to take our punishment, and walked through the front door into the lobby. There were teachers there. Mr. Hendry was one. It was long after curfew, quite late in drama festival terms, I'd say going on midnight anyway. We walked through the lobby, past the teachers, and up to our rooms without anyone so much as saying boo to us. It was amazing! We couldn't believe it. In our drunken/high state we wondered if we hadn't been invisible for a few minutes or something.
Back in the rooms, the other girls explained how they'd been caught trying to leave campus and reamed out by the teachers, lectured about safety and all that. Threatened about priveleges being taken away, school suspension, and so on. They couldn't believe we had gotten away and even more incredibly that we'd come back through the front door in plain sight of all the teachers. The rest of the girls hated us!
But sometimes I wonder about it. I know Mr. Hendry saw us. He gave us that thin lipped hands on his hips nod of disapproval. But we didn't get any lecture. We weren't punished. He might have asked us the next day not to wander so far away or something, but no trying to put the fear of Jesus into us. And I've always wondered why that was. Why could Stacy and I get away with things that other kids couldn't? Why were we allowed to write tests over and over until we passed them when other kids would just fail? Why was I allowed to make up English assignments in my head on the spot and present them orally rather than in written format like everyone else? I used to think it was because we were smart. I mean we had been labelled smart from elementary school, pulled out of the class to do more difficult work than our peers. Part of a group of 10 kids who were supposed to be smarter than anyone else. I still meet people I went to school with and the first thing out of their mouths is about how smart I always was in school. And I'm like no, no I wasn't, I never did any work in high school. And they don't believe me.
I used to think it was because we were smart, but sometimes I wonder if it wasn't because we were pretty and sexually adventurous and always hanging out with people a lot older than we were. When you think about it, a lot of our friends weren't that much younger than what the teachers would have been at the time. These were young teachers, just starting out. And we were flirtatious, with teachers, with cops, with the minister, with everyone. It was a time of testing boundaries and seeing just how far you could go. My motto as a teen was to try everything at least once. If it was there for the doing, I wanted to do it. I was fearless and reckless and dangerous and a terrible worry to my parents. May my sisters not have any of their children inherit that destructive gene from me!
Anyway, that's my almost-memory of Mount A. I've been on campus and can't recall at all where our dorm was or anything. I've been around town and can't recall where that arcade/pool hall might have been. It's all a little fuzzy. But I do remember Mr. Hendry standing in the lobby when we got back, very clearly. I remember getting away with stuff that other girls couldn't.
Mood: Boppy
Drinking: Tea, King Cole with a dash of cream (i'm all outta milk . . . i'm all outta lot of things)
Listening To: The Dandy Warhols, Easy
Hair: can't find the dieppe salon in the phone book . . . perhaps I've forgotten the name, got mixed up somehow . . . it happens, when you drink multiple glasses of wine
At some point the teacher chaperones had taken us for a walk about town and we noticed a pool hall/arcade (bar maybe?) It's fuzzy whether we slipped away right then and met local boys or whether it happened later, but no matter, we did meet some local boys and promised to meet up with them later in the evening. Our dorm room was on the first or second floor. Not too high for jumping out . . . but as it turned out too high for climbing back in. There were a bunch of us who planned to go. Stacy and I went first and I thought the rest were right behind us . . . but when we ran down to the boys waiting in the car it turned out it was just me and Stace.
Not sure what we did really. I know there was driving around. I know I was in the middle of the back seat between two boys. I know there was drinking . . . maybe some hash (it's fuzzy). I know we drove around some, but not sure if we went in anyplace. I remember the police lights behind us and pulling over and being a little bit concerned that we would have to walk back to campus from the highway, a moment where I was figuring out the lay of the land in my head and gauging the walk, wondering how out of it Stacy was, whether she had any better understanding of where we were or whether it would be all on me to get us out of here.
It seems like the driver had to blow the breathalyzer. It's fuzzy whether he was actually charged with impaired. I'm pretty sure all our open liquor was confiscated. But I'm not certain of anything anymore. Maybe we got away. I remember thinking that these boys weren't the sort of boys that we usually hung out with, they were nervous about the police, jittery, really freaked out. I remember thinking they probably had never done anything like this before, maybe they were geeky boys trying to impress us with their bad boy attitudes. I thought that was kind of sweet.
Regardless of what happened with the police, we didn't have to leave the car . . . I don't think, unless I've completely blocked out a ride in the cop cruiser. I do know we didn't walk back to campus, we got dropped off. Staggered up to the dorm, realised we couldn't climb back into the window, sucked it up, prepared to take our punishment, and walked through the front door into the lobby. There were teachers there. Mr. Hendry was one. It was long after curfew, quite late in drama festival terms, I'd say going on midnight anyway. We walked through the lobby, past the teachers, and up to our rooms without anyone so much as saying boo to us. It was amazing! We couldn't believe it. In our drunken/high state we wondered if we hadn't been invisible for a few minutes or something.
Back in the rooms, the other girls explained how they'd been caught trying to leave campus and reamed out by the teachers, lectured about safety and all that. Threatened about priveleges being taken away, school suspension, and so on. They couldn't believe we had gotten away and even more incredibly that we'd come back through the front door in plain sight of all the teachers. The rest of the girls hated us!
But sometimes I wonder about it. I know Mr. Hendry saw us. He gave us that thin lipped hands on his hips nod of disapproval. But we didn't get any lecture. We weren't punished. He might have asked us the next day not to wander so far away or something, but no trying to put the fear of Jesus into us. And I've always wondered why that was. Why could Stacy and I get away with things that other kids couldn't? Why were we allowed to write tests over and over until we passed them when other kids would just fail? Why was I allowed to make up English assignments in my head on the spot and present them orally rather than in written format like everyone else? I used to think it was because we were smart. I mean we had been labelled smart from elementary school, pulled out of the class to do more difficult work than our peers. Part of a group of 10 kids who were supposed to be smarter than anyone else. I still meet people I went to school with and the first thing out of their mouths is about how smart I always was in school. And I'm like no, no I wasn't, I never did any work in high school. And they don't believe me.
