Last night I had a late dinner, 10ish. Normally I watch tv or listen to the radio while I eat. I surfed but didn't find any of the usual suspects. For some reason I stopped on PBS, thinking it was CBC, and there was Wayne Dwyer selling his whole enchiladas to raise money for public television. Having just watched a Cheryl Richardson dvd with Mom on Sunday, something clicked in my brain and reminded me that Stacy had also given me some Wayne Dwyer cds I'd never had time to listen to yet.
So I put the first one in, thinking I'll just listen to a track or two and see what this is all about. The first thing he talks about is the work he does for PBS selling the whole enchilada. Hmm, I thought, since there's no such thing as coincidences maybe I'm supposed to watch PBS tonight or listen to this cd. They were still in intermission on PBS, so I chose the cd.
One of the things he talks about on that first cd is how our thoughts manifest into our reality, which is essentially the same thing Cheryl Richardson was saying on Sunday. All of these personal development type coaches and motivational speakers say the same stuff, it's just a matter of finding the one you can stand to listen to. I like Dwyer because he's straight-forward and a little funny. He's also a bit more spiritual than some other ones but he's not a Jesus freak. He says stuff like our soul mates are like the turds that won't flush. Conrad from Grand Falls put me onto him about a year or so ago when he gave me a cd at a mighty meeting.
Anyway, one of the things he says is to not die with your music inside, which is a really simple concept we've all heard before but I really needed to hear this last night. Everyone has a purpose, something we were put on this earth to do or share, and deep down inside we all know what our purpose is, just think of the time when you were most at peace in your life, the most happy, and identify what you were doing.
We tend to live our lives in denial that we're ever going to die, the infinity of death scares the crap out of us so we live like we're going to live forever, like we have all the time in the world. Meanwhile, the only thing we know with absolute certainty is that everyone dies. And whether you believe in reincarnation or heaven or six feet under and that's all folks doesn't matter, the fact is you'll never live this life again -- when it's over, it's over forever. And forever is such a huge concept we can't get our heads around it, it's terribly frightening. If we only died for a million years or a billion, we'd be okay with that, we'd be prepared to wait it out . . . but forever? How does one do infinity?
Don't die with your music inside. So simple.
I was most happy and at peace that year I took off to write fiction full-time. Writing the stories I wanted to tell brought me a healing inner peace that has been lacking in my life. Not that I'm unhappy or anything like that, life has been pretty damn good for me, I'm doing a lot of the stuff I always wanted . . . but I haven't been writing much fiction, I haven't been creating many of the stories I want to tell, I haven't been dedicating much time to fulfilling my purpose, if I died today that music would still be inside. And I don't want that to happen. There's no reason for it to happen. I can and will make the time.
So late last night I took out the notebook and returned to the tools I know work, the list of six things that must be done tomorrow -- 2 for mighty, 1 for wfnb, 1 mundane maintenance, and 1 for me. Then I went to bed, set the alarm for one of the first times since my move and when it went off at 6:30 I got up, made coffee and thanked the universe for the opportunity to fulfill my purpose today.
Mood: chipper & optimistic
Drinking: coffee, the good kind, with cream
Listening To: the dryer tumble
Hair: messy bed head
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
Home Again (tidbits)
It's good to be home again. No snow here. Green grass still. Warmer temps. Wore my winter coat on a little runaround this afternoon and nearly suffocated. Rain in the forecast for tomorrow. Sackville may be the perfect spot, cooler in the summer, warmer in the winter . . . if you don't mind all the dark and dreary rainy days. I have antibiotics! Thank you jesus! I can't wait until I get my head clear again, it's been WAY too long. Also have some spray thingy I'm supposed to do a couple of times per day. Coinciding with any outings might be a good thing. Got my hair cut, but not too short, still longer layers, very Jon Bon circa 1995, no bangs, to my shoulders, thinned out (which is still thick) more healthy looking now, I had some serious split endz going on. Kind of liking this shade of blonde more now that it's shorter, might keep it for a bit . . . tho going dark in spring is not likely to happen. While in Miramichi I saw Walk the Line and absolutely loved it! Did not get to the new restaurant with the amazing wine cellar or the teahouse. Didn't even see Samuel and Jules, though me and Anna had a great day on Thursday. My workshop was snowed out. Next one in January, right on the heels of toronto. I'll get off the train in miramichi instead of sackville, do the workshop that night, then go to freddy for wfnb board stuff. Can I handle living out of the suitcase for that long? I think so.
Mood: a little weird
Drinking: coffee with baxter cream
Listening To: System of a Down, Radio/Video
Hair: seems to be getting blonder daily and without any help
Mood: a little weird
Drinking: coffee with baxter cream
Listening To: System of a Down, Radio/Video
Hair: seems to be getting blonder daily and without any help
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Da Girlz
Taking advantage of the Keenan's family portrait absence to check email and blog. Sherry, Jenn, Marilyn, Carol, Liane, Raelene, Janice and myself in attendance last night. Good times! Confessions of firsts, an airing of the list. Usual suspects in common -- Jon Bon, Tommy boy, the Pittster, etc. Some rare birds . . . John Goodman? Like seriously, what is up with that? And I see nothing wrong with having both Brad and Angelina on mine. Like if she knocks on my door I'm going to send her away!? The list of locals wanted but didn't was somewhat shorter. I couldn't think of anyone, at first, but there is only one. Does this make me pro-active? My secret ones weren't revealed, though Sherry's was a common thread. When the conversation lulled, the games came out. Played one where you walk into a room and have to guess who you are from what everyone says to you or how they treat you. I walked in to applause and a Good Morning! Guessed Katie Couric right away and was accused of cheating. Wrongfully! Can I help it if I'm just really good at that game?! Played some Act One and I got to be Farrah and do a little Charlie's Angels. Only one clue though and Marilyn guessed it so I didn't get to be Charlie or Bosley. The pop culture junkies amongst us had a lot of fun with that one. Had a round of Outburst where I have to say my team got all the hard topics . . . I'm sure forgeting Brazil was in South America had nothing to do with our loss . . . Taboo was really fun, though I never got to buzz Jenn properly. Not sure we kept score on that one. Only one bottle of wine consumed, and a few glasses of Navan. Sucked back quite a bit of pineapple, some gherkins in a raspberry vinegrette, cheese, crackers, and a plate of nachos with black olives, green onions and salsa. Yum! We really should do these girly get-togethers more often.
Mood: headachy
Drinking: nothing
Listening To: the damn aquarium
Hair: woo-hoo! light n lively! (but not pixied)
Mood: headachy
Drinking: nothing
Listening To: the damn aquarium
Hair: woo-hoo! light n lively! (but not pixied)
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Callum Speaks Again
Bloody hell! Just as I was starting to get used to being ignored, my Irishman reared his head today and spoke for the first time in months. But what is it? An ending? A new path? Melancholic crap? Unexpected regardless. Probably useless prewriting.
*******
In the distance children scream as they play on the playground and swim in the pool. Nobody swims in the river here anymore. The currents are too dangerous, the water destroyed by the pulp mill. When the wind blows the right way, Callum can smell the mill like rotten eggs, an embarassing fart.
He opens his cooler and pops the top off a beer as he listens to the sounds of families. It seems everyone had the same idea, to go for a picnic and enjoy the warm air. The smell of BBQs, the sizzle of frying meat.
“Supper!” Mothers call to their children.
Callum sits alone in the deserted part of the picnic area. The wind takes to the trees and he hears the leaves shaking. Listening to the sounds of families he sees his family all those years ago. Him, just a boy, and Melissa the Ontarian cousin who knew nothing about the river.
“Bet I can swim to the other side.”
“Better not try it, better not, Missy.”
“There’s undercurrents out there.”
“Careful.”
“Missy’s the strongest swimmer in her class. She’s so good they moved her up a grade. If she continues, the coaches think she’ll have an excellent chance to make the Olympic team. We’re very proud of our Melissa.”
Melissa’s head bobbing, bobbing on the river. Then thrashing arms. Arms flailing, striking the water. Then nothing. Gone.
It happened so fast, he couldn’t be sure it had happened at all. It happened so slow, he should have been able to save her. He should have called for help sooner.
All his Aunts packing up cousins, taking them home. And him, motherless, nobody left to take him home.
He shivered by the fire. Missy’s mother shook and muttered. "Strong swimmer. Smart girl. Advanced. Olympics. So proud. Our Missy . . . " Hours passed before the men returned, lucky to have found the body so soon.
A couple more drownings and mishaps before swimming was banned.
His beer has gone skunky in the sun. He sets it aside and pops another, taking a swig. The park is calm now, everyone settled in for food. Murmurs from supper tables and the sun beginning its descent. A hint of evening chill.
Then the whistle of wind taking flight and he sees the Dust Devil begin to form, growing, gathering last year's dead leaves and tossing them round and round in the air. And there is Trey. Trey in the Devil, twisting, circling round, his small hands linked with Missy’s.
Ring around the rosy.
Hands linked with Grandma, and her smiling. Smiling and looking so fit, dancing round with the children.
Pocket full of posey.
And there, his own mother completing the circle. Every bit as beautiful as her photograph.
Ashes. Ashes.
All four smiling. Hair whipping. Trey’s eyes sparkling, a mischievous grin on his lips like he might pull a toad from his back pocket at any moment and scare the girls.
We all fall down.
Then gone, as suddenly as it appeared.
“Makes you wonder what the wind is, doesn’t it?”
Callum jumps. A girl sits on a blanket a few feet behind him.
“Beautiful,” she sighs.
He can’t tell her it's anything but beautiful for him. He can’t tell her his heart is broken and he doesn't know how to fix it.
“Angel twister. That’s what my grandmother always said.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh nothing, just an old story,” she shrugs.
“What are you doing there?” Callum asks.
The girl is surrounded by pads of paper, crayons and pencils.
“Drawing. I like to draw. Hope to be an artist one day. I’ve been sitting here all day waiting for the angels so I could sketch them. You probably think I’m crazy,” she laughs.
“Try me.” Callum shrugs and steps toward her.
“Well, grandmother always said when you see a tiny wind funnel in springtime, like the one we just saw, it’s a sign of good luck. She said it was the angels letting you watch them play for a few seconds and you would be blessed. Sort of stupid, I know. But I’ve never forgotten it.” She smiles. “Want to see?” She holds out her sketchpad.
Callum crouches and takes the pad from her dainty hands. There they are. Trey, Missy, Grandma, Mama, heads thrown back in laughter, hands linked as they dance round and round, leaves floating all around them, each one of them glowing with peace, each one of them wearing angel wings. Callum's throat closes.
“It isn’t very good,” she blushes.
Callum swallows hard. “It’s nice,” he says. He looks into her blue eyes as he returns the sketch to her. The face of an angel, heart-shaped and smiling, full of life and hope.
“My name’s Vikki.”
“Callum,” he replies taking her outstretched hand. “Would you like a beer?”
Mood: nervous
Drinking: tea
Listening To: keyboard clacking
Hair: up and down
*******
In the distance children scream as they play on the playground and swim in the pool. Nobody swims in the river here anymore. The currents are too dangerous, the water destroyed by the pulp mill. When the wind blows the right way, Callum can smell the mill like rotten eggs, an embarassing fart.
He opens his cooler and pops the top off a beer as he listens to the sounds of families. It seems everyone had the same idea, to go for a picnic and enjoy the warm air. The smell of BBQs, the sizzle of frying meat.
“Supper!” Mothers call to their children.
Callum sits alone in the deserted part of the picnic area. The wind takes to the trees and he hears the leaves shaking. Listening to the sounds of families he sees his family all those years ago. Him, just a boy, and Melissa the Ontarian cousin who knew nothing about the river.
“Bet I can swim to the other side.”
“Better not try it, better not, Missy.”
“There’s undercurrents out there.”
“Careful.”
“Missy’s the strongest swimmer in her class. She’s so good they moved her up a grade. If she continues, the coaches think she’ll have an excellent chance to make the Olympic team. We’re very proud of our Melissa.”
Melissa’s head bobbing, bobbing on the river. Then thrashing arms. Arms flailing, striking the water. Then nothing. Gone.
