Almost outta here. Have pick-up arrangements. Still got to pack . . . I'm sooo last minute, but man, this is important, what am I thinking?
Anyway, something new at least. Finally.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Done Like Dinner & Debi & Dirk
Going back to Miramichi for the week today. NOT READY! No surprise there. Hard to pack for a week, for the possibilities. Some things must go for the wedding. Shoes, dress, alternative outfit, bobby pins, official list . . . remember passwords . . . no train cash on hand, shit. Much to do. Tight on time.
Blogging will become sporadic if not altogether non-existent. This could be a real vacation for you. Time to catch up on your sleep. Bake a cake. Walk the dog. Read somebody else's blog. I'll be around sometime.
If you can't be the poet, be the poem.
Mood: wee bit stressed
Drinking: coffee!
Listening To: Bruce Springsteen, Downbound Train
Hair: returning to the scene of the crime
Blogging will become sporadic if not altogether non-existent. This could be a real vacation for you. Time to catch up on your sleep. Bake a cake. Walk the dog. Read somebody else's blog. I'll be around sometime.
If you can't be the poet, be the poem.
Mood: wee bit stressed
Drinking: coffee!
Listening To: Bruce Springsteen, Downbound Train
Hair: returning to the scene of the crime
Miramichi's First Soap Opera
This is too funny . . . Or else I'm too tired. Regardless, check it out. Fatkat Animation out of Miramichi does their first soap opera -- Sprays of Her Life.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Barny Babes Go Wild
Work interupted. Sisters want me to come out and play . . . but I'm all outta Coronas.
Breaker, breaker 1-9 come-back.
Buzzing babes in Barnbonia.
No vodka.
Mood: tired
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: sisters gone wild
Hair: ponied up
Breaker, breaker 1-9 come-back.
Buzzing babes in Barnbonia.
No vodka.
Mood: tired
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: sisters gone wild
Hair: ponied up
Don't Worry I'll soon Tire of old journals, but in the meantime . . .
A Dream, A Thought, A Concept, A Story
May 1st, 2001
I dreamed about him again last night. Maybe I shouldn't say again, it gives the impression I do it all the time. It's not all the time, anymore. But it's not the first time either.
Of course he was killing me. In the dream, I mean.
There was a pill, a single capsule, that when swallowed by an ordinary person not requiring the medication, would kill them. Oh, he's tried to kill me before in dreams. He's shot me, stabbed me, strangled me with ropes, scarfs, wound-up sheets, his own hands, he's kicked me to death, punched me, thrown me about a room in a superhuman tirade, he held my head under water once until I drowned.
Logically, you might imagine these dreams to be more frightening than death by a tiny capsule. They were horrible nightmares. They always involved some sort of long chase. Through large houses, open fields, down long winding dirt roads, through forest thickets in the middle of the night.
He always caught me. He always killed me.
But last night's dream was different and the most frightening of all. We were just in the same place at the same time, and other people were there as well. We were in the same group, at the same party. A campground, an excursion in nature. And for the first time he looked me in the eye and told me his intentions, warned me what would come. Calmly, he picked up the prescription bottle and in front of everyone he explained that he knew of this particular medication. That while Marilyn required a daily dosage just to maintain, if one capsule strayed and found itself in any of our mouths, that person would die within minutes.
He didn't say he intended to poison me. Yet he threatened me. Only he and I knew exactly how much he threatened me. I spent the remainder of the dream proceeding in caution, watching what I ingested, waiting for the inevitable, wondering what the onset would feel like. A pounding ache in my chest or head? A choking of my breath? No one explained how death would manifest.
Morning arrived before he made his move.
I awoke with an odd sense of doom. This was the worse yet of The Killing Dreams, because I see now that's how he intended it to play out in real life. He tried to kill me with such malice and deliberate thought, more than any of the horror dreams. And he nearly succeeded. I almost let him do it. No, I did let him do it. When the time came I was obedient, I swallowed the pills and chased them with the wine and beer and laid down ready. I went to sleep expecting to see God or the devil or at the very least my grandfather, but instead there was only blackness and silence and then morning light and him disappointed he hadn't had more drugs, more alcohol. He underestimated my body's immunity to such things. Didn't realise how much I ingested on a regular basis.
I marvel now at his deliberateness and the caution he took, how everything depended on delivery rather than words, protecting himself, deflecting blame. Using harmless words and phrases nobody could suspect when repeated out of context. No one could see the calculated hits. Only if you were present and very observant might you notice his stone eyes and hear the cruel mocking lilt of his voice.
Perhaps this is the final Killing Dream because I've finally seen how it happened. The chases, the shootings and all the others were too dramatic, too far-fetched. He never laid a finger on me in real life, and yet I was always afraid. Now, I understand. He was trying to kill me. It was some sort of sick experiment. I was the lab rat and nothing more.