I used to think it was because we were smart, but sometimes I wonder if it wasn't because we were pretty and sexually adventurous and always hanging out with people a lot older than we were. When you think about it, a lot of our friends weren't that much younger than what the teachers would have been at the time. These were young teachers, just starting out. And we were flirtatious, with teachers, with cops, with the minister, with everyone. It was a time of testing boundaries and seeing just how far you could go. My motto as a teen was to try everything at least once. If it was there for the doing, I wanted to do it. I was fearless and reckless and dangerous and a terrible worry to my parents. May my sisters not have any of their children inherit that destructive gene from me!
Anyway, that's my almost-memory of Mount A. I've been on campus and can't recall at all where our dorm was or anything. I've been around town and can't recall where that arcade/pool hall might have been. It's all a little fuzzy. But I do remember Mr. Hendry standing in the lobby when we got back, very clearly. I remember getting away with stuff that other girls couldn't.
Mood: Boppy
Drinking: Tea, King Cole with a dash of cream (i'm all outta milk . . . i'm all outta lot of things)
Listening To: The Dandy Warhols, Easy
Hair: can't find the dieppe salon in the phone book . . . perhaps I've forgotten the name, got mixed up somehow . . . it happens, when you drink multiple glasses of wine
Monday, July 25, 2005
Rainy Day Blah-ness
Blah! It's a dark day, rain, chance of a thundershower. Makes me seriously sleepy. I could just curl up and nap for a few hours if I thought I'd ever be able to get to sleep again later tonight. Finding it very difficult to concentrate on work this afternoon.
Turned on the tv and watched five minutes of that soap opera, Passions. Hadn't seen it in I don't know how many years and yet all the same love triangles are intact. How on earth do people watch it every single day when nothing ever happens? That's why I like foreign soaps better like Home and Away and Cornation Street, they pack a lot of stuff into a half-hour. It's quick. Miss a single episode and your favourite character might be killed, buried, and long forgotten. Not that I watch Cornation Street very often, just sometimes on Sunday mornings.
I'm getting out of tv again it seems. A blessing of sorts, means I'll write more at least. As long as the new fall season doesn't suck me in, I'm good. Haven't even been watching too many dvds lately, and haven't bought any since my birthday! This is some sort of record for me for sure.
Stacy and I went to the Rogers sale on Saturday where there were plenty of 2 for $15 deals and then to Blockbuster, which seemed to have a huge new selection . . . and I bought nothing! Nada! Zip! I would like to say I showed incredible restraint, but really, I just wasn't all that interested. I think I'm getting all caught up in my head again, you know where the stories happening in there are just way more interesting than anything going on anywhere else. This new Merrin character is starting to take over. She's a funny girl and I just don't know what poor Duff is going to do with her. For now, they're co-habitating . . . but where does it all go? Does his wife come back? Does he fall in love with Merrin? And what part does his mother play in all this? I have no friggin' idea, just have to keep writing it down and see I guess.
I've never understood how some people can plot the whole thing in an outline before they start to write. I can't do that at all. I've tried but didn't get far before it fell flat. I never know what's coming until it does. It's kind of like I'm the first reader, like I'm taking dictation. When I'm truly connected with a piece, really feeling a character, I'm laughing out loud or gasping or crying or whatever the scene demands while I'm writing it down, just as if I was reading someone else's book. It's kind of weird, this creative process. Does that make me kind of weird too? My mother would say so.
Turned on the tv and watched five minutes of that soap opera, Passions. Hadn't seen it in I don't know how many years and yet all the same love triangles are intact. How on earth do people watch it every single day when nothing ever happens? That's why I like foreign soaps better like Home and Away and Cornation Street, they pack a lot of stuff into a half-hour. It's quick. Miss a single episode and your favourite character might be killed, buried, and long forgotten. Not that I watch Cornation Street very often, just sometimes on Sunday mornings.
I'm getting out of tv again it seems. A blessing of sorts, means I'll write more at least. As long as the new fall season doesn't suck me in, I'm good. Haven't even been watching too many dvds lately, and haven't bought any since my birthday! This is some sort of record for me for sure.
Stacy and I went to the Rogers sale on Saturday where there were plenty of 2 for $15 deals and then to Blockbuster, which seemed to have a huge new selection . . . and I bought nothing! Nada! Zip! I would like to say I showed incredible restraint, but really, I just wasn't all that interested. I think I'm getting all caught up in my head again, you know where the stories happening in there are just way more interesting than anything going on anywhere else. This new Merrin character is starting to take over. She's a funny girl and I just don't know what poor Duff is going to do with her. For now, they're co-habitating . . . but where does it all go? Does his wife come back? Does he fall in love with Merrin? And what part does his mother play in all this? I have no friggin' idea, just have to keep writing it down and see I guess.
I've never understood how some people can plot the whole thing in an outline before they start to write. I can't do that at all. I've tried but didn't get far before it fell flat. I never know what's coming until it does. It's kind of like I'm the first reader, like I'm taking dictation. When I'm truly connected with a piece, really feeling a character, I'm laughing out loud or gasping or crying or whatever the scene demands while I'm writing it down, just as if I was reading someone else's book. It's kind of weird, this creative process. Does that make me kind of weird too? My mother would say so.
Great Beginnings
What a great morning so far! I'm trying to incorporate my creative writing into my blogging time. The purpose of blogging in part has been to get me to loosen up on the editing part of my brain and get used to just letting the words hum. So when I blog I just let it pour out, mis-spelled words and all, post and be gone. It's taken awhile to get comfortable doing that. But I am now. So the trick has been to do the same thing with the fiction writing. And it's slowly been happening. I've been writing long hand in notebooks, which is somewhat freeing but not very practical because I can't write fast enough to keep up with my thoughts. I type much faster. One advantage of writing long hand was that it allowed me to see just how much editing I do in the first draft pre-writing stage, words scribbled out everywhere, new words scribbled in, just a mess to try and decipher really. And I shouldn't be editing when I'm writing, I should be writing. Editing can come later.