It happened so fast, he couldn’t be sure it had happened at all. It happened so slow, he should have been able to save her. He should have called for help sooner.
All his Aunts packing up cousins, taking them home. And him, motherless, nobody left to take him home.
He shivered by the fire. Missy’s mother shook and muttered. "Strong swimmer. Smart girl. Advanced. Olympics. So proud. Our Missy . . . " Hours passed before the men returned, lucky to have found the body so soon.
A couple more drownings and mishaps before swimming was banned.
His beer has gone skunky in the sun. He sets it aside and pops another, taking a swig. The park is calm now, everyone settled in for food. Murmurs from supper tables and the sun beginning its descent. A hint of evening chill.
Then the whistle of wind taking flight and he sees the Dust Devil begin to form, growing, gathering last year's dead leaves and tossing them round and round in the air. And there is Trey. Trey in the Devil, twisting, circling round, his small hands linked with Missy’s.
Ring around the rosy.
Hands linked with Grandma, and her smiling. Smiling and looking so fit, dancing round with the children.
Pocket full of posey.
And there, his own mother completing the circle. Every bit as beautiful as her photograph.
Ashes. Ashes.
All four smiling. Hair whipping. Trey’s eyes sparkling, a mischievous grin on his lips like he might pull a toad from his back pocket at any moment and scare the girls.
We all fall down.
Then gone, as suddenly as it appeared.
“Makes you wonder what the wind is, doesn’t it?”
Callum jumps. A girl sits on a blanket a few feet behind him.
“Beautiful,” she sighs.
He can’t tell her it's anything but beautiful for him. He can’t tell her his heart is broken and he doesn't know how to fix it.
“Angel twister. That’s what my grandmother always said.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh nothing, just an old story,” she shrugs.
“What are you doing there?” Callum asks.
The girl is surrounded by pads of paper, crayons and pencils.
“Drawing. I like to draw. Hope to be an artist one day. I’ve been sitting here all day waiting for the angels so I could sketch them. You probably think I’m crazy,” she laughs.
“Try me.” Callum shrugs and steps toward her.
“Well, grandmother always said when you see a tiny wind funnel in springtime, like the one we just saw, it’s a sign of good luck. She said it was the angels letting you watch them play for a few seconds and you would be blessed. Sort of stupid, I know. But I’ve never forgotten it.” She smiles. “Want to see?” She holds out her sketchpad.
Callum crouches and takes the pad from her dainty hands. There they are. Trey, Missy, Grandma, Mama, heads thrown back in laughter, hands linked as they dance round and round, leaves floating all around them, each one of them glowing with peace, each one of them wearing angel wings. Callum's throat closes.
“It isn’t very good,” she blushes.
Callum swallows hard. “It’s nice,” he says. He looks into her blue eyes as he returns the sketch to her. The face of an angel, heart-shaped and smiling, full of life and hope.
“My name’s Vikki.”
“Callum,” he replies taking her outstretched hand. “Would you like a beer?”
Mood: nervous
Drinking: tea
Listening To: keyboard clacking
Hair: up and down
Today's Horoscope
Incredible feelings of enthusiasm, optimism, and sheer joy could fill your heart and mind today, Kellie. Your life is changing in a positive way, and even though it may not be readily apparent, you're sensing it intuitively. Romance with someone from far away could be in the offing. If you're a writer, publishing is right around the corner. The only downside is that occasionally you might feel panic, as if all this will disappear. Stay focused!
Well, they've got the panic thing right at least. No enthusiasm, optimism or sheer joy happening here yet. Focus is certainly hard to come by. I have awakened to a life change this morning, but failing to see the positive in it right at the moment. Definitely holding off on any dance of joy or anything like that. Right now I could just as easily go puke my guts out.
Mood: tense
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: coffee machine gurgle
Hair: getting washed shortly
Well, they've got the panic thing right at least. No enthusiasm, optimism or sheer joy happening here yet. Focus is certainly hard to come by. I have awakened to a life change this morning, but failing to see the positive in it right at the moment. Definitely holding off on any dance of joy or anything like that. Right now I could just as easily go puke my guts out.
Mood: tense
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: coffee machine gurgle
Hair: getting washed shortly
The Restless Kind
So exhausted from the weekend that I missed Sunday Night Anxiety this week. Missed it, but haven't escaped totally obviously, cuz here I be this early Tuesday morn, wide-eyed and anxious. So what do I do when I can't sleep? Do I work on things I should? Hell no! I crave fiction. I long for creativity. I seek abstraction. And tonight I pick up the first draft of a story begun many years ago. Based on one of those terrible nightmares I used to have all the time.
The Fifth Myrrha
Candlelight casts dancing shadows across the bedroom wall. Myrrha stands at the foot of the queen-sized bed facing the bureau mirror. She sees her reflection, naked except for lacy black panties. Blankets rustle. Hushed whispers. Glancing over her shoulder she sees Stan, her husband, his tanned back, his mouth suckling a bare breast.
The woman in the bed is Myrrha.
She turns to the mirror. She sees the reflection of her standing at the foot of the bed, and now she also sees the reflection of her in the bed.
Myrrha stands at the foot of the bed, makes love with her husband in the bed, reflects in the mirror at the foot of the bed, reflects in the mirror in the bed, and yet she is not really there at all. None of these four Myrrhas are really her. She observes the scene from outside it somewhere. She is a fifth Myrrha, voiceless and powerless, unseen by the others. She no longer exists.
*****
Oy! What a cheesy story this one was! I had forgotten. Above is the opening, a dream. I won't bore you to tears with the middle. The writing is just terrible. I'm appalled. I think I wrote this one early in 2000, one of the last stories I attempted during that Madness & Magic phase. The plot is super weak. Myrrha and Stan return to her childhood home because her uncle is dying. It's a reluctant visit because she doesn't want to see her sisters. Myrrha is the youngest and has always been treated like crap by her two older sisters, Myriam and Myrna. Many terrible tricks, hurtful lies, etc. I don't actually introduce the sister characters outright, they're introduced through a series of conversations Myrrha has with her husband and her uncle. She keeps insisting they're evil-doers, but they seem to be doing all the right stuff, showing concern etc. Her husband thinks they've changed and she should give them another chance. This blows up into a fight between them the night of her uncle's funeral and she storms out . . .
She's too hard on Stan, she knows. And maybe he's not even as wrong as Myrrha keeps insisting he is. Maybe she should reconcile with her sisters. Maybe they have changed. It's possible. It has been fifteen years. They both seem very happy now, married to wonderful men, secure in their careers. They are the only family Myrrha has left and they've been nothing but kind to her since she came back. It's dark now and Myrrha hears the rumble of thunder. She doesn't know how long she's been wandering around, but she should head back before the storm moves in. Stan is right, of course. She needs to apologise to him. She needs to speak with her sisters.
*****
A small bedside lamp lights the room, casting long shadows over the wall. A woman opens the window at the foot of the bed. A storm rages outside and the cool air will be refreshing. She sees the room reflected in the windowpane. Herself standing at the foot of the bed, her lover and the other woman in the bed. Lightning flashes. Outside the window, her palms pressed to the glass, hair soaked, plastered to her scalp, hanging in heavy ropes, tears and rain washing down the sides of her face, her mouth frozen in the oh of a scream, blue eyes blazing with hurt, is the youngest triplet, the fifth Myrrha.
HA! I know. How O'Henry of me. No comments from the peanut gallery please. It's terrible. Could I list anymore description for this woman?! Some things shouldn't be attempted, like turning EVERY nightmare you have into fiction. This was quite near the end of the Marty thing, you know when I was starting to lose it for real. When Fynnigan ruled my dreams and then went nuts on the Ouija board. When the universe was really trying to get my attention before it was too late.
In the nightmare of course I'm the girl at the foot of the bed, in the bed, reflected in the mirror twice, and most terrifying of all caught in the mirror, not as a reflection but as in being trapped in the glass able to see out but not get out. Palms pounding on the glass, soaked by rain, crying. And this image of myself scared the bejesus out of me, made me scream, woke me right up. I was haunted by this dream, couldn't understand what it meant really.
But so much of the stuff I was dreaming then was starting to bleed through into my waking hours, come true . . . it's no wonder I was terrified all the time. And there was a night when I was out in the rain. There was a night when I saw my soaking reflection in the bureau at the foot of the bed. This dream kind of came true too. Walked all the way from Blackville on the tracks in the middle of the night in the rain. And instead of going down the road to home, I went back to him. It was a weeknight. He was in bed asleep, had to work the next morning. I scared the bejesus out of him when I sat on the edge of the bed. I didn't say anything, couldn't talk. Trembling from the cold, from fear. But it didn't matter, he was glad to see me, pulled me into the bed, wet clothes and all, warmed me with his body, kissed at my tears and told me I'd done the right thing. This time would be different. He promised.
Mood: can't sleep
Drinking: water
Listening To: the shared wall boy moan in his sleep
Hair: back out of the way
The Fifth Myrrha
Candlelight casts dancing shadows across the bedroom wall. Myrrha stands at the foot of the queen-sized bed facing the bureau mirror. She sees her reflection, naked except for lacy black panties. Blankets rustle. Hushed whispers. Glancing over her shoulder she sees Stan, her husband, his tanned back, his mouth suckling a bare breast.
The woman in the bed is Myrrha.
She turns to the mirror. She sees the reflection of her standing at the foot of the bed, and now she also sees the reflection of her in the bed.
Myrrha stands at the foot of the bed, makes love with her husband in the bed, reflects in the mirror at the foot of the bed, reflects in the mirror in the bed, and yet she is not really there at all. None of these four Myrrhas are really her. She observes the scene from outside it somewhere. She is a fifth Myrrha, voiceless and powerless, unseen by the others. She no longer exists.
*****
Oy! What a cheesy story this one was! I had forgotten. Above is the opening, a dream. I won't bore you to tears with the middle. The writing is just terrible. I'm appalled. I think I wrote this one early in 2000, one of the last stories I attempted during that Madness & Magic phase. The plot is super weak. Myrrha and Stan return to her childhood home because her uncle is dying. It's a reluctant visit because she doesn't want to see her sisters. Myrrha is the youngest and has always been treated like crap by her two older sisters, Myriam and Myrna. Many terrible tricks, hurtful lies, etc. I don't actually introduce the sister characters outright, they're introduced through a series of conversations Myrrha has with her husband and her uncle. She keeps insisting they're evil-doers, but they seem to be doing all the right stuff, showing concern etc. Her husband thinks they've changed and she should give them another chance. This blows up into a fight between them the night of her uncle's funeral and she storms out . . .
She's too hard on Stan, she knows. And maybe he's not even as wrong as Myrrha keeps insisting he is. Maybe she should reconcile with her sisters. Maybe they have changed. It's possible. It has been fifteen years. They both seem very happy now, married to wonderful men, secure in their careers. They are the only family Myrrha has left and they've been nothing but kind to her since she came back. It's dark now and Myrrha hears the rumble of thunder. She doesn't know how long she's been wandering around, but she should head back before the storm moves in. Stan is right, of course. She needs to apologise to him. She needs to speak with her sisters.
*****
A small bedside lamp lights the room, casting long shadows over the wall. A woman opens the window at the foot of the bed. A storm rages outside and the cool air will be refreshing. She sees the room reflected in the windowpane. Herself standing at the foot of the bed, her lover and the other woman in the bed. Lightning flashes. Outside the window, her palms pressed to the glass, hair soaked, plastered to her scalp, hanging in heavy ropes, tears and rain washing down the sides of her face, her mouth frozen in the oh of a scream, blue eyes blazing with hurt, is the youngest triplet, the fifth Myrrha.
HA! I know. How O'Henry of me. No comments from the peanut gallery please. It's terrible. Could I list anymore description for this woman?! Some things shouldn't be attempted, like turning EVERY nightmare you have into fiction. This was quite near the end of the Marty thing, you know when I was starting to lose it for real. When Fynnigan ruled my dreams and then went nuts on the Ouija board. When the universe was really trying to get my attention before it was too late.
In the nightmare of course I'm the girl at the foot of the bed, in the bed, reflected in the mirror twice, and most terrifying of all caught in the mirror, not as a reflection but as in being trapped in the glass able to see out but not get out. Palms pounding on the glass, soaked by rain, crying. And this image of myself scared the bejesus out of me, made me scream, woke me right up. I was haunted by this dream, couldn't understand what it meant really.