He told me once, long ago, that he had held someone's life in his hands and for a moment he considered extinguishing it. But he couldn't do it, he said, even though he believed it was the perfect situation to allow him to escape without consequences, to never get caught. I always wondered if he had done it but wouldn't confess. Or maybe he regretted this lost opportunity. Perhaps I offered him a second chance.
May 1st, 2001
I dreamed about him again last night. Maybe I shouldn't say again, it gives the impression I do it all the time. It's not all the time, anymore. But it's not the first time either.
Of course he was killing me. In the dream, I mean.
There was a pill, a single capsule, that when swallowed by an ordinary person not requiring the medication, would kill them. Oh, he's tried to kill me before in dreams. He's shot me, stabbed me, strangled me with ropes, scarfs, wound-up sheets, his own hands, he's kicked me to death, punched me, thrown me about a room in a superhuman tirade, he held my head under water once until I drowned.
Logically, you might imagine these dreams to be more frightening than death by a tiny capsule. They were horrible nightmares. They always involved some sort of long chase. Through large houses, open fields, down long winding dirt roads, through forest thickets in the middle of the night.
He always caught me. He always killed me.
But last night's dream was different and the most frightening of all. We were just in the same place at the same time, and other people were there as well. We were in the same group, at the same party. A campground, an excursion in nature. And for the first time he looked me in the eye and told me his intentions, warned me what would come. Calmly, he picked up the prescription bottle and in front of everyone he explained that he knew of this particular medication. That while Marilyn required a daily dosage just to maintain, if one capsule strayed and found itself in any of our mouths, that person would die within minutes.
He didn't say he intended to poison me. Yet he threatened me. Only he and I knew exactly how much he threatened me. I spent the remainder of the dream proceeding in caution, watching what I ingested, waiting for the inevitable, wondering what the onset would feel like. A pounding ache in my chest or head? A choking of my breath? No one explained how death would manifest.
Morning arrived before he made his move.
I awoke with an odd sense of doom. This was the worse yet of The Killing Dreams, because I see now that's how he intended it to play out in real life. He tried to kill me with such malice and deliberate thought, more than any of the horror dreams. And he nearly succeeded. I almost let him do it. No, I did let him do it. When the time came I was obedient, I swallowed the pills and chased them with the wine and beer and laid down ready. I went to sleep expecting to see God or the devil or at the very least my grandfather, but instead there was only blackness and silence and then morning light and him disappointed he hadn't had more drugs, more alcohol. He underestimated my body's immunity to such things. Didn't realise how much I ingested on a regular basis.
I marvel now at his deliberateness and the caution he took, how everything depended on delivery rather than words, protecting himself, deflecting blame. Using harmless words and phrases nobody could suspect when repeated out of context. No one could see the calculated hits. Only if you were present and very observant might you notice his stone eyes and hear the cruel mocking lilt of his voice.
Perhaps this is the final Killing Dream because I've finally seen how it happened. The chases, the shootings and all the others were too dramatic, too far-fetched. He never laid a finger on me in real life, and yet I was always afraid. Now, I understand. He was trying to kill me. It was some sort of sick experiment. I was the lab rat and nothing more.
He told me once, long ago, that he had held someone's life in his hands and for a moment he considered extinguishing it. But he couldn't do it, he said, even though he believed it was the perfect situation to allow him to escape without consequences, to never get caught. I always wondered if he had done it but wouldn't confess. Or maybe he regretted this lost opportunity. Perhaps I offered him a second chance.
Hello Walls
Fell into some of my old journals and couldn't get out. So difficult to believe sometimes that they are me. That I was that person. So much melancholy, angst, pain and even rage. Is that just the way it is when you're that age? Cuz it's all sunshine and daisies now.
But looking back I'm reminded of so many things, things I forget about. Thinking about the D-D-T cokehead chronicles. The thing with cokeheads is that they are not to be trusted, ever, under any circumstances. They lie. They may have the best of intentions, they might love you to death, but they really just can't help themselves. They don't know how to do anything else.
The first D was a trickster. The first time we were alone happened because he lied to me in order to get me away from the rest of the group. He lied and I went with him willingly and then he pointed for me to see something that wasn't there and when I least expected it he totally jumped me. I knew nothing until suddenly I was being pulled into his arms and kissed. One of those moments where the kiss comes out of nowhere and I'm oblivious, blind-sided, shocked . . . but not unresponsive. I liked the first D afterall. I just never dreamed he liked me back. I must be naive. It's the only answer. Why else does that keep happening to me? The surprise kiss. These things don't happen to other girls.