Blogging is helping me to turn the editor off and turn the writer on. This morning I took out a story I've been working on and I wrote a half page. It's a half page of pre-writing where basically I just figured out where this guy is coming from, what his name is, and who the main characters are in his life. It's straight-forward unedited narrative. At the beginning a note to myself to go back and show this part and how to do that most effectively. It will end up being a couple of pages at least. But for me, just the fact that I didn't go for those perfect couple of pages in the first sitting is a HUGE leap. Huge. This is progress. And I'm loving this story, these characters. It's kinda quirky, but fun. It seems like I have stories and characters coming out of the woodwork and tapping me on the shoulder all the time now saying, "Pay attention to me! Pick me now!" This is good.
Mood: glowing
Drinking: coffee, cream no sugar
Listening To: my fingers flying across the keyboard
Hair: untamed and tangled
Blogging is helping me to turn the editor off and turn the writer on. This morning I took out a story I've been working on and I wrote a half page. It's a half page of pre-writing where basically I just figured out where this guy is coming from, what his name is, and who the main characters are in his life. It's straight-forward unedited narrative. At the beginning a note to myself to go back and show this part and how to do that most effectively. It will end up being a couple of pages at least. But for me, just the fact that I didn't go for those perfect couple of pages in the first sitting is a HUGE leap. Huge. This is progress. And I'm loving this story, these characters. It's kinda quirky, but fun. It seems like I have stories and characters coming out of the woodwork and tapping me on the shoulder all the time now saying, "Pay attention to me! Pick me now!" This is good.
Mood: glowing
Drinking: coffee, cream no sugar
Listening To: my fingers flying across the keyboard
Hair: untamed and tangled
Dorothy Clicks Her Heels
Went home for the weekend. Flying trip. Visited with Jenn & Abby on Friday night for awhile. Spent the day in town with Stacy on Saturday. I tried on some dresses but didn't find anything to wear to the wedding. Looks like I'll be heading into Moncton to find something. We had dinner at Pizza Delight and Terry met up with us there. Exciting stuff happening with BnM soon. Saturday night went to Sherry & Gary's for their housewarming party. A family thing, kids and all. It was good to see the kids. They're growing up so quickly both in looks and in vocabularly. Jenn's kids had a lemonade stand on Sunday morning. Then Mom and Dad drove me back.
What a trip! Won't be doing that again anytime soon. My father really shouldn't have a license anymore I don't think. He asked at every exit if this was the one. EVERY one! And at first you kinda think he's just kidding, but then it becomes apparent that he's absolutely serious, he has no concept of the highway and distance. One serious near miss when we first got on the bigger highway with two lanes travelling the same way. We just got on and he seemed like he was going to exit again. I'm like get in the other lane. He put on his signal light, looked in the mirror and pulled right out in front of someone, said he didn't see them. It was a big white truck, right on the bumper . . . Mom's heart went in her throat there I'm sure. Then right in Sackville (which is NOT a complicated place to get around) I told him to get in the left turning lane at the lights and follow the car ahead of him. And the light was changing and he wasn't going and we were just sort of hanging out in the middle of one of the busiest intersections in town. Then when I said something about hurrying, the lights were changing, he said he didn't see any lights. He doesn't see ANYTHING!! And it's for real, not an act. He just can't drive anymore. Maybe around home . . . as long as they don't add any new road signs or lights . . . but the days of his road trips are over. I was terrified sending them home. But they made it okay, many hours later.
Next time I'm just taking the train. It's so much easier. And hardly anyone ever gets killed.
Mood: content
Drinking: nothing yet but coffee's on
Listening To: The Beta Band, Dry the Rain
Hair: soooo thick and unruly
What a trip! Won't be doing that again anytime soon. My father really shouldn't have a license anymore I don't think. He asked at every exit if this was the one. EVERY one! And at first you kinda think he's just kidding, but then it becomes apparent that he's absolutely serious, he has no concept of the highway and distance. One serious near miss when we first got on the bigger highway with two lanes travelling the same way. We just got on and he seemed like he was going to exit again. I'm like get in the other lane. He put on his signal light, looked in the mirror and pulled right out in front of someone, said he didn't see them. It was a big white truck, right on the bumper . . . Mom's heart went in her throat there I'm sure. Then right in Sackville (which is NOT a complicated place to get around) I told him to get in the left turning lane at the lights and follow the car ahead of him. And the light was changing and he wasn't going and we were just sort of hanging out in the middle of one of the busiest intersections in town. Then when I said something about hurrying, the lights were changing, he said he didn't see any lights. He doesn't see ANYTHING!! And it's for real, not an act. He just can't drive anymore. Maybe around home . . . as long as they don't add any new road signs or lights . . . but the days of his road trips are over. I was terrified sending them home. But they made it okay, many hours later.
Next time I'm just taking the train. It's so much easier. And hardly anyone ever gets killed.
Mood: content
Drinking: nothing yet but coffee's on
Listening To: The Beta Band, Dry the Rain
Hair: soooo thick and unruly
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Friday, July 22, 2005
By Request
And because I'm leaving for the weekend and will blog no more . . .
A subject close to my heart . . . Sleeping
1. Are your dreams usually in black and white or color?
Colour, always.
2. How many pillows do you usually sleep with?
Three
3. Describe, in as much detail as possible, the last dream you remember having?
Ummm, I've kind of been doing the coma sleep thing lately. The last dream I would've remembered I probably posted here. The Matt Damon one was good. Oh wait, I remember one I had last week that I don't think I posted. It was after the whole too arty for my book thing (yes Jenn, I know, I know, I've over it) That night I dreamed that Joe showed me piece of orange bristol board that was boxed off like a scoreboard, like something I would've done to keep track of a season of pool tournaments at the Powertrack. There were a bunch of names running down the left side, dates across the top, and then scores in the grid. My name was on the list with some really high scores. It turned out that there was some sort of open mic reading tournament going on every week and I had been participating. The audience voted for the pieces they thought were the most artistic. The season was nearly over and I had a substantial lead. Joe was like a cartoon character almost in his enthusiasm, giving me the thumbs up signal as he said, "See Kellie! You're doing great! Keep it up!" Too friggin' funny! But again, just goes to show how freaked out I was by that comment. It seeped into my dreams.