But so much of the stuff I was dreaming then was starting to bleed through into my waking hours, come true . . . it's no wonder I was terrified all the time. And there was a night when I was out in the rain. There was a night when I saw my soaking reflection in the bureau at the foot of the bed. This dream kind of came true too. Walked all the way from Blackville on the tracks in the middle of the night in the rain. And instead of going down the road to home, I went back to him. It was a weeknight. He was in bed asleep, had to work the next morning. I scared the bejesus out of him when I sat on the edge of the bed. I didn't say anything, couldn't talk. Trembling from the cold, from fear. But it didn't matter, he was glad to see me, pulled me into the bed, wet clothes and all, warmed me with his body, kissed at my tears and told me I'd done the right thing. This time would be different. He promised.
Mood: can't sleep
Drinking: water
Listening To: the shared wall boy moan in his sleep
Hair: back out of the way
Monday, November 21, 2005
Pig & Runt
Watched Disco Pigs. Oh boy. How fucking disturbing is this film? Why must I love the movies that rip the heart and soul out of me? I've seen it probably three or four times before, but not in recent years. I forgot how it kills me. I put it in on Friday night and took it out as soon as I realised where I was heading with it. Nothing like the uncontrollable ugly sobbing gut-wrenching cry. You need to prepare for it, do it when you have time to properly get in and out . . . and even still, it was worse than I imagined. I started crying a good 20 minutes before the end and I didn't stop. Through the ending, the credits, back to the main menu, turned off the dvd, and still crying. I can be such a wimp.
Cillian Murphy and Elaine Cassidy are Pig and Runt or Darin and Sinead, born on the same day, in the same hospital, moments apart. Inseparable from birth, almost telepathic. They grow up living side by side, sharing their games, their own language. Two as one. As their 17th birthday nears, their world begins to shift. Forced apart. Pig's jealously spirals out of control and their relationship is stretched to breaking point. It's terrible. Tragic. Unfair. Frightening. Disturbing. Both Cillian and Elaine are so good. I want it to work out for them. I want them to grow up to become King and Queen of their castle. Even though I know it's not going to happen, I want it so much I can't stop watching.
Mood: bawling my eyes out
Drinking: nothing
Listening To: Mick Jagger, Too Far Gone
Hair: pulled back loose with wispys
Cillian Murphy and Elaine Cassidy are Pig and Runt or Darin and Sinead, born on the same day, in the same hospital, moments apart. Inseparable from birth, almost telepathic. They grow up living side by side, sharing their games, their own language. Two as one. As their 17th birthday nears, their world begins to shift. Forced apart. Pig's jealously spirals out of control and their relationship is stretched to breaking point. It's terrible. Tragic. Unfair. Frightening. Disturbing. Both Cillian and Elaine are so good. I want it to work out for them. I want them to grow up to become King and Queen of their castle. Even though I know it's not going to happen, I want it so much I can't stop watching.
Mood: bawling my eyes out
Drinking: nothing
Listening To: Mick Jagger, Too Far Gone
Hair: pulled back loose with wispys
On the Fourth Day . . .
she arises from the wine stupor and ascends into blogdom . . .
Had a good weekend. Friday morning I awoke with the somewhat sudden and horrific realisation that Beth Powning was going to come to my house on Saturday, the same week my place was officially declared a war-zone disaster area. Not good. Cleaning rose to the top of my list. Much laundry, sweeping, scrubbing, vacuuming, dish washing, and dusting ensued. I was still doing dishes mid-afternoon when Joe turned up -- just in time for Midnight Madness. There were more people around the streets of Sackville than during the Fall Fair. A little bit crazy. Got out to my restaurant that I love so much, but surprisingly did not feel like the Hungarian meatballs I've been lusting over for weeks, had some chicken and rice instead, pretty good. Too stuffed for the amazing desserts.
Quick Aside: The Disco Pigs Special Edition dvd (mentioned months ago when I pre-ordered) arrived in my mailbox on Friday! Watched a little, but not all, yet.
While Joe interviewed Beth for his radio show in my living room Saturday, I went to the library to check out the workshop space and get it ready. Turns out there really wasn't anything to do, buy some water and snacky sugar treats (left-overs in my freezer), tables were already set up. I came back and tried to keep quiet downstairs while the interview continued. If you've never been to one of her readings you should go, she's really good. She's very passionate about language and words and stories. This, with her theatre background makes for excellent performance skill. So at one point I'm sitting at my kitchen table drinking coffee, making a list, when the dryer next door stops and her voice drifts downstairs and she's reading from her latest book. It was a little surreal. Was it only last fall I heard her with Ann-Marie MacDonald? Now, a reading in my living room. Sometimes it still seems utterly bizarre to the Barnettville bartender me that I'm anywhere near any of these people who write books.
The workshop came off quite well I think. She took us through her process. Her latest book is a memoir, so the workshop was on writing memory. The first part of the exercise was to think of a place and make a list -- what does it smell like? what do you hear? see? what time of day is it? where is the light coming from? what's the temperature? what do you feel underneath your fingertips? who's there with you? Heading into this exercise I was a little frazzled, being the organiser, being late to the venue, with sinusitis from hell. I seriously doubted whether I could get my head around any writing exercises. I didn't know why, but the place I went to was the hammock at the camp, aged late 12 or early 13, probably one of the last times I would ever be there. By the time I was 14 I started staying home alone all summer. It seemed odd to pick this place but with no other ideas coming forward I went with it and made what felt like a terribly undescriptive and stereotypical list -- fishy, roaring brook, water's high maybe, ducks quack, children crying and whining and fighting with siblings, country western radio, bacon cooking, morning grey, cool in shade, sun up but not over the trees yet, breeze on cheeks, ropes cutting into back, green fish netting, solid yet soft, swallowing me, alone, invisible.
Seemed rather unremarkable. The next step was to take your list and add clues, what do these things tell you about yourself? I was like, huh? I wrote, Even as a child I was the loner. Scratched it out. Listed: observing but not participating, distance from family, cool attitude, dark thoughts, hiding, wanting to be invisible, or maybe feeling invisible but wanting to be seen or heard. This didn't feel like what she meant for us to do. I wrote, What the hell am I doing here?
The next step was to talk to yourself with your pen or pencil -- What is the essence of this moment? I wrote, "Lying in the hammock outside the trailer at the camp that summer I was becoming a woman, afraid on some level, yet insistent on another. I could have lingered with my family, so many did. But I demanded release, demanded my freedom, and took it. I'm alone on the hammock, existing but not interacting, observing but not participating. It's as if I knew on some level that everything was about to change forever so I took a memory snapshot, freeze-framed the moment." This also didn't feel like I was doing the exercise properly. I know there's no wrong way, but I didn't feel like I was getting anything useful. Why would I go here when there's so many other places I could have gone? More interesting places, bigger moments.
Next we were to make a bunch of really simple sentences from our original lists -- The air is light and earthy, smelling of fish mingled with bacon and eggs breakfast. The hammock is made of a green net for catching salmon. Having grown a few inches and just lost her baby fat, the girl is gangly like a newborn colt. Blech! How utterly ordinary and cliche. But why the third person?
The final step, the point of the exercise, was to put it all together, infuse the essence of the moment into the sentence. I couldn't do it. I've done it before in other things, but I just couldn't do it here. I wrote, Lying in the home-made fish net hammock, a colt of a girl -- Scratched it out. Wrote, In the hammock made of green salmon net strung between two 2x4 boards, the girl swings as her family wake up around her in the grey dawn. Crossed it out. Wrote, AHHHH! This is crap, Kel! Why have you picked this moment? This place? And why such distance?
Hours later when we're talking about the workshop I realise it's the week of the anniversary of Grandad's death and no doubt this is why the camp is on my mind. But why I'm so reluctant to think of it, so reluctant to allow myself to be there again in my head? . . . there was a vulnerability in that girl. I could feel it and I didn't like it. I think it might be painful to take it out and hold it close. And I don't know that it's at all necessary right now. Does this realisation make the exercise a success? Perhaps.
Mood: slightly foggy
Drinking: coffee sans alcohol infusion
Listening To: Aerosmith, Amazing
Hair: hanging in crazy ringlets
Had a good weekend. Friday morning I awoke with the somewhat sudden and horrific realisation that Beth Powning was going to come to my house on Saturday, the same week my place was officially declared a war-zone disaster area. Not good. Cleaning rose to the top of my list. Much laundry, sweeping, scrubbing, vacuuming, dish washing, and dusting ensued. I was still doing dishes mid-afternoon when Joe turned up -- just in time for Midnight Madness. There were more people around the streets of Sackville than during the Fall Fair. A little bit crazy. Got out to my restaurant that I love so much, but surprisingly did not feel like the Hungarian meatballs I've been lusting over for weeks, had some chicken and rice instead, pretty good. Too stuffed for the amazing desserts.
Quick Aside: The Disco Pigs Special Edition dvd (mentioned months ago when I pre-ordered) arrived in my mailbox on Friday! Watched a little, but not all, yet.
While Joe interviewed Beth for his radio show in my living room Saturday, I went to the library to check out the workshop space and get it ready. Turns out there really wasn't anything to do, buy some water and snacky sugar treats (left-overs in my freezer), tables were already set up. I came back and tried to keep quiet downstairs while the interview continued. If you've never been to one of her readings you should go, she's really good. She's very passionate about language and words and stories. This, with her theatre background makes for excellent performance skill. So at one point I'm sitting at my kitchen table drinking coffee, making a list, when the dryer next door stops and her voice drifts downstairs and she's reading from her latest book. It was a little surreal. Was it only last fall I heard her with Ann-Marie MacDonald? Now, a reading in my living room. Sometimes it still seems utterly bizarre to the Barnettville bartender me that I'm anywhere near any of these people who write books.
The workshop came off quite well I think. She took us through her process. Her latest book is a memoir, so the workshop was on writing memory. The first part of the exercise was to think of a place and make a list -- what does it smell like? what do you hear? see? what time of day is it? where is the light coming from? what's the temperature? what do you feel underneath your fingertips? who's there with you? Heading into this exercise I was a little frazzled, being the organiser, being late to the venue, with sinusitis from hell. I seriously doubted whether I could get my head around any writing exercises. I didn't know why, but the place I went to was the hammock at the camp, aged late 12 or early 13, probably one of the last times I would ever be there. By the time I was 14 I started staying home alone all summer. It seemed odd to pick this place but with no other ideas coming forward I went with it and made what felt like a terribly undescriptive and stereotypical list -- fishy, roaring brook, water's high maybe, ducks quack, children crying and whining and fighting with siblings, country western radio, bacon cooking, morning grey, cool in shade, sun up but not over the trees yet, breeze on cheeks, ropes cutting into back, green fish netting, solid yet soft, swallowing me, alone, invisible.
Seemed rather unremarkable. The next step was to take your list and add clues, what do these things tell you about yourself? I was like, huh? I wrote, Even as a child I was the loner. Scratched it out. Listed: observing but not participating, distance from family, cool attitude, dark thoughts, hiding, wanting to be invisible, or maybe feeling invisible but wanting to be seen or heard. This didn't feel like what she meant for us to do. I wrote, What the hell am I doing here?
The next step was to talk to yourself with your pen or pencil -- What is the essence of this moment? I wrote, "Lying in the hammock outside the trailer at the camp that summer I was becoming a woman, afraid on some level, yet insistent on another. I could have lingered with my family, so many did. But I demanded release, demanded my freedom, and took it. I'm alone on the hammock, existing but not interacting, observing but not participating. It's as if I knew on some level that everything was about to change forever so I took a memory snapshot, freeze-framed the moment." This also didn't feel like I was doing the exercise properly. I know there's no wrong way, but I didn't feel like I was getting anything useful. Why would I go here when there's so many other places I could have gone? More interesting places, bigger moments.
Next we were to make a bunch of really simple sentences from our original lists -- The air is light and earthy, smelling of fish mingled with bacon and eggs breakfast. The hammock is made of a green net for catching salmon. Having grown a few inches and just lost her baby fat, the girl is gangly like a newborn colt. Blech! How utterly ordinary and cliche. But why the third person?