Before the first D there was Kev's surprise kiss. Kev never believed me, never believed that I didn't see it coming I mean. When he asked me to turn out the lamp and I leaned down toward the light and into him, I actually intended to turn out the lamp and then leave. The kiss was a complete shock. A good shock, I had been stalking him for months . . . but shocking nonetheless. Another trickster, though the lie about the lamp was slightly less innovative than the first D's lie about the brook with the waterfall. Then again Kev was not a master liar, not a cokehead.
The first D was a liar, but not a very good one as he was easily caught out on many occasions. He was jealous and moody and demanding and together we were a supernova romance -- explosive, intense, hot, too much. I fled after only 10 months, but did not recover for many years. I even tried to come back once. The only time I've ever done that.
T was another surprise kisser. He had been hanging out at the club a lot, a regular. Cute as a button, he was. Boyish good looks. But a cokehead. He was somewhat younger than me and his life was spiraling. I had a strong desire to mother him. He had a good job, but he called in sick at least once a week if not more. He wandered night and day, like he was looking for something. I liked him. He had a pleasant way about him and he could make me laugh.
We went out one night to another club, in town, to play pool and socialise. I thought nothing of this, we were friends afterall. I didn't even recognise his not-so-smooth attempts at flirting. When we walked into the club he leaned into my ear and asked me what it felt like to have everyone looking at me. Perhaps more effective had there been other girls present. I laughed so hard, pinched his cheek and made some remark about the worse pick-up line in history. I never imagined it actually was a real attempt.
We closed that club and went back to close mine, or open for after-hours, whichever way you looked at it. I was headed behind the bar to get us drinks and wham! The surprise kiss. I wasn't prepared. I pulled away and he turned red and starting apologising and I continued on to get the drinks, told him it was okay, I was just a little stunned. He didn't get the surprise thing, figured I must've seen this coming. How naive can one girl be? But I really hadn't. And it shook me a little. The awkward moment passed. We hung out drinking and watching tv for hours, and as the sun started coming up, I thought why the hell not? And kissed him.
But T was a major cokehead, not to be trusted, and I knew it. I laid down the rules right from the beginning. I didn't want anything serious, no comittment, no jealousy, no promises, no disappointments. He agreed. And then we continued to see each other almost every night of the week for many months. His downward decline was a terrible thing to watch. I tried to encourage him to quit because he was a bright boy, he could've done anything he wanted. He was smart. He mentioned looking for work in Alberta and I told him to go for it. He needed a change. Maybe he could pull himself together with a new job in a new place, away from old friends. He started looking online and found a good job (ironically in pharmaceuticals), got hired, planned to move. I was happy for him. I thought this was a good chance for him to straighten up and get his life in order.
He joked that I should go with him. I laughed and said maybe, but I had no intention of leaving. I didn't take the thing seriously. We had rules. We were just playing around I thought. Friends. Then jealousy reared one morning when he found me playing cards with the second D and others. He was not following the rules, and even if he wasn't nothing had happened for him to be jealous about. The whole thing ended with him crying in the car as he dropped me off at work, telling me I broke his heart. How much of that was the never-ending coke binge and how much was sincere? I still don't know. He left the next day and I've never seen him since. I've heard of him though. People are under the impression he's kicked the habit. He's got a girl and a kid and a house and a job, so maybe he's okay.
Which brings me to the second D of the card game, the worse liar of them all. T at the very least never tried to hide his habit. It was out there. The second D would claim allergies when you asked about his runny nose. He told my mother he was allergic to KFC one time and I spit beer all across the bar in my laughter. He would borrow money and never give it back. He would snort in the bathroom and then come out, look you in the eye, and say he'd been clean for three weeks. He'd make up reasons to send me out of the room when lines were going to be done, so I would never see anything. On many occasions I told him I didn't like the secrets, the hiding, it wasn't necessary. I think he was ashamed. He didn't want me to know how bad it really was. But I knew. It was obvious he had a bad problem. In more honest moments he told me he dreamed about piles of white powder that he couldn't get to and a terrible thirst like he was in a desert.
But still, he was my anchor, my safe place to fall. I could count on him to drop everything and be there when I needed him, he'd even drop the coke . . . or at least bring it along. A lot of people didn't know anything was going on, just thought we were friends. And we were friends, best friends, we went everywhere together and did everything. We would laugh so hard we'd be in pain afterward. He would argue with me, debate, and he was quick. I liked that. He was also stubborn, wouldn't back down, and I liked that too. He knew just when to let me win and when to whip my ass. We always had a good time and the simplest things seemed to be fun when we were together. But he always wanted more from me than I was willing to give. It frustrated him completely. We would have terrible fights and he'd go into jealous rages.
The thing with the second D was that I really liked him. I liked him so much it scared the shit out of me.