4. Do you share a bedroom with another person?
Nope, it's all mine!
5. What do you wear to bed? Do you wear pjs?
Not usually, only when company is around or I'm sleeping over someplace. Usually I just sleep in a t-shirt.
6. Do you have any habits that you do before going to sleep? Such as listening to music, reading, praying, etc?
I usually read for about 15 minutes.
7. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal? If so, what type of stuffed animal is it?
Actually, there is a coyote in my bed come to think of it.
8. What time do you usually go to sleep and when do you wake up?
Anywhere from 1-5 a.m. I go to bed, and I've been getting up between 7 and 10. I sleep around five hours usually.
9. What color blankets do you use when you sleep?
Purple
10. Finally... Have you ever woken up from a dream and thought that it really happened? If so, what was the dream and how did you react to it?
I have, I guess. I mean it must've been a dream, right? It couldn't be real because that would just be crazy . . . I think I suffer from something called sleep paralysis, where you're sleeping and thus paralysed and dreaming but also conscious at the same time. So dreams and the real world come together. Either that or I've been probed by aliens, fondled by spirits, and so on. What happened was I would feel someone get into bed beside me at night as I was trying to fall asleep. I would feel the blankets lift as the person climbed in beside me. I could feel the length of his body against mine, feel his arm and leg drape me as we spooned. This happened a few times and absolutely freaked the hell out of me, scared me to death, but I wouldn't be able to move or talk or anything. Once I felt his whiskers against my neck and once his breath against my ear as he said my name. I was terrified of this being. But it's so much nicer to think I was just dreaming, in sleep paralysis of course, because when I would suddenly snap out of it and move there was no coming to consciousness that you normally experience when you're dreaming. I would just suddenly be able to roll away or say something but my eyes would already be open and I'd be looking at the same wall I had been all along. In the movement, the being would vanish. Too many drugs when I was a kid? . . . OR not enough as an adult? This is the question.
Anyone top that for weirdness?
A subject close to my heart . . . Sleeping
1. Are your dreams usually in black and white or color?
Colour, always.
2. How many pillows do you usually sleep with?
Three
3. Describe, in as much detail as possible, the last dream you remember having?
Ummm, I've kind of been doing the coma sleep thing lately. The last dream I would've remembered I probably posted here. The Matt Damon one was good. Oh wait, I remember one I had last week that I don't think I posted. It was after the whole too arty for my book thing (yes Jenn, I know, I know, I've over it) That night I dreamed that Joe showed me piece of orange bristol board that was boxed off like a scoreboard, like something I would've done to keep track of a season of pool tournaments at the Powertrack. There were a bunch of names running down the left side, dates across the top, and then scores in the grid. My name was on the list with some really high scores. It turned out that there was some sort of open mic reading tournament going on every week and I had been participating. The audience voted for the pieces they thought were the most artistic. The season was nearly over and I had a substantial lead. Joe was like a cartoon character almost in his enthusiasm, giving me the thumbs up signal as he said, "See Kellie! You're doing great! Keep it up!" Too friggin' funny! But again, just goes to show how freaked out I was by that comment. It seeped into my dreams.
4. Do you share a bedroom with another person?
Nope, it's all mine!
5. What do you wear to bed? Do you wear pjs?
Not usually, only when company is around or I'm sleeping over someplace. Usually I just sleep in a t-shirt.
6. Do you have any habits that you do before going to sleep? Such as listening to music, reading, praying, etc?
I usually read for about 15 minutes.
7. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal? If so, what type of stuffed animal is it?
Actually, there is a coyote in my bed come to think of it.
8. What time do you usually go to sleep and when do you wake up?
Anywhere from 1-5 a.m. I go to bed, and I've been getting up between 7 and 10. I sleep around five hours usually.
9. What color blankets do you use when you sleep?
Purple
10. Finally... Have you ever woken up from a dream and thought that it really happened? If so, what was the dream and how did you react to it?
I have, I guess. I mean it must've been a dream, right? It couldn't be real because that would just be crazy . . . I think I suffer from something called sleep paralysis, where you're sleeping and thus paralysed and dreaming but also conscious at the same time. So dreams and the real world come together. Either that or I've been probed by aliens, fondled by spirits, and so on. What happened was I would feel someone get into bed beside me at night as I was trying to fall asleep. I would feel the blankets lift as the person climbed in beside me. I could feel the length of his body against mine, feel his arm and leg drape me as we spooned. This happened a few times and absolutely freaked the hell out of me, scared me to death, but I wouldn't be able to move or talk or anything. Once I felt his whiskers against my neck and once his breath against my ear as he said my name. I was terrified of this being. But it's so much nicer to think I was just dreaming, in sleep paralysis of course, because when I would suddenly snap out of it and move there was no coming to consciousness that you normally experience when you're dreaming. I would just suddenly be able to roll away or say something but my eyes would already be open and I'd be looking at the same wall I had been all along. In the movement, the being would vanish. Too many drugs when I was a kid? . . . OR not enough as an adult? This is the question.
Anyone top that for weirdness?
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Crumpled Photographs
You can tell I'm high into procrastination mode when I'm posting this many times today and me with soooo much stuff to do. But this just occured to me, so what can I do? Gotta write it down somewhere and this is the easiest place to spew. Plus something I read the other day kinda reminded me of this situation.
I was putting some things into a photo album, keepsakes from my trip, when I noticed a picture of me and Randy. A polaroid I snapped of the both of us cuddled together, smiling, laughing even, one night at the Powertrack. We look happy. No red eye. Big smiles. It's a pretty good shot actually.