The final step, the point of the exercise, was to put it all together, infuse the essence of the moment into the sentence. I couldn't do it. I've done it before in other things, but I just couldn't do it here. I wrote, Lying in the home-made fish net hammock, a colt of a girl -- Scratched it out. Wrote, In the hammock made of green salmon net strung between two 2x4 boards, the girl swings as her family wake up around her in the grey dawn. Crossed it out. Wrote, AHHHH! This is crap, Kel! Why have you picked this moment? This place? And why such distance?
Hours later when we're talking about the workshop I realise it's the week of the anniversary of Grandad's death and no doubt this is why the camp is on my mind. But why I'm so reluctant to think of it, so reluctant to allow myself to be there again in my head? . . . there was a vulnerability in that girl. I could feel it and I didn't like it. I think it might be painful to take it out and hold it close. And I don't know that it's at all necessary right now. Does this realisation make the exercise a success? Perhaps.
Mood: slightly foggy
Drinking: coffee sans alcohol infusion
Listening To: Aerosmith, Amazing
Hair: hanging in crazy ringlets
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Silly Way to Waste Time
Pull up iTunes/Media Player/Winamp/whatever and put it on shuffle. Answer the questions with the song titles that come up.
What do you think of me, Media Player?
You're Not the Law, The Dead 60s (hah!)
Will I have a happy life?
Come as You Are, Nirvana (i try to)
What do my friends really think of me?
Miss You in a Heartbeat, Def Leppard (too nice!)
Do people secretly lust after me?
Comes a Time, Neil Young (hmm, maybe someday I guess)
What should I do with my life?
Everything in its right place, Radiohead (damn! knows my apartment is a mess)
Why must life be so full of pain?
I'm Just a Kid, Simple Plan (I really am)
How can I maximise pleasure during sex?
Crimson and Clover, Joan Jett (ah, I see)
Will I ever have children?
Another Morning Stoner, And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead (You can't make this stuff up)
Will I die happy?
The Piano Has Been Drinking, Tom Waits (sounds happy?)
Can you give me some advice?
La Culpa No Tengo Yo, Los Temerarios (in English anyone?)
What do you think happiness is?
How Do I live Without You, Trisha Yearwood (are you stalking me?)
What's my favourite fetish?
Lunatic Fringe, Red Rider :-D
Am I a total freak?
It Don't Mean A Thing, Duke Ellington
Wasn't that fun? . . . Yeah, not so much.
What do you think of me, Media Player?
You're Not the Law, The Dead 60s (hah!)
Will I have a happy life?
Come as You Are, Nirvana (i try to)
What do my friends really think of me?
Miss You in a Heartbeat, Def Leppard (too nice!)
Do people secretly lust after me?
Comes a Time, Neil Young (hmm, maybe someday I guess)
What should I do with my life?
Everything in its right place, Radiohead (damn! knows my apartment is a mess)
Why must life be so full of pain?
I'm Just a Kid, Simple Plan (I really am)
How can I maximise pleasure during sex?
Crimson and Clover, Joan Jett (ah, I see)
Will I ever have children?
Another Morning Stoner, And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead (You can't make this stuff up)
Will I die happy?
The Piano Has Been Drinking, Tom Waits (sounds happy?)
Can you give me some advice?
La Culpa No Tengo Yo, Los Temerarios (in English anyone?)
What do you think happiness is?
How Do I live Without You, Trisha Yearwood (are you stalking me?)
What's my favourite fetish?
Lunatic Fringe, Red Rider :-D
Am I a total freak?
It Don't Mean A Thing, Duke Ellington
Wasn't that fun? . . . Yeah, not so much.
Annoyed
Jenn always used to tell me about being stressed, upset, annoyed. She'd tell me that she'd start to "rip her face off" when it got bad. And I really thought that was a little weird, didn't really understand what she meant . . . until now. I have officially joined the ranks of the face-ripping Underhills.
Mood: annoyed
Drinking: tea
Listening To: Nine Inch Nails, I Do Not Want This
Hair: annoying
Mood: annoyed
Drinking: tea
Listening To: Nine Inch Nails, I Do Not Want This
Hair: annoying
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
So Very Very Busy
I don't feel that I've been blogging much lately, or writing anything productive for that matter. I've got stories on my brain, words that want to exit through my fingertips, but no time to even think about going there. I'm confident they'll keep.
Wednesday night I had Sackville Writers' Group. This just as BnM came back online, warts and all. I worked all night putting stories up only to have them disappear. Finally I thought it was working, went to bed for a few hours Thursday morning, got up and it was all gone again. This is the kind of stuff that happens when you're in the beta stage. It's frustrating, but eventually you iron out all the kinks and things run smoothly. We are not there yet. Though we are a little better off than we were Thursday.
I was supposed to start working on NB Ink on Thursday, but all the stuff wasn't in and BnM REALLY needs me every waking moment. I MUST PUBLISH!! So, I put off Ink. I could've gone to the Film Society Movie, Water, at the Vogue. Lord knows I wanted to go, but I couldn't duck out for a couple of hours. The phone was ringing. Tech support was forthcoming. Things seemed to be happening. The saga continued through Friday. Saturday I went to Sussex for a WFNB workshop with Sandra Phinney. It was good. On the bus ride over there I started reading the novel I had to critique for Sunday. I got a couple of chapters in anyway. Sunday morning I got up extra early and read the entire novel, noting things as I went. Ideally I would've liked to have read the book at least twice before giving feedback, but there just wasn't time. I just finished and had to go to the meeting to discuss. This weekend is the Sackville workshop that I'm organising for the WFNB. I need to find time to check out the venue, prepare refreshments, etc.
Tonight I work on NB Ink until it is completed. Tomorrow I need to call bnm tech support. It seems to be the only way to get anything done there. Next week I return to Blackville for another workshop. Sometime I have to find a few minutes to prep for that. I'm starting to lose it a little. To feel buried. Today I turned off my phone ringer and ignored my inbox. I just couldn't handle the very thought of having to talk to anyone. I just wanted silence, to focus, to get things done. Sometimes I just feel like screaming LEAVE ME ALONE! When seriously nobody is bugging me. They would be shocked and rightly so if I screamed at them. I've just over-committed myself to too many projects and I'm feeling it. It'll get better soon. Things are starting to happen, things are starting to work themselves out. Another week or two and I'll be in the clear. In the meantime, I try to stay awake and functioning above and beyond the norm.
Mood: tired
Drinking: water
Listening To: Mike Myers, This Poem Sucks
Hair: enjoying the last of its long life
Wednesday night I had Sackville Writers' Group. This just as BnM came back online, warts and all. I worked all night putting stories up only to have them disappear. Finally I thought it was working, went to bed for a few hours Thursday morning, got up and it was all gone again. This is the kind of stuff that happens when you're in the beta stage. It's frustrating, but eventually you iron out all the kinks and things run smoothly. We are not there yet. Though we are a little better off than we were Thursday.
I was supposed to start working on NB Ink on Thursday, but all the stuff wasn't in and BnM REALLY needs me every waking moment. I MUST PUBLISH!! So, I put off Ink. I could've gone to the Film Society Movie, Water, at the Vogue. Lord knows I wanted to go, but I couldn't duck out for a couple of hours. The phone was ringing. Tech support was forthcoming. Things seemed to be happening. The saga continued through Friday. Saturday I went to Sussex for a WFNB workshop with Sandra Phinney. It was good. On the bus ride over there I started reading the novel I had to critique for Sunday. I got a couple of chapters in anyway. Sunday morning I got up extra early and read the entire novel, noting things as I went. Ideally I would've liked to have read the book at least twice before giving feedback, but there just wasn't time. I just finished and had to go to the meeting to discuss. This weekend is the Sackville workshop that I'm organising for the WFNB. I need to find time to check out the venue, prepare refreshments, etc.
Tonight I work on NB Ink until it is completed. Tomorrow I need to call bnm tech support. It seems to be the only way to get anything done there. Next week I return to Blackville for another workshop. Sometime I have to find a few minutes to prep for that. I'm starting to lose it a little. To feel buried. Today I turned off my phone ringer and ignored my inbox. I just couldn't handle the very thought of having to talk to anyone. I just wanted silence, to focus, to get things done. Sometimes I just feel like screaming LEAVE ME ALONE! When seriously nobody is bugging me. They would be shocked and rightly so if I screamed at them. I've just over-committed myself to too many projects and I'm feeling it. It'll get better soon. Things are starting to happen, things are starting to work themselves out. Another week or two and I'll be in the clear. In the meantime, I try to stay awake and functioning above and beyond the norm.
Mood: tired
Drinking: water
Listening To: Mike Myers, This Poem Sucks
Hair: enjoying the last of its long life
Monday, November 14, 2005
For Grandad From Mommy
Arthur Coughlan
March 1, 1919 - November 14, 2004
Remembering Dad
I went to visit my Dad today at his final resting place
As I stood by his lonely graveside, tears rolled down my face
I can’t believe a year has passed since God called him home
He left me treasured memories, but sometimes I feel so alone
Many times all I want, is to see his tiny, crooked smile
To sit down beside him and talk for just a little while
I would always ask this question, "So how are you today, Dad?"
His reply was always the same, "Oh, I’m not too bad"
Dad was always there for me - through all the thick and thin
He was more than a Father. He too was my friend
I would have clung to each day since then, if I had only knew
That his death was only the beginning of sorrow to go through
You see, in a few short months, Mom too passed away
My grief seemed unbearable on that sunny June day
My family home lies in darkness - so quiet and so still
But in my mind I hear it calling, the old house on the hill
So as oft as we can, as a family, we gather there with each other
We laugh and remember the good times and honour our Mother and Father
In our hearts we feel them there with us, watching over us with care
Side by side, hand in hand, for always, in their old rocking chair
- Pauline Underhill
November, 2005
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Tired
Off to Sussex this morning for a writing workshop with Sandra Phinney. Too early. Too little sleep.
Something to do from someone (I forget who). Load your computer with music, randomize, list the top 10. Here's mine:
1. Wassabi Collective, Blue Woman
2. Broken Social Scene, Passport Radio
3. Hanoi Rocks, In My Darkest Moment
4. Death Cab for Cutie, Tiny Vessels
5. Rage Against the Machine, Know Your Enemy
6. Hellen Stellar, This Time Around
7. Velvet Underground, Crimson & Clover
8. The Notwist, Solitaire
9. Yo La Tengo, Sugarcube
10. Wheat, Don't I Hold You
Bizarre list. Where has all the Bon Jovi gone?
Mood: tired
Drinking: tea
Listening To: Sarah Harmer, Coffee Stain
Hair: blech!
Something to do from someone (I forget who). Load your computer with music, randomize, list the top 10. Here's mine:
1. Wassabi Collective, Blue Woman
2. Broken Social Scene, Passport Radio
3. Hanoi Rocks, In My Darkest Moment
4. Death Cab for Cutie, Tiny Vessels
5. Rage Against the Machine, Know Your Enemy
6. Hellen Stellar, This Time Around
7. Velvet Underground, Crimson & Clover
8. The Notwist, Solitaire
9. Yo La Tengo, Sugarcube
10. Wheat, Don't I Hold You
Bizarre list. Where has all the Bon Jovi gone?
Mood: tired
Drinking: tea
Listening To: Sarah Harmer, Coffee Stain
Hair: blech!
Friday, November 11, 2005
New Year
It'll be a year on Monday since Grandad died. It seems like a lot longer, so much has changed in my life. I've moved when I didn't think I'd be able to swing it financially for a couple of years still. So many things have happened. Losing Grammie only six months later. It doesn't seem possible we could've had so much death so close together. It doesn't seem possible that night we stayed up until dawn drinking wine could have been only a year ago, a group not likely to assemble in quite the same way again -- me, the two stacys, evan, my sisters, dad . . . we joked that we'd get mom to make doughnuts for the boy at 2am, sharing our Grandad stories, our memories of haying and the camp and lost summers long ago . . . and when everyone else left or went to bed, nearly 20 years since the last time, just the original cast members, as natural as if we'd only yesterday said good bye, sharing pain and secrets and garbage that in the 80's we never imagined we'd have in our lifetimes . . . nothing is as it was supposed to be . . . everything is as it should be. What a bizarre timewarp and gift during a terrible time. A night to remember and cherish.