I remember the day I realised how much he liked me. We were talking about some party we had been to, some crazy scheme we got involved in. I was low on details. I had the story down but setting/costumes/props were fuzzy. He remembered everything, especially about me. Described what I had worn, how my hair was done, which colour it was, the earrings I had on, my shoes . . . it was the most unusual conversation I've ever had with him. This night was an insignificant night from a few years earlier like so many others and yet he was exactly right, he had the details. That scared me to death. But then when he went on and he knew what I wearing the first time he ever saw me, the first thing I ever said to him, the way I smelled the first time we danced. It was too intense for me. Nobody ever paid that much attention before, or if they did, they didn't tell me.
This of course sent love-phobic me into a tailspin, on the run. I didn't see him for months. And you've heard this story before I'm sure, I must've blogged about it, but as soon as I decided that I was done running, it was time to get real and grow up, as soon as I made up my mind to see if he wanted to try a boyfriend/girlfriend non-platonic relationship like "normal" people, he called and said he was moving to Alberta. I never told him, didn't want to ruin his second chance at a good life without the drugs. Like with T, I figured if he got away from his friends he'd stand a better chance of breaking all the habits. So, I kept my mouth shut and I just went and spent the last week with him, talked him through it because he was afraid to go, he'd never been away and I had. I helped him pack. I eased his mind. And he never knew that if he hadn't called me that afternoon I would've called him that evening to tell him I was crazy about him.
Ahh, but he was still a cokehead, right. So the universe steps in to stop me from making a big mistake. Five and a half years later I know this and I'm thankful for her intervention. It was the best thing that could've happened. He is out of my life for good and while we're probably both better for it, I definitely am for sure.
Which brings me to the journal entries I mentioned way back at the beginning of this saga that brought all these memories to the surface today. I stumbled across them as I looked for my quitting smoking piece. And it appears I was still waffling on the subject over three years ago.
January 1st, 2002
2002. Who would have ever dreamed that the 80's would slip away? And then just once you've adjusted to the 90's, it's time for the new millenium, and now that too is all old hat. 2002. No big deal . . . except that D called on the stroke of midnight New Year's Eve. Difficult to say who was more excited, me or F. Perhaps me, even though outwardly F was busting. After the initial shock, I kept things in check. Same house, same girl (girl! she's old enough to be his mother), the hint of a visit in spring. Only a visit. Probably with the girl, depending on schedules, he said. And the only thing that sticks out is when I asked how that whole girl thing was working out he said, "Good. Good. Really good." Trying to convince me or himself? This didn't sound like him. And then added, "It's not the same . . ." Not the same, trailing off into nothing . . . Not the same as what? As it used to be in the beginning with her? As it once was with us? As it could've been with us? As it was with anyone from here? Is he making a simple statement on the cultural change of locale? I don't know. Am I trying to read something where there is nothing to be read? And what if he does come home? What do I do? After all this time . . . do I tell him? Can I stand to shake things up like that? What if he brings her and there isn't a moment with him by myself? And even worse what if he is amazingly happy and they are great together and I must suffer in silence and watch what could've been me. I don't know if I can pretend, if I'm up for the act. Surely he'd see through it, like I always saw through his. And worse, she may see through it and call me on it. And all of this thought and consideration and contemplation on a maybe idea, me wanting to try and trusting nobody else to try with. How nuts is that? My problem has always been timing. My timing is way off. By the time I reach a comfort zone, a trust level, a good place, the buggers have run off. Every time. Timing is the D concern. I waited too long.
Mood: trifle melancholy, but mostly optimistic and happy
Drinking: coffee, black . . . eating what possibly might be the worse potato dish in the history of potatoes, a disgrace to my Irish roots
Listening To: Eurthymics, Angel
Hair: pulled off my face, held with a white scrunchie
But looking back I'm reminded of so many things, things I forget about. Thinking about the D-D-T cokehead chronicles. The thing with cokeheads is that they are not to be trusted, ever, under any circumstances. They lie. They may have the best of intentions, they might love you to death, but they really just can't help themselves. They don't know how to do anything else.
The first D was a trickster. The first time we were alone happened because he lied to me in order to get me away from the rest of the group. He lied and I went with him willingly and then he pointed for me to see something that wasn't there and when I least expected it he totally jumped me. I knew nothing until suddenly I was being pulled into his arms and kissed. One of those moments where the kiss comes out of nowhere and I'm oblivious, blind-sided, shocked . . . but not unresponsive. I liked the first D afterall. I just never dreamed he liked me back. I must be naive. It's the only answer. Why else does that keep happening to me? The surprise kiss. These things don't happen to other girls.
Before the first D there was Kev's surprise kiss. Kev never believed me, never believed that I didn't see it coming I mean. When he asked me to turn out the lamp and I leaned down toward the light and into him, I actually intended to turn out the lamp and then leave. The kiss was a complete shock. A good shock, I had been stalking him for months . . . but shocking nonetheless. Another trickster, though the lie about the lamp was slightly less innovative than the first D's lie about the brook with the waterfall. Then again Kev was not a master liar, not a cokehead.