Well, except for the fact that Randy took one look at it, snatched it out of my hand, crumpled it up, and threw it in the trash. So now the faces are all cracked, the picture warped and distorted. I remember when he did that I didn't understand why. I just thought he was really camera phobic or something. But it upset me because I really wanted a nice picture of us together. I fished it out of the trash, uncrumpled it, and kept it posted on my bulletin board until he got engaged to someone else a few months later.
So, why do I still have it? Why have I moved it into the album to keep forever or until I don't need it anymore? It's quite simple actually. It's there to remind myself that a photograph, much like a relationship, can mean two different things to two different people. I thought I was in love, thought I had a boyfriend, thought I was in a relationship that was going somewhere and wanted to celebrate and honour that in film.
He just wanted to get laid and have a few laughs until someone better came along, keep me on call so to speak, then destroy the evidence and forget about it. In his mind I was never in the running for anything long-term, I was a fun aside but best kept out of the public eye for fear of embarassment. It sounds harsh, but it's not really. I allowed myself to be treated poorly. I allowed myself to buy into dreams and illusions that were all in my head. The mind is a powerful thing, especially when it comes to things you think you want. But if you put yourself out there as someone easily taken advantage of, people will take advantage. That's what happened plain and simple. I basically came into the thing with a sign saying, "The worse you treat me, the better I'll like it."
On some level I knew, how could I not? The way he would whisk me off to motels but not take me to his place. The way he wouldn't ever come to my house for family functions or just to have a cup of tea. The way we never went out anywhere or did anything that didn't involve my work, his work or having sex. The way he never defended me against outrageous rumors he knew couldn't be true because he was there. There's a long list, way more than that. Plenty of evidence that he "just wasn't that into me."
I'm a completely different person now. What would it be 7 or 8 years later? The last five spent without any serious relationships at all, spent entirely on getting to know and love myself, so there'll be a whole person for someone else to get to know and love, not some desperate little girl looking for someone to save her and validate her existence. I've worked through problems within my family, father issues, mother issues, and even bigger issues. I'm damn proud of myself! And I love my life, every single moment of it, even when I'm stressed or sad or angry.
Still, I keep crumpled photographs so I'm never tempted to forget that if he's willing and eager to toss the picture, he's willing and eager to toss me too.
I was putting some things into a photo album, keepsakes from my trip, when I noticed a picture of me and Randy. A polaroid I snapped of the both of us cuddled together, smiling, laughing even, one night at the Powertrack. We look happy. No red eye. Big smiles. It's a pretty good shot actually.
Well, except for the fact that Randy took one look at it, snatched it out of my hand, crumpled it up, and threw it in the trash. So now the faces are all cracked, the picture warped and distorted. I remember when he did that I didn't understand why. I just thought he was really camera phobic or something. But it upset me because I really wanted a nice picture of us together. I fished it out of the trash, uncrumpled it, and kept it posted on my bulletin board until he got engaged to someone else a few months later.
So, why do I still have it? Why have I moved it into the album to keep forever or until I don't need it anymore? It's quite simple actually. It's there to remind myself that a photograph, much like a relationship, can mean two different things to two different people. I thought I was in love, thought I had a boyfriend, thought I was in a relationship that was going somewhere and wanted to celebrate and honour that in film.
He just wanted to get laid and have a few laughs until someone better came along, keep me on call so to speak, then destroy the evidence and forget about it. In his mind I was never in the running for anything long-term, I was a fun aside but best kept out of the public eye for fear of embarassment. It sounds harsh, but it's not really. I allowed myself to be treated poorly. I allowed myself to buy into dreams and illusions that were all in my head. The mind is a powerful thing, especially when it comes to things you think you want. But if you put yourself out there as someone easily taken advantage of, people will take advantage. That's what happened plain and simple. I basically came into the thing with a sign saying, "The worse you treat me, the better I'll like it."
On some level I knew, how could I not? The way he would whisk me off to motels but not take me to his place. The way he wouldn't ever come to my house for family functions or just to have a cup of tea. The way we never went out anywhere or did anything that didn't involve my work, his work or having sex. The way he never defended me against outrageous rumors he knew couldn't be true because he was there. There's a long list, way more than that. Plenty of evidence that he "just wasn't that into me."
I'm a completely different person now. What would it be 7 or 8 years later? The last five spent without any serious relationships at all, spent entirely on getting to know and love myself, so there'll be a whole person for someone else to get to know and love, not some desperate little girl looking for someone to save her and validate her existence. I've worked through problems within my family, father issues, mother issues, and even bigger issues. I'm damn proud of myself! And I love my life, every single moment of it, even when I'm stressed or sad or angry.
Still, I keep crumpled photographs so I'm never tempted to forget that if he's willing and eager to toss the picture, he's willing and eager to toss me too.
Figuring Me Out
Another meme --
10 years ago: I was celebrating my first anniversary of hell a.k.a. Living with Marty. In the first few months of the year I was doing some freelance writing. Then Marty got caught for impaired driving, I went to work at the MLHL call centre in order to take care of his son, Mike, while he was jail. Tough economic times, that. Lots of clever financial planning involved in taking care of a home and a teenage boy with his brood of friends on such a limited income.
5 years ago: I was writing full-time, completely unemployed, totally cynical about every aspect of life. That's the year Darren went to Edmonton . . . and not a moment too soon, I might add. I literally became a literary recluse. And did I ever produce a lot of work! Wow! In December of that year I went to work for VAS in Doaktown, but otherwise the whole year was just me and the keyboard producing page after page of writing.
One year ago: I was blogging, but I hadn't told anyone yet. I went to the Rock 'n Roll Festival with Stacy. And the fireworks on the wharf. God struck down the Rogers cell network so I could not hook up with that boy. Mother and I visited Sackville for a few days to see if it really was the place for me. My grandfather was slowly dying. I moved my office from the living room. My father and I were fighting constantly. I went to some poetry readings and took a poetry workshop. I was struggling to become creative again, at war with myself over the day job.