Mood: melancholy
Drinking: organic tea
Listening To: Death Cab for Cutie, I'll Follow You Into the Dark
Hair: out of sight, out of mind
Mood: melancholy
Drinking: organic tea
Listening To: Death Cab for Cutie, I'll Follow You Into the Dark
Hair: out of sight, out of mind
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
All Nite Long
It's a good night for an all-night. The kids have a long weekend. No classes tomorrow or Friday. The party started last night. Round two this evening is louder, with many more participants. At least a dozen people on the steps (theirs and mine?) Smoking dope I presume, because they don't do smelly drugs in the house.
Last night the girl (did I tell you about the girl?) had a fit around 1:30 (Rude Awakening # . . . I've lost count) screaming "OUT!!" and chasing the boys from the kitchen to the yard, slamming the door with everything in her. The door is loud just from normal use. I assume they were trying to get away with a little toke inside, it was a chilly night. I could hear what sounded like a pipe.
This is Canada. It's going to get even chillier. Honest to god, having to wear clothes reeking of crack will be too much for me, I will have to leave. I keep thinking of that two bedroom . . . not a student building . . . seniors, I thought she said . . . *sigh* This is what my life has become, the seniors complex looks pretty good right about now. And I express this with a straight face, simultaneously with the desire to meet more people my own age.
Mood: stressed out
Drinking: water now, just had a cup of tea
Listening To: kids in the yard, in the kitchen, in the hall, on the street
Hair: tied back for business
Last night the girl (did I tell you about the girl?) had a fit around 1:30 (Rude Awakening # . . . I've lost count) screaming "OUT!!" and chasing the boys from the kitchen to the yard, slamming the door with everything in her. The door is loud just from normal use. I assume they were trying to get away with a little toke inside, it was a chilly night. I could hear what sounded like a pipe.
This is Canada. It's going to get even chillier. Honest to god, having to wear clothes reeking of crack will be too much for me, I will have to leave. I keep thinking of that two bedroom . . . not a student building . . . seniors, I thought she said . . . *sigh* This is what my life has become, the seniors complex looks pretty good right about now. And I express this with a straight face, simultaneously with the desire to meet more people my own age.
Mood: stressed out
Drinking: water now, just had a cup of tea
Listening To: kids in the yard, in the kitchen, in the hall, on the street
Hair: tied back for business
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Busy
Finally Sunday Night Anxiety came on a Monday night . . . now, I'm officially in over my head. Today I'm determined to cross as many things off my list as humanly possible or die trying. First course of action -- Make an F'ing list!
But no simplistic run-of-mill type list will do for me, NOOOOO. I need a big ass six section sub-divided chart. And I mean it, I NEED it to be that way. If I'm ever to have any hope of balance, I've got to see and understand what balls I've got in the air. My life as I know it consists of:
DOMESTIC RESPONSIBILITIES
* Laundry (the basket is full, will be fuller still when I unpack from Moncton)
* Unpack from Moncton
* Dishes (man! the dish fairy is so not willing to work with me here . . . yesterday I made pancakes in a saucepan. Yes, I only have one fry-pan, but still)
* Sweep (there are dust bunnies on top of my dust bunnies, which can only mean even MORE dust bunnies tomorrow)
* Vaccuum (not that it even helps the carpet, but it must pick up something, then I'll have to sweep the carpet too, it's all a little raunchy right there now)
* Mail (I've got outgoing and incoming expected)
* Sprucing up the Place (there's a lamp I want to hang, some knick-knacky type things I want to put out, candles, I've got some stuff I want to put on the wall, some shelves to take care of, lots of stuff like that I want to do)
* Groceries (need a list, need some foodstuffs)
MIGHTY
* BnM blog (I try to post something new several times a week, everyday seems unattainable)
* BnM itself (it's so huge it can't even be elaborated on for the sake of the main overview list, but gets a four page list of it's own, which i won't include here, but suffice it to say I've got 14 new articles in the works since the last time I made a bnm list two weeks ago, 21+ submissions I've got to deal with, and 20+ articles I'm currently writing/working on at various stages of completion, probably about 60 bnm stories in the works right now, simultaneously . . . plus the pics and the website and all the editing/design/headlines etc.)
WFNB
*Workshops (Phinney, Powning, and Mac upcoming, there's PR work still to be done, I'm hosting the one in Sackville, going to Sussex for another one)
* Website (some design changes need doing)
* Blog (updated daily with at least a Contest of the Day)
* Ink newsletter (to be done by Friday this week, I do all the lay-out/design, copy editing, headline writing, finding the markets and contests info, etc.)
SACKVILLE WRITERS
* Poems to read and crit for Wednesday night meeting
* Young adult novel to read and crit for special Sunday afternoon meeting
* Fix my printer so I can print out my stuff to submit to future meetings
* Write a new story
FREELANCE
* Full-length novel to read and crit
* Workshop at Access Centre on 24th to prep for
* Miramichi Writers' Guild anthology to edit
* Inspirational book to edit
PERSONAL
* Blog (daily, because it helps keep me sane, even when I really shouldn't take the time to do it . . . like right now)
* Shopping (kids b'days are all coming up, christmas, i still don't have anything for stacy for the wedding . . . i'm in shopping hell here)
* Exercise (this means leaving the house to walk and do things, plus yoga stretches and some weights work, this is important for arthritis reasons and I suffer without it, MUST make time)
* Read (for pleasure, not work, I can't remember the last book I got through from cover to cover, this depresses me)
* Do the research so you can continue writing the book
Those are some of the highlights, some of the contributing factors to my anxious nights. Is it more than anyone else has on their plate at one time? No, I wouldn't think so, but I'm just not doing a really great job right now of balancing things out and finishing things once started. I'm letting myself be immobilised by this overwhelmed feeling that I have too much to do and no idea what to do first. This has happened to me before and I've always come out of it. So, this week, I'm forcing myself to come out of it. I've got a list and I'll cross things off and get my feelings under control so I can sleep like a normal person.
But no simplistic run-of-mill type list will do for me, NOOOOO. I need a big ass six section sub-divided chart. And I mean it, I NEED it to be that way. If I'm ever to have any hope of balance, I've got to see and understand what balls I've got in the air. My life as I know it consists of:
DOMESTIC RESPONSIBILITIES
* Laundry (the basket is full, will be fuller still when I unpack from Moncton)
* Unpack from Moncton
* Dishes (man! the dish fairy is so not willing to work with me here . . . yesterday I made pancakes in a saucepan. Yes, I only have one fry-pan, but still)
* Sweep (there are dust bunnies on top of my dust bunnies, which can only mean even MORE dust bunnies tomorrow)
* Vaccuum (not that it even helps the carpet, but it must pick up something, then I'll have to sweep the carpet too, it's all a little raunchy right there now)
* Mail (I've got outgoing and incoming expected)
* Sprucing up the Place (there's a lamp I want to hang, some knick-knacky type things I want to put out, candles, I've got some stuff I want to put on the wall, some shelves to take care of, lots of stuff like that I want to do)
* Groceries (need a list, need some foodstuffs)
MIGHTY
* BnM blog (I try to post something new several times a week, everyday seems unattainable)
* BnM itself (it's so huge it can't even be elaborated on for the sake of the main overview list, but gets a four page list of it's own, which i won't include here, but suffice it to say I've got 14 new articles in the works since the last time I made a bnm list two weeks ago, 21+ submissions I've got to deal with, and 20+ articles I'm currently writing/working on at various stages of completion, probably about 60 bnm stories in the works right now, simultaneously . . . plus the pics and the website and all the editing/design/headlines etc.)
WFNB
*Workshops (Phinney, Powning, and Mac upcoming, there's PR work still to be done, I'm hosting the one in Sackville, going to Sussex for another one)
* Website (some design changes need doing)
* Blog (updated daily with at least a Contest of the Day)
* Ink newsletter (to be done by Friday this week, I do all the lay-out/design, copy editing, headline writing, finding the markets and contests info, etc.)
SACKVILLE WRITERS
* Poems to read and crit for Wednesday night meeting
* Young adult novel to read and crit for special Sunday afternoon meeting
* Fix my printer so I can print out my stuff to submit to future meetings
* Write a new story
FREELANCE
* Full-length novel to read and crit
* Workshop at Access Centre on 24th to prep for
* Miramichi Writers' Guild anthology to edit
* Inspirational book to edit
PERSONAL
* Blog (daily, because it helps keep me sane, even when I really shouldn't take the time to do it . . . like right now)
* Shopping (kids b'days are all coming up, christmas, i still don't have anything for stacy for the wedding . . . i'm in shopping hell here)
* Exercise (this means leaving the house to walk and do things, plus yoga stretches and some weights work, this is important for arthritis reasons and I suffer without it, MUST make time)
* Read (for pleasure, not work, I can't remember the last book I got through from cover to cover, this depresses me)
* Do the research so you can continue writing the book
Those are some of the highlights, some of the contributing factors to my anxious nights. Is it more than anyone else has on their plate at one time? No, I wouldn't think so, but I'm just not doing a really great job right now of balancing things out and finishing things once started. I'm letting myself be immobilised by this overwhelmed feeling that I have too much to do and no idea what to do first. This has happened to me before and I've always come out of it. So, this week, I'm forcing myself to come out of it. I've got a list and I'll cross things off and get my feelings under control so I can sleep like a normal person.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Yesterday's Wine
I'm returned from the wilds of Moncton quite simply played right out. Oh to sleep for a week! Yesterday I had the absolute worse hang-over I've had in years. It stayed with me all day. This makes me wonder how much I actually drank, because I am perfectly capable of drinking myself into oblivion and waking up completely refreshed the next day. Perhaps it was the mixture that was lethal. I'm not up for a play-by-play, but some highlights for anyone who cares --
Pinot Grigio generally tastes like beer, I don't see why it's so trendy right now, though it's not bad in blends with Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc . . . not my favourite . . .
After several tastings I think it's safe to say I will never be a fan of white and zinfandel is downright yucky!
The Wolf Blass Gold Label was tres disappointing. However, the E&J Gallo Pinot Noir was tres surprising. For me, it's hard to go wrong with a Shiraz.
Nothing blew my mind.
Anything really good was sold out on Friday (best to get in on the first tasting if you hope to buy).
Fondue may be making a comeback . . . and maybe it should.
Bought two fridge magnets to mark the occasion: "Up Shiraz!" and "Pinot Envy" (corny, I know, but funny too)
The three hours flew by and we didn't get anywhere near seeing or tasting everything, but had a really good time.
Supped at Doc Dylan's where I had chicken quesadillas and some big ass fries!
Missed the Catherine Bush workshop, but went to the reading, where I bought three of her books and got them signed.
Tried to get in the St. James Gate for coffee, but it was too packed. Went to Ivory's Piano Bar instead, but they no longer do specialty coffees. Listened to a set.
Back to Doc's where we could hear ourselves think . . . was I supposed to get coffee? Hmm. I think I forgot. In an unusual munchie attack I order wings and skins . . . and eat nearly all of them all by myself because Trish is still stuffed from supper (and rightfully so, it was just hours ago).
Ivory's for last call, though I'm pretty sure I don't need anymore . . . Trish has more sense.
Another fit of munchies back at the hotel. I want to order the chicken/oregano pizza from room service but even though I could've swore you could get pizza at all hours, I can't find the info now. Oh well, I'm off to the vending machines for chocolate and chips, which I devour (despite Lee's strong warning to not mix the two too heavily). Order the movie, Mr & Mrs Smith . . . to which I vaguely remember the opening credits, I'm unconscious in no time.
Awake at 8 with head throbbing, dryer than a wooden god, not sure where I am but surely I've been kidnapped and beaten within an inch of my life. Slowly it comes back, I go get my first glass of water. I think I'm going to puke.
I drink water until 11 when I make coffee. Even the coffee doesn't bring me around. Oy! This is bad.