The first D was a liar, but not a very good one as he was easily caught out on many occasions. He was jealous and moody and demanding and together we were a supernova romance -- explosive, intense, hot, too much. I fled after only 10 months, but did not recover for many years. I even tried to come back once. The only time I've ever done that.
T was another surprise kisser. He had been hanging out at the club a lot, a regular. Cute as a button, he was. Boyish good looks. But a cokehead. He was somewhat younger than me and his life was spiraling. I had a strong desire to mother him. He had a good job, but he called in sick at least once a week if not more. He wandered night and day, like he was looking for something. I liked him. He had a pleasant way about him and he could make me laugh.
We went out one night to another club, in town, to play pool and socialise. I thought nothing of this, we were friends afterall. I didn't even recognise his not-so-smooth attempts at flirting. When we walked into the club he leaned into my ear and asked me what it felt like to have everyone looking at me. Perhaps more effective had there been other girls present. I laughed so hard, pinched his cheek and made some remark about the worse pick-up line in history. I never imagined it actually was a real attempt.
We closed that club and went back to close mine, or open for after-hours, whichever way you looked at it. I was headed behind the bar to get us drinks and wham! The surprise kiss. I wasn't prepared. I pulled away and he turned red and starting apologising and I continued on to get the drinks, told him it was okay, I was just a little stunned. He didn't get the surprise thing, figured I must've seen this coming. How naive can one girl be? But I really hadn't. And it shook me a little. The awkward moment passed. We hung out drinking and watching tv for hours, and as the sun started coming up, I thought why the hell not? And kissed him.
But T was a major cokehead, not to be trusted, and I knew it. I laid down the rules right from the beginning. I didn't want anything serious, no comittment, no jealousy, no promises, no disappointments. He agreed. And then we continued to see each other almost every night of the week for many months. His downward decline was a terrible thing to watch. I tried to encourage him to quit because he was a bright boy, he could've done anything he wanted. He was smart. He mentioned looking for work in Alberta and I told him to go for it. He needed a change. Maybe he could pull himself together with a new job in a new place, away from old friends. He started looking online and found a good job (ironically in pharmaceuticals), got hired, planned to move. I was happy for him. I thought this was a good chance for him to straighten up and get his life in order.
He joked that I should go with him. I laughed and said maybe, but I had no intention of leaving. I didn't take the thing seriously. We had rules. We were just playing around I thought. Friends. Then jealousy reared one morning when he found me playing cards with the second D and others. He was not following the rules, and even if he wasn't nothing had happened for him to be jealous about. The whole thing ended with him crying in the car as he dropped me off at work, telling me I broke his heart. How much of that was the never-ending coke binge and how much was sincere? I still don't know. He left the next day and I've never seen him since. I've heard of him though. People are under the impression he's kicked the habit. He's got a girl and a kid and a house and a job, so maybe he's okay.
Which brings me to the second D of the card game, the worse liar of them all. T at the very least never tried to hide his habit. It was out there. The second D would claim allergies when you asked about his runny nose. He told my mother he was allergic to KFC one time and I spit beer all across the bar in my laughter. He would borrow money and never give it back. He would snort in the bathroom and then come out, look you in the eye, and say he'd been clean for three weeks. He'd make up reasons to send me out of the room when lines were going to be done, so I would never see anything. On many occasions I told him I didn't like the secrets, the hiding, it wasn't necessary. I think he was ashamed. He didn't want me to know how bad it really was. But I knew. It was obvious he had a bad problem. In more honest moments he told me he dreamed about piles of white powder that he couldn't get to and a terrible thirst like he was in a desert.
But still, he was my anchor, my safe place to fall. I could count on him to drop everything and be there when I needed him, he'd even drop the coke . . . or at least bring it along. A lot of people didn't know anything was going on, just thought we were friends. And we were friends, best friends, we went everywhere together and did everything. We would laugh so hard we'd be in pain afterward. He would argue with me, debate, and he was quick. I liked that. He was also stubborn, wouldn't back down, and I liked that too. He knew just when to let me win and when to whip my ass. We always had a good time and the simplest things seemed to be fun when we were together. But he always wanted more from me than I was willing to give. It frustrated him completely. We would have terrible fights and he'd go into jealous rages.
The thing with the second D was that I really liked him. I liked him so much it scared the shit out of me.