Yesterday: I went for a walk, got the mail, frigged with my camera, blogged, cooked pork and brown rice, ate granny apples, cheese and popcorn, drank at least 3L of water and 6 cups of coffee, tried to focus on work, listened to the recording of my reading in Fredericton from March, determined that I do indeed suck and need to try harder, wrote emails to lots of people, roughly started lining up some music to burn a mix for Sherry's party (Leonard Cohen anyone?), and watched that Rock Star INXS show for the first time (surprisingly enjoyable!)
Today: I procrastinated about everything I could, blogged, ate the brown rice and pork from yesterday, answered emails, talked to Elizabeth on the phone about tomorrow, did some editing, and oddly enough found myself lying on the futon watching Days of Our Lives this afternoon . . . feeling mindless, perhaps I'll accomplish more as we hit the evening and I gain my second wind.
Tomorrow: Elizabeth from Dieppe, Judy and Susan from Miramichi are coming to Sackville to workshop stories and spend the day. Then I'll be returning to the Miramichi with them for Sherry & Gary's party this weekend.
5 Snacks I enjoy: Snacking is what I do. A slow graze with very few meals. Popcorn, twizzlers, apples, nachos with cheese and salsa, black olives, pita and hummus . . . does wine count as a snack?
5 Bands or Singers I know the lyrics to most of their songs: Oh this could be embarrassing . . . ah-hem -- Rick Springfield, Ricky Scaggs, Bon Jovi, The Beach Boys, Janie Fricke
Things I would Do with $1, 000, 000: Pay off a lot of people's debt. Spoil the children rotten with lessons and books and sports . . . whatever they wanted. Invest wisely so I could spend the rest of my life travelling and know that Lee was taken care of.
5 Locations I would love to run away to: Alma. Yes, I do run away there quite often but I really love it there. I love the park, I love the water, I love the village, and I love the Sticky Buns! It's a breath of fresh air in this world and I get really centred whenever I go . . . well, when Sherry's not beating me with her shoes. The rest of the time, it's awesome. Toronto because I haven't been in far too long and I have friends there that I want to visit and I still get a little homesick sometimes when I see familiar places on tv or in photos. It's time to come back. Ireland because I'm obsessed with Irish film for one thing, because my family roots are buried there for another. I can't narrow it down to just Dublin or Belfast, I've got to see the whole thing. I'm certain the beauty of the country will blow my mind. And I'm sure these people know how to have a good time. Plus Bono is there and my boy Cillian. It's just a given for me. Italy is so high on the list of places to run away. Florence, Tuscany, Rome, all those little villages and villas in the countryside. Florence is one of those places I MUST get to or my life will have no meaning. And no, Italy is not all about the wine for me. It's the food too! And a little thing called art that they happen to have a good handle on. The history of the world is there. Shouldn't everyone go? Hmm, I need one more . . . difficult to narrow it down . . . I should say New York City because I always want to run away there or Paris even or maybe Amsterdam . . . but maybe I'll go with Alaska or Colorado instead and totally throw things off-kilter. I'm talking wilderness adventure. Nature.
5 bad habits I have: Come on, like I'm ever going to admit I have a bad habit . . .
5 things I like doing: I'll leave out writing, reading, watching movies, and drinking red wine, so as to not state the obvious. And instead go with cooking, dancing, traveling, singing and laughing.
5 things I would never wear: A bikini, thigh-high boots, oxfords with capris, light bottoms with dark tops, nose ring
5 TV Shows that I like: You all know I can be a junkie when it comes to tv . . . not so much recently though. Umm. Queer as Folk, The Shield, The Amazing Race, Sex and the City, Six Feet Under
5 Movies I Like: Extremely difficult! I like lots! Vanilla Sky, Fight Club, Platoon, The Wedding Singer, Almost Famous, Lost in Translation, Life is Beautiful, Titanic, Manhatten Murder Mystery, On the Edge, Intermission, 28 Days Later, Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, Bram Stoker's Dracula, Boogie Nights, Annie Hall -- oh man, I could go on forever.
5 Famous People I would like to meet: Cameron Crowe, Johnny Depp, Angelina Jolie, Tobias Wolff, Alice Munro, Bono . . . good grief, could go on and on with a list here too.
5 Biggest Joys in my Life at this Moment: my nieces and nephew, writing, living in Sackville, my involvement with the WFNB and/or writerly type events and people, my job
5 Favourite Toys: Well, that's a little intimate . . . soooo, I'll go with the corkscrew Stacy gave me for Christmas, the other corkscrew I purchased myself, oh and the corkscrew I carry in my purse at all times, my dvd player and I'd add my digital camera in there if I could actually get the fucking thing to work.
That's it! Tagging anyone up for it.
Mood: a little foggy
Drinking: nothing . . . but I'm thinking of giving a bottle of that homemade wine of Terry's another try . . .
Listening To: Smashing Pumpkins, Today
Hair: thinking about a short black bob
10 years ago: I was celebrating my first anniversary of hell a.k.a. Living with Marty. In the first few months of the year I was doing some freelance writing. Then Marty got caught for impaired driving, I went to work at the MLHL call centre in order to take care of his son, Mike, while he was jail. Tough economic times, that. Lots of clever financial planning involved in taking care of a home and a teenage boy with his brood of friends on such a limited income.
5 years ago: I was writing full-time, completely unemployed, totally cynical about every aspect of life. That's the year Darren went to Edmonton . . . and not a moment too soon, I might add. I literally became a literary recluse. And did I ever produce a lot of work! Wow! In December of that year I went to work for VAS in Doaktown, but otherwise the whole year was just me and the keyboard producing page after page of writing.
One year ago: I was blogging, but I hadn't told anyone yet. I went to the Rock 'n Roll Festival with Stacy. And the fireworks on the wharf. God struck down the Rogers cell network so I could not hook up with that boy. Mother and I visited Sackville for a few days to see if it really was the place for me. My grandfather was slowly dying. I moved my office from the living room. My father and I were fighting constantly. I went to some poetry readings and took a poetry workshop. I was struggling to become creative again, at war with myself over the day job.