Checkout by Noon, store baggage in a locker at the bus terminal, breakfast at the Cafe Felix. Belgian Waffles with fruit and maple syrup. Scrum, I've had them before. Not as good this time, or I'm not as good. I can't eat the whole thing. I get nowhere near the bottom of the plate. But I think I mightn't puke now at least.
Try the St. James Gate again, but they don't open until 4 p.m. No Gate specialty coffee for me this Moncton trip.
Head to the Pumphouse in hopes they'll have something interesting. They do, but they're outta whipped cream, still the coffee is good with amaretto and irish whiskey. I'm not coming around as well as I might have hoped. We sit in a barrel and decide to try the beer. Order the sample tray. About a dozen kinds. Two that normally don't come with it, but she gives them to us because of the whipped cream thing. I just don't like beer anymore. There's no way around it, I can't make myself like it. It's super weird. The blueberry one was okay, but kind of upsetting with the berries floating around in it. The scotch ale would be my favourite, but not favourite as in I must have more, favourite as in should I ever need to drink a beer again it would be the lesser of all evils. The wine ones were absolutely terrible! And that's it, I think I'm done with beer.
We spent the rest of the afternoon roaming around Highfield Square window shopping. There were actually a lot of things I would have bought for myself, for Xmas gifts, if we had a car to cart all these things around. It's difficult to transport big heavy things on foot and bus.
Trish left around 5pm on the train back to Miramichi and I headed back toward the bus station way, nearly getting run over in the Via parking lot, getting locked into Highfield Square and wandering for a good long while before finding the only exit left open. I thought I would just sit at the bus station and read for a couple of hours until my bus left. Still sick I didn't feel much like wandering around anymore, just wanted to get home and to bed.
I hate the Moncton bus station. I don't know what it is about it, but it seems to have more than its fair share of scary psycho characters. The train station just across the street is fine, other bus stations even seem okay, but this one in Moncton . . . Of course, I always forget that it makes me nervous until I'm actually there for a half hour or so.
Last night there was a boy in a huge hooded winter jacket. He was at the station before I got there, listening to his gangsta rap and singing a little. He was all wrapped into this big coat pulling the hood in around his face, like he was hiding (tho more likely he was just getting out of the bright lights). He had a pillow and an odd shaped red drawstring bag. I was a little disturbed by this boy because I couldn't see him, couldn't see what he was doing under that big coat.
A mother at the end of her rope after a day of Christmas shopping with her toddler and two teenage girls caused a big ruckus when she arrived. They had way too many parcels, the kids were acting up, she was loud and in a foul mood growling at the kids saying things like they would drive anyone to drink. When they came in the boy turned around to watch them and then I liked him even less. He had a sort of wild dangerous look in his eyes. Intimidating. Once he was drawn out from his music and noticed other people around, he seemed to be staring at me. He moved closer to where I was sitting.
I couldn't focus on my book, had such a bad feeling about this boy, and the closer he got to me the worse the feeling got. I tried to talk myself out of it, blame it on the hang-over making me jittery, but I'm big on trusting my instincts and every bit of me was screaming that this kid was dangerous. I went to the washroom. I went outside. I went to Reid's for a sandwich and coffee. Everytime I'd come back to the bus station and sit down this kid would come sit right behind me. Coincidence? I don't know. But I felt really uncomfortable and my wait for the bus was unpleasant.
The bus left late because another bus coming in was late arriving. By Crystal Palace the driver got a call and pulled over. About 15 minutes later a taxi pulled over and dropped off a girl. Very bizarre. I thought if you missed the bus, you missed the bus, but apparently not. We were pretty late getting in. I climbed straight into bed and had a hard time staying awake to watch Six Feet Under. Other than the creepiness of the bus station, it was a fantastic time and definitely a must do again event.
Mood: zonked
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: computer drone
Hair: longer than it was on Friday
Pinot Grigio generally tastes like beer, I don't see why it's so trendy right now, though it's not bad in blends with Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc . . . not my favourite . . .
After several tastings I think it's safe to say I will never be a fan of white and zinfandel is downright yucky!
The Wolf Blass Gold Label was tres disappointing. However, the E&J Gallo Pinot Noir was tres surprising. For me, it's hard to go wrong with a Shiraz.
Nothing blew my mind.
Anything really good was sold out on Friday (best to get in on the first tasting if you hope to buy).
Fondue may be making a comeback . . . and maybe it should.
Bought two fridge magnets to mark the occasion: "Up Shiraz!" and "Pinot Envy" (corny, I know, but funny too)
The three hours flew by and we didn't get anywhere near seeing or tasting everything, but had a really good time.
Supped at Doc Dylan's where I had chicken quesadillas and some big ass fries!
Missed the Catherine Bush workshop, but went to the reading, where I bought three of her books and got them signed.
Tried to get in the St. James Gate for coffee, but it was too packed. Went to Ivory's Piano Bar instead, but they no longer do specialty coffees. Listened to a set.
Back to Doc's where we could hear ourselves think . . . was I supposed to get coffee? Hmm. I think I forgot. In an unusual munchie attack I order wings and skins . . . and eat nearly all of them all by myself because Trish is still stuffed from supper (and rightfully so, it was just hours ago).
Ivory's for last call, though I'm pretty sure I don't need anymore . . . Trish has more sense.
Another fit of munchies back at the hotel. I want to order the chicken/oregano pizza from room service but even though I could've swore you could get pizza at all hours, I can't find the info now. Oh well, I'm off to the vending machines for chocolate and chips, which I devour (despite Lee's strong warning to not mix the two too heavily). Order the movie, Mr & Mrs Smith . . . to which I vaguely remember the opening credits, I'm unconscious in no time.
Awake at 8 with head throbbing, dryer than a wooden god, not sure where I am but surely I've been kidnapped and beaten within an inch of my life. Slowly it comes back, I go get my first glass of water. I think I'm going to puke.
I drink water until 11 when I make coffee. Even the coffee doesn't bring me around. Oy! This is bad.
Checkout by Noon, store baggage in a locker at the bus terminal, breakfast at the Cafe Felix. Belgian Waffles with fruit and maple syrup. Scrum, I've had them before. Not as good this time, or I'm not as good. I can't eat the whole thing. I get nowhere near the bottom of the plate. But I think I mightn't puke now at least.
Try the St. James Gate again, but they don't open until 4 p.m. No Gate specialty coffee for me this Moncton trip.
Head to the Pumphouse in hopes they'll have something interesting. They do, but they're outta whipped cream, still the coffee is good with amaretto and irish whiskey. I'm not coming around as well as I might have hoped. We sit in a barrel and decide to try the beer. Order the sample tray. About a dozen kinds. Two that normally don't come with it, but she gives them to us because of the whipped cream thing. I just don't like beer anymore. There's no way around it, I can't make myself like it. It's super weird. The blueberry one was okay, but kind of upsetting with the berries floating around in it. The scotch ale would be my favourite, but not favourite as in I must have more, favourite as in should I ever need to drink a beer again it would be the lesser of all evils. The wine ones were absolutely terrible! And that's it, I think I'm done with beer.
We spent the rest of the afternoon roaming around Highfield Square window shopping. There were actually a lot of things I would have bought for myself, for Xmas gifts, if we had a car to cart all these things around. It's difficult to transport big heavy things on foot and bus.
Trish left around 5pm on the train back to Miramichi and I headed back toward the bus station way, nearly getting run over in the Via parking lot, getting locked into Highfield Square and wandering for a good long while before finding the only exit left open. I thought I would just sit at the bus station and read for a couple of hours until my bus left. Still sick I didn't feel much like wandering around anymore, just wanted to get home and to bed.
I hate the Moncton bus station. I don't know what it is about it, but it seems to have more than its fair share of scary psycho characters. The train station just across the street is fine, other bus stations even seem okay, but this one in Moncton . . . Of course, I always forget that it makes me nervous until I'm actually there for a half hour or so.
Last night there was a boy in a huge hooded winter jacket. He was at the station before I got there, listening to his gangsta rap and singing a little. He was all wrapped into this big coat pulling the hood in around his face, like he was hiding (tho more likely he was just getting out of the bright lights). He had a pillow and an odd shaped red drawstring bag. I was a little disturbed by this boy because I couldn't see him, couldn't see what he was doing under that big coat.
A mother at the end of her rope after a day of Christmas shopping with her toddler and two teenage girls caused a big ruckus when she arrived. They had way too many parcels, the kids were acting up, she was loud and in a foul mood growling at the kids saying things like they would drive anyone to drink. When they came in the boy turned around to watch them and then I liked him even less. He had a sort of wild dangerous look in his eyes. Intimidating. Once he was drawn out from his music and noticed other people around, he seemed to be staring at me. He moved closer to where I was sitting.
I couldn't focus on my book, had such a bad feeling about this boy, and the closer he got to me the worse the feeling got. I tried to talk myself out of it, blame it on the hang-over making me jittery, but I'm big on trusting my instincts and every bit of me was screaming that this kid was dangerous. I went to the washroom. I went outside. I went to Reid's for a sandwich and coffee. Everytime I'd come back to the bus station and sit down this kid would come sit right behind me. Coincidence? I don't know. But I felt really uncomfortable and my wait for the bus was unpleasant.
The bus left late because another bus coming in was late arriving. By Crystal Palace the driver got a call and pulled over. About 15 minutes later a taxi pulled over and dropped off a girl. Very bizarre. I thought if you missed the bus, you missed the bus, but apparently not. We were pretty late getting in. I climbed straight into bed and had a hard time staying awake to watch Six Feet Under. Other than the creepiness of the bus station, it was a fantastic time and definitely a must do again event.
Mood: zonked
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: computer drone
Hair: longer than it was on Friday
Kellie Needs . . .
From Andrea, this Google game is kinda fun. Just google your name plus needs to see what YOU need. Some of my results:
Kellie needs a few acting lessons
Kellie needs to find enough time to work on her PhD
Kellie needs to finalize and get approval for a “motion for summary judgment”
Kellie is a little anaemic and they will decide on Tuesday if she needs a bag of blood
Kellie needs her infusion of magnesium
Kellie needs help!
Kellie needs a 1 st period teacher aid
Kellie needs to be on AIM more often
Kellie needs to be examined closely
Kellie needs to learn how to spell cousin
Kellie Needs a Good Home!
Kellie needs to step up to the plate and come out from the shadows
Kellie needs a sympathy card
Kellie needs to lighten up
Kellie needs a bike
Kellie needs to shut the **** up
Kellie needs our prayer support and the police need wisdom
Kellie needs to go to the doctor obsessed
Kellie needs long words!
Kellie needs your advice
kellie needs a new spoon
Kellie needs to put a foot in the 21st century
Kellie needs to get on with her life, the sooner, the better.
Kellie needs to be careful who she refers to as ignorant
And my favourite . . .
Kellie needs to lay off The cheap crack
What do you need?
Kellie needs a few acting lessons
Kellie needs to find enough time to work on her PhD
Kellie needs to finalize and get approval for a “motion for summary judgment”
Kellie is a little anaemic and they will decide on Tuesday if she needs a bag of blood
Kellie needs her infusion of magnesium
Kellie needs help!
Kellie needs a 1 st period teacher aid
Kellie needs to be on AIM more often
Kellie needs to be examined closely
Kellie needs to learn how to spell cousin
Kellie Needs a Good Home!
Kellie needs to step up to the plate and come out from the shadows
Kellie needs a sympathy card
Kellie needs to lighten up
Kellie needs a bike
Kellie needs to shut the **** up
Kellie needs our prayer support and the police need wisdom
Kellie needs to go to the doctor obsessed
Kellie needs long words!
Kellie needs your advice
kellie needs a new spoon
Kellie needs to put a foot in the 21st century
Kellie needs to get on with her life, the sooner, the better.
Kellie needs to be careful who she refers to as ignorant
And my favourite . . .
Kellie needs to lay off The cheap crack
What do you need?
Not that it Matters
| What Beatle are you? John Lennon You enjoy poetry, painting & a fine wine. A lover not a fighter.