I remember the day I realised how much he liked me. We were talking about some party we had been to, some crazy scheme we got involved in. I was low on details. I had the story down but setting/costumes/props were fuzzy. He remembered everything, especially about me. Described what I had worn, how my hair was done, which colour it was, the earrings I had on, my shoes . . . it was the most unusual conversation I've ever had with him. This night was an insignificant night from a few years earlier like so many others and yet he was exactly right, he had the details. That scared me to death. But then when he went on and he knew what I wearing the first time he ever saw me, the first thing I ever said to him, the way I smelled the first time we danced. It was too intense for me. Nobody ever paid that much attention before, or if they did, they didn't tell me.
This of course sent love-phobic me into a tailspin, on the run. I didn't see him for months. And you've heard this story before I'm sure, I must've blogged about it, but as soon as I decided that I was done running, it was time to get real and grow up, as soon as I made up my mind to see if he wanted to try a boyfriend/girlfriend non-platonic relationship like "normal" people, he called and said he was moving to Alberta. I never told him, didn't want to ruin his second chance at a good life without the drugs. Like with T, I figured if he got away from his friends he'd stand a better chance of breaking all the habits. So, I kept my mouth shut and I just went and spent the last week with him, talked him through it because he was afraid to go, he'd never been away and I had. I helped him pack. I eased his mind. And he never knew that if he hadn't called me that afternoon I would've called him that evening to tell him I was crazy about him.
Ahh, but he was still a cokehead, right. So the universe steps in to stop me from making a big mistake. Five and a half years later I know this and I'm thankful for her intervention. It was the best thing that could've happened. He is out of my life for good and while we're probably both better for it, I definitely am for sure.
Which brings me to the journal entries I mentioned way back at the beginning of this saga that brought all these memories to the surface today. I stumbled across them as I looked for my quitting smoking piece. And it appears I was still waffling on the subject over three years ago.
January 1st, 2002
2002. Who would have ever dreamed that the 80's would slip away? And then just once you've adjusted to the 90's, it's time for the new millenium, and now that too is all old hat. 2002. No big deal . . . except that D called on the stroke of midnight New Year's Eve. Difficult to say who was more excited, me or F. Perhaps me, even though outwardly F was busting. After the initial shock, I kept things in check. Same house, same girl (girl! she's old enough to be his mother), the hint of a visit in spring. Only a visit. Probably with the girl, depending on schedules, he said. And the only thing that sticks out is when I asked how that whole girl thing was working out he said, "Good. Good. Really good." Trying to convince me or himself? This didn't sound like him. And then added, "It's not the same . . ." Not the same, trailing off into nothing . . . Not the same as what? As it used to be in the beginning with her? As it once was with us? As it could've been with us? As it was with anyone from here? Is he making a simple statement on the cultural change of locale? I don't know. Am I trying to read something where there is nothing to be read? And what if he does come home? What do I do? After all this time . . . do I tell him? Can I stand to shake things up like that? What if he brings her and there isn't a moment with him by myself? And even worse what if he is amazingly happy and they are great together and I must suffer in silence and watch what could've been me. I don't know if I can pretend, if I'm up for the act. Surely he'd see through it, like I always saw through his. And worse, she may see through it and call me on it. And all of this thought and consideration and contemplation on a maybe idea, me wanting to try and trusting nobody else to try with. How nuts is that? My problem has always been timing. My timing is way off. By the time I reach a comfort zone, a trust level, a good place, the buggers have run off. Every time. Timing is the D concern. I waited too long.
Mood: trifle melancholy, but mostly optimistic and happy
Drinking: coffee, black . . . eating what possibly might be the worse potato dish in the history of potatoes, a disgrace to my Irish roots
Listening To: Eurthymics, Angel
Hair: pulled off my face, held with a white scrunchie
On Quitting
Caught last night's episode of Sex & City on Bravo. It was the one where Carrie meets Aidan and he says he can't date a smoker . . . so she quits, tries to quit. Reminded me of quitting. Especially since I've been craving a lot lately. Not enough to take action, but . . .
The first time I tried to quit was in 2000. I had about six weeks in when D moved to Edmonton. That was a train wreck. I stayed with him the last three or four days, during his terrified to move/ terrified to stay stage. We drank. A lot. He waited for me to ask him to stay. I waited for him to ask me to go. We bit our tongues. We played cards. We cuddled on the couch. We did laundry and took down curtains and hid on friends when they came by. We holed up, riding it out, waiting for the last of it, not knowing for sure what was supposed to happen next. Is this the end? . . . And we smoked.
There were a few failed attempts before I quit just after midnight on May 10, 2002. In February of that same year I tried to quit and wrote a little something that I thought I'd share. Without further ado, a piece from my past:
I'm fucking quitting smoking. Why do I have to be so coarse about it? Because when you've smoked, as much, for as long as I have, there is no nicety involved with kicking the habit. There's no simple oh, isn't it a beautiful day, and by the way, I'm quitting smoking. It's a grit through the fucking teeth experience. Loudly. I AM FUCKING QUITTING SMOKING.