Yesterday: I went for a walk, got the mail, frigged with my camera, blogged, cooked pork and brown rice, ate granny apples, cheese and popcorn, drank at least 3L of water and 6 cups of coffee, tried to focus on work, listened to the recording of my reading in Fredericton from March, determined that I do indeed suck and need to try harder, wrote emails to lots of people, roughly started lining up some music to burn a mix for Sherry's party (Leonard Cohen anyone?), and watched that Rock Star INXS show for the first time (surprisingly enjoyable!)
Today: I procrastinated about everything I could, blogged, ate the brown rice and pork from yesterday, answered emails, talked to Elizabeth on the phone about tomorrow, did some editing, and oddly enough found myself lying on the futon watching Days of Our Lives this afternoon . . . feeling mindless, perhaps I'll accomplish more as we hit the evening and I gain my second wind.
Tomorrow: Elizabeth from Dieppe, Judy and Susan from Miramichi are coming to Sackville to workshop stories and spend the day. Then I'll be returning to the Miramichi with them for Sherry & Gary's party this weekend.
5 Snacks I enjoy: Snacking is what I do. A slow graze with very few meals. Popcorn, twizzlers, apples, nachos with cheese and salsa, black olives, pita and hummus . . . does wine count as a snack?
5 Bands or Singers I know the lyrics to most of their songs: Oh this could be embarrassing . . . ah-hem -- Rick Springfield, Ricky Scaggs, Bon Jovi, The Beach Boys, Janie Fricke
Things I would Do with $1, 000, 000: Pay off a lot of people's debt. Spoil the children rotten with lessons and books and sports . . . whatever they wanted. Invest wisely so I could spend the rest of my life travelling and know that Lee was taken care of.
5 Locations I would love to run away to: Alma. Yes, I do run away there quite often but I really love it there. I love the park, I love the water, I love the village, and I love the Sticky Buns! It's a breath of fresh air in this world and I get really centred whenever I go . . . well, when Sherry's not beating me with her shoes. The rest of the time, it's awesome. Toronto because I haven't been in far too long and I have friends there that I want to visit and I still get a little homesick sometimes when I see familiar places on tv or in photos. It's time to come back. Ireland because I'm obsessed with Irish film for one thing, because my family roots are buried there for another. I can't narrow it down to just Dublin or Belfast, I've got to see the whole thing. I'm certain the beauty of the country will blow my mind. And I'm sure these people know how to have a good time. Plus Bono is there and my boy Cillian. It's just a given for me. Italy is so high on the list of places to run away. Florence, Tuscany, Rome, all those little villages and villas in the countryside. Florence is one of those places I MUST get to or my life will have no meaning. And no, Italy is not all about the wine for me. It's the food too! And a little thing called art that they happen to have a good handle on. The history of the world is there. Shouldn't everyone go? Hmm, I need one more . . . difficult to narrow it down . . . I should say New York City because I always want to run away there or Paris even or maybe Amsterdam . . . but maybe I'll go with Alaska or Colorado instead and totally throw things off-kilter. I'm talking wilderness adventure. Nature.
5 bad habits I have: Come on, like I'm ever going to admit I have a bad habit . . .
5 things I like doing: I'll leave out writing, reading, watching movies, and drinking red wine, so as to not state the obvious. And instead go with cooking, dancing, traveling, singing and laughing.
5 things I would never wear: A bikini, thigh-high boots, oxfords with capris, light bottoms with dark tops, nose ring
5 TV Shows that I like: You all know I can be a junkie when it comes to tv . . . not so much recently though. Umm. Queer as Folk, The Shield, The Amazing Race, Sex and the City, Six Feet Under
5 Movies I Like: Extremely difficult! I like lots! Vanilla Sky, Fight Club, Platoon, The Wedding Singer, Almost Famous, Lost in Translation, Life is Beautiful, Titanic, Manhatten Murder Mystery, On the Edge, Intermission, 28 Days Later, Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, Bram Stoker's Dracula, Boogie Nights, Annie Hall -- oh man, I could go on forever.
5 Famous People I would like to meet: Cameron Crowe, Johnny Depp, Angelina Jolie, Tobias Wolff, Alice Munro, Bono . . . good grief, could go on and on with a list here too.
5 Biggest Joys in my Life at this Moment: my nieces and nephew, writing, living in Sackville, my involvement with the WFNB and/or writerly type events and people, my job
5 Favourite Toys: Well, that's a little intimate . . . soooo, I'll go with the corkscrew Stacy gave me for Christmas, the other corkscrew I purchased myself, oh and the corkscrew I carry in my purse at all times, my dvd player and I'd add my digital camera in there if I could actually get the fucking thing to work.
That's it! Tagging anyone up for it.
Mood: a little foggy
Drinking: nothing . . . but I'm thinking of giving a bottle of that homemade wine of Terry's another try . . .
Listening To: Smashing Pumpkins, Today
Hair: thinking about a short black bob
Back and Forth
Yesterday was a real humid day in Sackville, the first one since I moved. It started out okay, was really nice when I went for a walk in the morning, but by evening the air was that thickness where you just sit still and sweat as you try to breathe normally. Yucky stuff! Really sucks the life out of you. After midnight the temperature changed a bit and a breeze picked up. I slept on the futon with the skylight and window open. I thought it would be better than the bedroom and I was right, had to get a blanket by 6 a.m. because it was quite chilly.
Got an email from Mount A telling me I've missed some sort of deadline, which totally contradicts everything they told me when I was over there registering . . . but anyway, I've been thinking about that course and I don't know anymore whether I should take it or not. It's expensive, like $1600 or something crazy like that. I'm going to have to put it on my credit card, throwing world travel plans a bit farther into the future, and really limiting my ability to freely move about the province, attend events, go to the movies, buy dvds . . . hell, even eat. It's a serious financial committment for me to make at this stage.