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Saturday, November 05, 2005
Another Excursion & Rude Awakening
Heading out to Moncton this morning. Still half-asleep. Didn't get much rest. Stayed up late and then boys woke me repeatedly with their drunken coming home rituals. "GOOD NIGHT!!" then silence for a good seven minutes while I calm my fluttering heart and drift back to dreamland. "GOOD NIGHT!" The other guy is so drunk it's taken him this long to respond. A half hour later I'm ripped from my dark slumber, "GRAEME!! ARE YOU OKAY MAN?" Why must this boy yell? But it's a little troublesome. Graeme is the quiet one, the most nervous, the one who doesn't seem to party as much as the others, and because I don't think he has the party experience the others have in my mind he becomes the one most likely to die from a surprise overdose or alcohol poisoning . . . I can't hear his reply, he's across the hall in his room. Ten minutes and I'm drifting again when he finally answers, "NO." Hmm, he's not okay. I wait for something to happen. But eventually fall asleep and there are no more rude awakenings this night.
This morning I dreamed about my Uncle Clyde. We were kids, all the Underhill cousins. Blake had us in a big Dodge car. A huge gas guzzling boat. Gold coloured. Everyone was there -- me, stacy, carol, margie, liane, raelene, sherry, jenn, herschel, janice, joy, etc. It seemed like the whole brood. But it was odd because we weren't spaced out in age, we were all kids of around 13 or 14. Blake took us to his house and we were out in a garden in the back, but not the garden I remember being there when we were kids. This one was off to the side, over by the woods, and the drills ran horizontally on the hill instead of vertically. I think it was carrots, but they were just starting to come up. Everyone was in the garden, weeding. And Clyde was standing at the far edge right in the trees, just standing there watching the kids work. Stacy and I weren't in the garden, we were following Blake to go into the house, whispering. Stacy was telling me how she nearly got caught stealing cigarettes from her father. But I wasn't really listening, I was looking back over my shoulder at Clyde. There were tears in his eyes. I nudged Stacy and pointed. "What's up with him?" I asked. She shrugged. "It's hard to be around the kids sometimes." Then the dream shifted to a scene from a movie. A vampire movie with Christina Ricci. I recognised it immediately. I've dreamed this before, or there really is such a movie and I've seen it.
Christina has been bitten and become a vampire. Someone wants to stake her, but the guy who is in love with her, her husband or boyfriend I'm not sure, takes her and flees the town. The scene I jump into they are camped in a field and she's lying on the ground by a fire with her hands tied behind her back. Her fangs are showing and there's blood around her mouth. She's struggling to come loose, angry, hissing. And he's trying to soothe her. (Not sure which actor plays him.) I just get a glimpse of this scene and then I wake up. Six minutes before my alarm is set to go off, so I get up. Is this a real movie? Or have I made it up? Anyone know?
Mood: waking up
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Freebird
Hair: long and loose
This morning I dreamed about my Uncle Clyde. We were kids, all the Underhill cousins. Blake had us in a big Dodge car. A huge gas guzzling boat. Gold coloured. Everyone was there -- me, stacy, carol, margie, liane, raelene, sherry, jenn, herschel, janice, joy, etc. It seemed like the whole brood. But it was odd because we weren't spaced out in age, we were all kids of around 13 or 14. Blake took us to his house and we were out in a garden in the back, but not the garden I remember being there when we were kids. This one was off to the side, over by the woods, and the drills ran horizontally on the hill instead of vertically. I think it was carrots, but they were just starting to come up. Everyone was in the garden, weeding. And Clyde was standing at the far edge right in the trees, just standing there watching the kids work. Stacy and I weren't in the garden, we were following Blake to go into the house, whispering. Stacy was telling me how she nearly got caught stealing cigarettes from her father. But I wasn't really listening, I was looking back over my shoulder at Clyde. There were tears in his eyes. I nudged Stacy and pointed. "What's up with him?" I asked. She shrugged. "It's hard to be around the kids sometimes." Then the dream shifted to a scene from a movie. A vampire movie with Christina Ricci. I recognised it immediately. I've dreamed this before, or there really is such a movie and I've seen it.
Christina has been bitten and become a vampire. Someone wants to stake her, but the guy who is in love with her, her husband or boyfriend I'm not sure, takes her and flees the town. The scene I jump into they are camped in a field and she's lying on the ground by a fire with her hands tied behind her back. Her fangs are showing and there's blood around her mouth. She's struggling to come loose, angry, hissing. And he's trying to soothe her. (Not sure which actor plays him.) I just get a glimpse of this scene and then I wake up. Six minutes before my alarm is set to go off, so I get up. Is this a real movie? Or have I made it up? Anyone know?
Mood: waking up
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Freebird
Hair: long and loose
Friday, November 04, 2005
TGIF
1. What is your best flirty move?
Ha! I've been out of the game so long I'm sure I don't have ANY flirty moves, let alone a best one.
2. What is your best quality as a significant other?
When I'm in a serious relationship I'm one hundred percent devoted to my partner and making the relationship work.
3. What is your worst quality as a significant other?
I have no idea. It's been so long since I've been involved with anyone and I've changed and grown so much since that it's impossible to predict how I might behave now. All the old faults would seem to no longer apply. But if I had to pick something I'd say that in the past I've been too accommodating, too easy going, and therefore maybe taken a little less seriously, easily taken advantage of.
4. What is the biggest mistake you've made in a relationship?
Putting myself at the bottom of the totem pole.
5. What is the biggest sacrifice you've made for love?
In the words of Meatloaf, "I would do anything for love." I've quit jobs. I've moved. I'm not convinced these things were sacrifices, but pretty big changes to make to see whether something would work out or not . . . especially considering none of them did ;-)
Mood: going into the "gotta pack and catch a bus in the a.m. is everything done here?" mode
Drinking: coffee still
Listening To: The Who, Who Are You
Hair: few stragglys coming loose
Ha! I've been out of the game so long I'm sure I don't have ANY flirty moves, let alone a best one.
2. What is your best quality as a significant other?
When I'm in a serious relationship I'm one hundred percent devoted to my partner and making the relationship work.
3. What is your worst quality as a significant other?
I have no idea. It's been so long since I've been involved with anyone and I've changed and grown so much since that it's impossible to predict how I might behave now. All the old faults would seem to no longer apply. But if I had to pick something I'd say that in the past I've been too accommodating, too easy going, and therefore maybe taken a little less seriously, easily taken advantage of.
4. What is the biggest mistake you've made in a relationship?
Putting myself at the bottom of the totem pole.
5. What is the biggest sacrifice you've made for love?
In the words of Meatloaf, "I would do anything for love." I've quit jobs. I've moved. I'm not convinced these things were sacrifices, but pretty big changes to make to see whether something would work out or not . . . especially considering none of them did ;-)
Mood: going into the "gotta pack and catch a bus in the a.m. is everything done here?" mode
Drinking: coffee still
Listening To: The Who, Who Are You
Hair: few stragglys coming loose
Friday's Feast
Appetizer
What was the last game you purchased?
It's been awhile, probably the Scene-It dvd game or Trivial Pursuit Pop Culture dvd game. I forget if I got them at the same time, but they were both around a lot during the holiday season last year.
Soup
Name something in which you don't believe.
I don't believe in war.
Salad
If you could choose a television personality to be your boss, who would you pick?
Interesting question. What exactly is a television personality? I'm thinking this goes beyond your run of the mill actors . . . I would choose Ellen Degeneres because I think it'd be a hoot.
Main Course
What was a lesson you had to learn the hard way?
That bad people exist, not everyone has a redeeming quality. Some people's sole purpose on the planet is to destroy as many spirits as they can. Once I accepted this and stopped looking for the good where it would never exist, life got a little easier.
Dessert
Describe your idea of the perfect relaxation room.
Greens, purples, burnt orange, lots of big pillows, soft light, a bottle of the finest red wine, candles, books, someone to rub my back, a huge tub for long bubble baths, a fireplace . . . it's a big room . . .
Mood: in planning mode
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Rolling Stones, You Can't Always Get What You Want
Hair: still pinned
What was the last game you purchased?
It's been awhile, probably the Scene-It dvd game or Trivial Pursuit Pop Culture dvd game. I forget if I got them at the same time, but they were both around a lot during the holiday season last year.
Soup
Name something in which you don't believe.
I don't believe in war.
Salad
If you could choose a television personality to be your boss, who would you pick?
Interesting question. What exactly is a television personality? I'm thinking this goes beyond your run of the mill actors . . . I would choose Ellen Degeneres because I think it'd be a hoot.
Main Course
What was a lesson you had to learn the hard way?
That bad people exist, not everyone has a redeeming quality. Some people's sole purpose on the planet is to destroy as many spirits as they can. Once I accepted this and stopped looking for the good where it would never exist, life got a little easier.
Dessert
Describe your idea of the perfect relaxation room.
Greens, purples, burnt orange, lots of big pillows, soft light, a bottle of the finest red wine, candles, books, someone to rub my back, a huge tub for long bubble baths, a fireplace . . . it's a big room . . .
Mood: in planning mode
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Rolling Stones, You Can't Always Get What You Want
Hair: still pinned
Four for Friday
Q1 - Halloween: Did trick-or-treater's come to your house this year? If so, approximately how many came by? Was this year's number higher or lower than you've had in previous years, and what did you give them?
There were no trick or treaters at my apartment or the main house. I had some mini-chocolate bars just in case . . . and have since had to eat them all by myself, boo hoo!
Q2 - Allergies: Do you have allergies? If so, what are you allergic to? If you're not allergic to anything, is there anything you wish you were allergic to?
I might have allergies, I've certainly got some sinus stuff going on. The Dollar Store kills me with all their cheap scented candles, but I can generally use scented products without dying . . . so I don't know. I wouldn't wish any allergies upon myself.
Q3 - Organic Food: The organic food market in the United States is projected to reach a value of $30.7 billion by the year 2007. According to one recent report, close to 40 percent of the U.S. population now uses organic products on a daily basis. Are you included in that 40 percent figure... do you intentionally buy organic foods or drinks? If so, what are you buying? If not, why?
I am not. I wish I could afford to buy all organic all the time, but alas I'm just a poor girl. When I buy organic it's a special treat, a splurge.
Q4 - Television: Which TV shows from the past would you like to see back on television and why?
The Mister Magoo cartoons. I loved that old guy, haven't seen him in years.
Mood: stuffy
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Indigo Girls, Uncle John's Band (Dead cover tune)
Hair: very soccer mom 2002
There were no trick or treaters at my apartment or the main house. I had some mini-chocolate bars just in case . . . and have since had to eat them all by myself, boo hoo!
Q2 - Allergies: Do you have allergies? If so, what are you allergic to? If you're not allergic to anything, is there anything you wish you were allergic to?
I might have allergies, I've certainly got some sinus stuff going on. The Dollar Store kills me with all their cheap scented candles, but I can generally use scented products without dying . . . so I don't know. I wouldn't wish any allergies upon myself.
Q3 - Organic Food: The organic food market in the United States is projected to reach a value of $30.7 billion by the year 2007. According to one recent report, close to 40 percent of the U.S. population now uses organic products on a daily basis. Are you included in that 40 percent figure... do you intentionally buy organic foods or drinks? If so, what are you buying? If not, why?
I am not. I wish I could afford to buy all organic all the time, but alas I'm just a poor girl. When I buy organic it's a special treat, a splurge.
Q4 - Television: Which TV shows from the past would you like to see back on television and why?
The Mister Magoo cartoons. I loved that old guy, haven't seen him in years.
Mood: stuffy
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Indigo Girls, Uncle John's Band (Dead cover tune)
Hair: very soccer mom 2002
Trading Places
I happened to stumble into this week's expisode of Trading Places or Wife Swap or whatever that show is where families trade mothers for a week. Did you see it? My god! It was . . . I don't even know what to say about it. In one family the Dad is an astrologer and the Mom is a hypno-therapist. They're newlyweds, met on Match.com, and have a call-in radio show about relationships. Their garden is full of gargoyles. They celebrate solstice and eat tofu and soy products . . . The other family is christian, and by christian I mean of the "born-again saved and everyone else is going to hell" variety, the hellfire and brimstone type. The mother seems to be particularly possessed by Jesus.