It becomes the catch-all phrase of the day. Who ate the last of the potato chips? I'm fucking quitting smoking. When was the last time you showered? I'm fucking quitting smoking. You wanna come on this new diet with me? I AM FUCKING QUITTING SMOKING.
It's day two since I decided. Half-decided. Hell, if I don't do it now, when will I? Now or never, you know. Not getting any younger, but boy am I getting older. All these health issues creeping up on me. So I joined a 30-day program. On the Internet. So there's nobody to disappoint, no one counting on me. No fucking non-smokers tisking me to just throw them away once and for all. Who's the boss? Who's in charge? You or that fucking itsy bitsy piece of paper wrapped around poison? Because they can't relate. They don't understand the craving, the need to feel that cigarette in your hand.
So I'm doing what the emails are telling me to. No cold turkey. The Quit Date is down the road, 12 more days. I have until then to get my shit together. Pay final respects. Break your patterns they say. I'm doing it. No three smokes first thing -- bam, bam, bam -- with my morning coffee. Day 1, 11 smokes total, down from 25. Big fucking deal. Must celebrate! Light up another. Day 2, 8 smokes. Now that's a fucking accomplishment!
And every time I turn on the fucking tv, what do I see? Ads. Either one of those fucking PSAs telling me how many people are dying from tobacco or else an ad for the nicotine gum or patch. And does this help? No, of course not. I see bodies tagged and bagged in the morgue, 45,000 to be precise, and I think CIGARETTE. I think SMOKE. And it's not unpleasant. I WANT one. They're right over there. Day 3 and I'm fucking having verbal fucking oral fucking out loud conversations with myself. Trying to remember two years ago. I was doing pretty good at the Big Q, had in days, weeks, started again. Ditzy today. Jittery.
Ten days or is it nine from my Quit Date? Soon. Got the gum. Like the gum's gonna solve everything. And now I'm fucking huge. Got aches and pains like you would not believe from hauling this lard ass around. I don't feel better yet. When am I supposed to feel better?
Three days later . . .
Six days ago I decided to fucking quit smoking. Why now? I don't know. Why not? Really I wish I had some sort of deep meaningful reason or revelation. A momentous decision, especially for someone like me. Someone who lives for fucking cigarettes, who never feels quite comfortable if there isn't another pack waiting in cellophane. It started as a whim. A secretive whim. If I didn't tell anyone I wouldn't really have to do it, but now six days and I appear to be serious. There are two cigarettes in my pack and that's all. Then the gum. Then nothing. And I can see the effects on my body as I wean myself off nicotine and it ain't pretty. I don't know why I'm doing this, but I think I'm doing it. I'm really doing it.
Three weeks later . . .
WRONG! Gum still in package. Extra cigs in cellophane waiting for current pack to disappear. Killing myself. Calmly.
***
It was about two months later that I succeeded. In the end there was no planning, it truly seemed like a whim that stuck. I was working on the computer, reached for a cigarette, and just stopped. Opened the nic gum instead, end of smoking. I guess it was just the right time. Quitting was the most difficult thing I've ever done. The physical withdrawal was terrible. I've heard it's comparable to kicking heroin and I wouldn't doubt it. It is slightly less uncomfortable for lighter smokers. But it's pretty much impossible to find a heavier smoker than me. If I was awake, I was smoking. I would wake in the middle of the night to smoke. At least one in bed before my feet hit the floor every morning. At least one in bed before I closed my eyes every night. Chain smoking was my thing. It took years to get it out of my system, to get my metabolism working again so that if I actually did the exercise I would shed pounds. It was mentally, emotionally and physically the most frustrating experience I've ever survived. It's only now, this year, that I'm starting to feel "normal" again, like my old self. It has taken that long. But it is the best thing I've ever done for myself. No regrets. If I can quit, anyone can, and you should.
Mood: in control
Drinking: tea, black, king cole
Listening To: Metallica, Enter Sandman
Hair: sure to find its way into an elastic today, one would hope
The first time I tried to quit was in 2000. I had about six weeks in when D moved to Edmonton. That was a train wreck. I stayed with him the last three or four days, during his terrified to move/ terrified to stay stage. We drank. A lot. He waited for me to ask him to stay. I waited for him to ask me to go. We bit our tongues. We played cards. We cuddled on the couch. We did laundry and took down curtains and hid on friends when they came by. We holed up, riding it out, waiting for the last of it, not knowing for sure what was supposed to happen next. Is this the end? . . . And we smoked.
There were a few failed attempts before I quit just after midnight on May 10, 2002. In February of that same year I tried to quit and wrote a little something that I thought I'd share. Without further ado, a piece from my past:
I'm fucking quitting smoking. Why do I have to be so coarse about it? Because when you've smoked, as much, for as long as I have, there is no nicety involved with kicking the habit. There's no simple oh, isn't it a beautiful day, and by the way, I'm quitting smoking. It's a grit through the fucking teeth experience. Loudly. I AM FUCKING QUITTING SMOKING.