One of the reasons I wanted to take the course in the first place was because it would force me to write . . . but my situation has changed and I'm writing all the time now, everyday, producing some stuff, actually submitting work. Still I think it would be worth it if I was going to learn something new . . . but I keep ending up in these workshops and courses that I don't seem to belong. Although luckily so far this hasn't been a huge drain on my pocketbook because they were inexpensive or I got funding.
I don't want to go into this class and spend a hellish year where I'm told how to eliminate the passive voice, stick to one point of view, put everything in chronological order, properly introduce characters and scenes, that sort of thing. I'm pretty sure I already know how to do that. Believe it or not, I've written chronological stories with long expositions about what the character looks like or where the scene is set, with elaborate plotlines . . . and they bore the crap out of me. I want to be encouraged to experiment, given instruction on how to effectively throw things into disarray yet keep the reader along for the ride. Am I going to get any of that out of this class? Or is this something I'm better off doing on my own by reading more stuff and just getting myself to the desk everyday?
It took me a good ten years at least to escape the battering that journalism training did to my writing, to get my creativity back and be able to merge the styles . . . I don't want to go through anything like that again. And to pay that much money to allow them to put me through that, just seems absurd. I seriously need to rethink this course.
Mood: lethargic
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Peaches (featuring Iggy Pop), Kick It
Hair: dreaming of becoming a flaming red pixie
Got an email from Mount A telling me I've missed some sort of deadline, which totally contradicts everything they told me when I was over there registering . . . but anyway, I've been thinking about that course and I don't know anymore whether I should take it or not. It's expensive, like $1600 or something crazy like that. I'm going to have to put it on my credit card, throwing world travel plans a bit farther into the future, and really limiting my ability to freely move about the province, attend events, go to the movies, buy dvds . . . hell, even eat. It's a serious financial committment for me to make at this stage.
One of the reasons I wanted to take the course in the first place was because it would force me to write . . . but my situation has changed and I'm writing all the time now, everyday, producing some stuff, actually submitting work. Still I think it would be worth it if I was going to learn something new . . . but I keep ending up in these workshops and courses that I don't seem to belong. Although luckily so far this hasn't been a huge drain on my pocketbook because they were inexpensive or I got funding.
I don't want to go into this class and spend a hellish year where I'm told how to eliminate the passive voice, stick to one point of view, put everything in chronological order, properly introduce characters and scenes, that sort of thing. I'm pretty sure I already know how to do that. Believe it or not, I've written chronological stories with long expositions about what the character looks like or where the scene is set, with elaborate plotlines . . . and they bore the crap out of me. I want to be encouraged to experiment, given instruction on how to effectively throw things into disarray yet keep the reader along for the ride. Am I going to get any of that out of this class? Or is this something I'm better off doing on my own by reading more stuff and just getting myself to the desk everyday?
It took me a good ten years at least to escape the battering that journalism training did to my writing, to get my creativity back and be able to merge the styles . . . I don't want to go through anything like that again. And to pay that much money to allow them to put me through that, just seems absurd. I seriously need to rethink this course.
Mood: lethargic
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Peaches (featuring Iggy Pop), Kick It
Hair: dreaming of becoming a flaming red pixie
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
My Dog is Tom Cruise
Hilarious piece in The New Yorker: Shouts and Murmurs by Noah Baumbach. Check it out! My Dog is Tom Cruise
Mood: laughing my guts out
Drinking: cold coffee
Listening To: Bon Jovi, Garageland
Hair: still there
Mood: laughing my guts out
Drinking: cold coffee
Listening To: Bon Jovi, Garageland
Hair: still there
Rich Man Living In a Poor Man's House
My camera is giving me grief. I went out and bought new batteries . . . but I don't know if I've got them in wrong, they're duds, or the camera is just fucked. I should have just shelled out another hundred bucks and got something a little bit better to begin with. Arghh! This camera has done nothing but give me grief since the day I bought it. I can't get any of my pictures off the thing.
I'm soooo far behind this week I don't feel like I'll ever catch up. I'm wondering now if I remembered to clean out all the drawers in the residence room. Feeling a bit disorientated with so much laundry piled up, the girls coming Friday, going back to the river for the weekend, and all the other crap. Maybe I just need to chill for a few minutes, put on some tunes and breath, make a plan, write it down, and dive in. Yeah, that might work. Some world music and Kid Rock, a plan, that's what I need, I'll be okay.
The Festival By the Marsh is going on this week. Last week too, but I was away and missed everything. They're doing A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Swan Pond tonight and every night for the rest of the week. I should go. It'll be the only thing I get to do in the whole festival. Hot Toddy is at George's Roadhouse on Saturday night but I'll be in Barnettville. I'm looking forward to when the jazz series starts in the fall. There'll be the film society then too. And the wine tasting club. Lot's of fun stuff to look forward to. Well, the washer's stopped so I'm off to continue the insanity of cleaning up this day!
Mood: a little frustrated
Drinking: coffee, cream no sugar
Listening To: Sergio Caputo, Un Sabato Italiano
Hair: frizzed out
I'm soooo far behind this week I don't feel like I'll ever catch up. I'm wondering now if I remembered to clean out all the drawers in the residence room. Feeling a bit disorientated with so much laundry piled up, the girls coming Friday, going back to the river for the weekend, and all the other crap. Maybe I just need to chill for a few minutes, put on some tunes and breath, make a plan, write it down, and dive in. Yeah, that might work. Some world music and Kid Rock, a plan, that's what I need, I'll be okay.
The Festival By the Marsh is going on this week. Last week too, but I was away and missed everything. They're doing A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Swan Pond tonight and every night for the rest of the week. I should go. It'll be the only thing I get to do in the whole festival. Hot Toddy is at George's Roadhouse on Saturday night but I'll be in Barnettville. I'm looking forward to when the jazz series starts in the fall. There'll be the film society then too. And the wine tasting club. Lot's of fun stuff to look forward to. Well, the washer's stopped so I'm off to continue the insanity of cleaning up this day!
Mood: a little frustrated
Drinking: coffee, cream no sugar
Listening To: Sergio Caputo, Un Sabato Italiano
Hair: frizzed out
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