So, they switched households. And everyone had a HUGE culture shock. But still the astrologer's family and friends seemed open to the new mom, saying grace before meals and things they normally didn't do. The christian family even seemed open to the new mom, the daughter had a hypno-therapy session with her. The hypno-therapist herself really seemed to want to make the most of the experience. But the christian mom! Wow! I mean I know these people exist, but to see this woman freak out like she does, literally throwing up from her fear of things "not of god" (which is just about everything), it's pretty wild. And her friends back in her town were so terrible! So judgemental and closed off and full of themselves!
The whole show made me feel ill. I wanted to turn it off, but I couldn't. To know that these people are real, not characters, and that so much of society agrees with them, it's just appalling. There is absolutely nothing you could ever say to these people that would convince them to live and let live, not even to toss their beliefs, but just to tolerate other belief systems. When that friend kept attacking that poor woman about her religion, air quoting "a higher power" with her nose all curled up . . . I wanted to go through the tv screen and slap the smirk off her face. The arrogance! It was really upsetting to me . . . and this was only the first half. Apparently, next week as the show ends the christian mom tosses a shit fit like we've never seen the like of before, renouncing everyone in jesus' name, tearing up the letter from the other mom telling them how the money they've all won is supposed to be spent, kicking the camera crew out of her house . . . I don't know that I'll watch. I think I've seen enough.
Mood: got an achy knee
Drinking: nothing, just polished off a bottle of water
Listening To: boys in the yard . . . one just said he was going to break another's arm . . . are they joking or fighting for real? Are they MY boys or visitors? Things that make ya go hmmm.
Hair: pulled back so tight my head hurts
So, they switched households. And everyone had a HUGE culture shock. But still the astrologer's family and friends seemed open to the new mom, saying grace before meals and things they normally didn't do. The christian family even seemed open to the new mom, the daughter had a hypno-therapy session with her. The hypno-therapist herself really seemed to want to make the most of the experience. But the christian mom! Wow! I mean I know these people exist, but to see this woman freak out like she does, literally throwing up from her fear of things "not of god" (which is just about everything), it's pretty wild. And her friends back in her town were so terrible! So judgemental and closed off and full of themselves!
The whole show made me feel ill. I wanted to turn it off, but I couldn't. To know that these people are real, not characters, and that so much of society agrees with them, it's just appalling. There is absolutely nothing you could ever say to these people that would convince them to live and let live, not even to toss their beliefs, but just to tolerate other belief systems. When that friend kept attacking that poor woman about her religion, air quoting "a higher power" with her nose all curled up . . . I wanted to go through the tv screen and slap the smirk off her face. The arrogance! It was really upsetting to me . . . and this was only the first half. Apparently, next week as the show ends the christian mom tosses a shit fit like we've never seen the like of before, renouncing everyone in jesus' name, tearing up the letter from the other mom telling them how the money they've all won is supposed to be spent, kicking the camera crew out of her house . . . I don't know that I'll watch. I think I've seen enough.
Mood: got an achy knee
Drinking: nothing, just polished off a bottle of water
Listening To: boys in the yard . . . one just said he was going to break another's arm . . . are they joking or fighting for real? Are they MY boys or visitors? Things that make ya go hmmm.
Hair: pulled back so tight my head hurts
Thursday, November 03, 2005
How funny is this?!
| Popular Kid |
 In high school, everyone knew your name - even if you didn't know theirs. In fact, your still skating by on your looks and charm. Nothing wrong with that! |
OMG! So not even close to being true!
Mood: light
Drinking: navan is my new bedtime buddy
Listening To: nothing right now, but just turned off the Bon Jovi:Live from London dvd . . . it is spectacular by the way
Hair: has an appointment with destiny, confirmed
On James Patterson . . .
The NY Times business section ran a piece on James Patterson (who apparently made $40 million last year), where he revealed he doesn't always write his books:
Mr. Patterson said he often worked with co-authors because he believed that he was more proficient at creating the story line than at executing it.
"I found that it is rare that you get a craftsman and an idea person in the same body," Mr. Patterson said. "With me, I struggle like crazy. I can do the craft at an acceptable level, but the ideas are what I like." He said the co-authors received a flat fee and, most often, credit on the book cover.
WHA-THE?! He makes $40 mil US last year and doesn't even write his books. That irks me.
Mood: irked
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: last cigarette, bon jovi
Hair: needing a hat to go out in the rain
Mr. Patterson said he often worked with co-authors because he believed that he was more proficient at creating the story line than at executing it.
"I found that it is rare that you get a craftsman and an idea person in the same body," Mr. Patterson said. "With me, I struggle like crazy. I can do the craft at an acceptable level, but the ideas are what I like." He said the co-authors received a flat fee and, most often, credit on the book cover.
WHA-THE?! He makes $40 mil US last year and doesn't even write his books. That irks me.
Mood: irked
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: last cigarette, bon jovi
Hair: needing a hat to go out in the rain
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
I'm a Soldier
Okay, I've definitely been watching way too much Sopranos this week . . . the dreams last night . . . mama mia! All the smacking around, the cursing, the shots fired . . . And I woke up with the crazy urge to chew gum, paint my nails, and have some zitti with a lot of parm and some vino. Now, I'm going to have to cook. Thank God I finished the last of the season last night and there ain't no more on the way . . . though there are some other jersey boyz coming soon . . . yep, bon jovi live from london dvd should be waiting for me at the post office right now. If I had any energy I'd go get it . . . and some italian sausage, crushed tomatoes, fresh parm, peppers, mozza, etc. hmmm, maybe I will do that today.
Mood: buoyant
Drinking: not even so much as a cuppa joe so far today
Listening To: rumblies in my tummie
Hair: lighter than it was yesterday and twice as curly!
Mood: buoyant
Drinking: not even so much as a cuppa joe so far today
Listening To: rumblies in my tummie
Hair: lighter than it was yesterday and twice as curly!
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Tuesday Twosome
1. Have you ever said "I Love you" and not meant it? Has someone told you "I Love you" and not meant it?
Absolutely not. It's stressful enough to say it when I do mean it, why would I bother if I didn't? But oh yeah, people have definitely told me they loved me and not meant it. I think saying it in general has to mean something to you, has to be something you value, otherwise it loses it's meaning.
2. Do you believe in love at first sight? Do you believe in karma?
I believe in lust at first sight, attraction at first sight . . . maybe love, I dunno. I think we recognise souls from past lives and are naturally drawn to them again. Is this love? Yeah, sometimes I think it is. I'm not sure what is meant by karma . . . what goes around, comes around? You get back what you put out? If so, then yeah, I'm a believer.
3. What person do you trust the most? What person do you trust the least?
Trust is a tricky deal. I think the only person you can ever REALLY trust one hundred percent blindly is yourself. Other people can disappoint you. They can turn on you in situations where you never would have dreamed they would. And it's completely beyond your control. Not that I'm saying trust nobody, or that I don't trust. It's not that at all. I trust people. I'm actually a very trusting person, downright gullible by times. But having been in the situation where I put my blind trust in other people and then had them turn on me, I know this stuff happens, and it's shocking and painful when it does. But you have to trust yourself that you can deal with the situation, that you're strong enough to figure it out and move on. Other people don't always react the way we think they should. We can only control our own reactions. I mean obviously you've got to have some faith in other people, and I do, but even my own family hasn't always had my back in every situation . . . and I would trust any of them with my life. I'm not sure I'm articulating my answer very well, but hopefully you get what I mean and don't think I'm some paranoid crazy person. I trust me the most, end of story. Anyway, onto the person I trust the least . . . not many liars and cheats in my life anymore, though I've had more than my fair share parade through up til now . . . I dunno, can't think of anyone . . . I guess I'm really the trusting sort. Or I distrust everyone equally :-)
4. What type(s) of music do you like? What type(s) of music do you dislike?
I love music, all kinds, all genres, pretty much everything -- classical, jazz, blues, rock, hip hop, alternative, punk, ska, dance, world, techno, funk, you name it, all of it. Country music spins in and out of my favour though. I have periods where I like it and listen to it, embrace my country side, then periods where I will pull my hair out by the roots if I am forced to endure. Currently, I'm neither embracing nor pulling my hair out. I don't seek it out, but if it comes up I'm okay with it.
5. Who is your celebrity crush? Who do you think is your celebrity look-a-like? So many celebrities, so little time. I'm crazy for Jon Bon, of course. Mark Wahlberg is a long-time crush. I've got a thing for Ed Harris that not everybody knows about. But I think my main crush right now would have to be Cillian Murphy. I'm buying anything he's done, no matter how bad the overall movie is, no matter that he's terrible at accents and should just be all Irish all the time, if he's in it I'm buying it and watching it a kazillion times. My celebrity look-a-like, hah! I honestly don't think I have one, though I saw the chick who used to be Amanda on Another World on a tv show the other night (Kevin thought I looked like her). One time when I had darker hair someone said they thought I looked like Shannon Doherty. Yeah, I think not. If I must look like anyone, I pick Angelina of course. I can't imagine how much collagen I would need to get these thin lips plumped to her status!
Mood: fun
Drinking: water
Listening To: the dryer rumble
Hair: time for a change
Absolutely not. It's stressful enough to say it when I do mean it, why would I bother if I didn't? But oh yeah, people have definitely told me they loved me and not meant it. I think saying it in general has to mean something to you, has to be something you value, otherwise it loses it's meaning.
2. Do you believe in love at first sight? Do you believe in karma?
I believe in lust at first sight, attraction at first sight . . . maybe love, I dunno. I think we recognise souls from past lives and are naturally drawn to them again. Is this love? Yeah, sometimes I think it is. I'm not sure what is meant by karma . . . what goes around, comes around? You get back what you put out? If so, then yeah, I'm a believer.
3. What person do you trust the most? What person do you trust the least?
Trust is a tricky deal. I think the only person you can ever REALLY trust one hundred percent blindly is yourself. Other people can disappoint you. They can turn on you in situations where you never would have dreamed they would. And it's completely beyond your control. Not that I'm saying trust nobody, or that I don't trust. It's not that at all. I trust people. I'm actually a very trusting person, downright gullible by times. But having been in the situation where I put my blind trust in other people and then had them turn on me, I know this stuff happens, and it's shocking and painful when it does. But you have to trust yourself that you can deal with the situation, that you're strong enough to figure it out and move on. Other people don't always react the way we think they should. We can only control our own reactions. I mean obviously you've got to have some faith in other people, and I do, but even my own family hasn't always had my back in every situation . . . and I would trust any of them with my life. I'm not sure I'm articulating my answer very well, but hopefully you get what I mean and don't think I'm some paranoid crazy person. I trust me the most, end of story. Anyway, onto the person I trust the least . . . not many liars and cheats in my life anymore, though I've had more than my fair share parade through up til now . . . I dunno, can't think of anyone . . . I guess I'm really the trusting sort. Or I distrust everyone equally :-)
4. What type(s) of music do you like? What type(s) of music do you dislike?
I love music, all kinds, all genres, pretty much everything -- classical, jazz, blues, rock, hip hop, alternative, punk, ska, dance, world, techno, funk, you name it, all of it. Country music spins in and out of my favour though. I have periods where I like it and listen to it, embrace my country side, then periods where I will pull my hair out by the roots if I am forced to endure. Currently, I'm neither embracing nor pulling my hair out. I don't seek it out, but if it comes up I'm okay with it.
5. Who is your celebrity crush? Who do you think is your celebrity look-a-like? So many celebrities, so little time. I'm crazy for Jon Bon, of course. Mark Wahlberg is a long-time crush. I've got a thing for Ed Harris that not everybody knows about. But I think my main crush right now would have to be Cillian Murphy. I'm buying anything he's done, no matter how bad the overall movie is, no matter that he's terrible at accents and should just be all Irish all the time, if he's in it I'm buying it and watching it a kazillion times. My celebrity look-a-like, hah! I honestly don't think I have one, though I saw the chick who used to be Amanda on Another World on a tv show the other night (Kevin thought I looked like her). One time when I had darker hair someone said they thought I looked like Shannon Doherty. Yeah, I think not. If I must look like anyone, I pick Angelina of course. I can't imagine how much collagen I would need to get these thin lips plumped to her status!
Mood: fun
Drinking: water
Listening To: the dryer rumble
Hair: time for a change
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