It becomes the catch-all phrase of the day. Who ate the last of the potato chips? I'm fucking quitting smoking. When was the last time you showered? I'm fucking quitting smoking. You wanna come on this new diet with me? I AM FUCKING QUITTING SMOKING.
It's day two since I decided. Half-decided. Hell, if I don't do it now, when will I? Now or never, you know. Not getting any younger, but boy am I getting older. All these health issues creeping up on me. So I joined a 30-day program. On the Internet. So there's nobody to disappoint, no one counting on me. No fucking non-smokers tisking me to just throw them away once and for all. Who's the boss? Who's in charge? You or that fucking itsy bitsy piece of paper wrapped around poison? Because they can't relate. They don't understand the craving, the need to feel that cigarette in your hand.
So I'm doing what the emails are telling me to. No cold turkey. The Quit Date is down the road, 12 more days. I have until then to get my shit together. Pay final respects. Break your patterns they say. I'm doing it. No three smokes first thing -- bam, bam, bam -- with my morning coffee. Day 1, 11 smokes total, down from 25. Big fucking deal. Must celebrate! Light up another. Day 2, 8 smokes. Now that's a fucking accomplishment!
And every time I turn on the fucking tv, what do I see? Ads. Either one of those fucking PSAs telling me how many people are dying from tobacco or else an ad for the nicotine gum or patch. And does this help? No, of course not. I see bodies tagged and bagged in the morgue, 45,000 to be precise, and I think CIGARETTE. I think SMOKE. And it's not unpleasant. I WANT one. They're right over there. Day 3 and I'm fucking having verbal fucking oral fucking out loud conversations with myself. Trying to remember two years ago. I was doing pretty good at the Big Q, had in days, weeks, started again. Ditzy today. Jittery.
Ten days or is it nine from my Quit Date? Soon. Got the gum. Like the gum's gonna solve everything. And now I'm fucking huge. Got aches and pains like you would not believe from hauling this lard ass around. I don't feel better yet. When am I supposed to feel better?
Three days later . . .
Six days ago I decided to fucking quit smoking. Why now? I don't know. Why not? Really I wish I had some sort of deep meaningful reason or revelation. A momentous decision, especially for someone like me. Someone who lives for fucking cigarettes, who never feels quite comfortable if there isn't another pack waiting in cellophane. It started as a whim. A secretive whim. If I didn't tell anyone I wouldn't really have to do it, but now six days and I appear to be serious. There are two cigarettes in my pack and that's all. Then the gum. Then nothing. And I can see the effects on my body as I wean myself off nicotine and it ain't pretty. I don't know why I'm doing this, but I think I'm doing it. I'm really doing it.
Three weeks later . . .
WRONG! Gum still in package. Extra cigs in cellophane waiting for current pack to disappear. Killing myself. Calmly.
***
It was about two months later that I succeeded. In the end there was no planning, it truly seemed like a whim that stuck. I was working on the computer, reached for a cigarette, and just stopped. Opened the nic gum instead, end of smoking. I guess it was just the right time. Quitting was the most difficult thing I've ever done. The physical withdrawal was terrible. I've heard it's comparable to kicking heroin and I wouldn't doubt it. It is slightly less uncomfortable for lighter smokers. But it's pretty much impossible to find a heavier smoker than me. If I was awake, I was smoking. I would wake in the middle of the night to smoke. At least one in bed before my feet hit the floor every morning. At least one in bed before I closed my eyes every night. Chain smoking was my thing. It took years to get it out of my system, to get my metabolism working again so that if I actually did the exercise I would shed pounds. It was mentally, emotionally and physically the most frustrating experience I've ever survived. It's only now, this year, that I'm starting to feel "normal" again, like my old self. It has taken that long. But it is the best thing I've ever done for myself. No regrets. If I can quit, anyone can, and you should.
Mood: in control
Drinking: tea, black, king cole
Listening To: Metallica, Enter Sandman
Hair: sure to find its way into an elastic today, one would hope
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Saturday Six -- #70
From Patrick's Place, feel free to play along even if it's not Saturday.
1. A reader to "Men's Journal" recently wrote about technological innovations, stating that there isn't any gadget he couldn't live without: "To see how vital technology is, spend a few days in the backcountry without your phone, pager, PDA, laptop, cappuccino machine, or MP3 player. You'll emerge cleansed and refreshed." Could you go a whole week really roughing it with no modern conveniences? Would you want to?
I could. I have. And I would again. But it only works if I'm cleared to go, no obligations to keep. I would live forever without a phone if I could get away with it because it annoys the crap out of me. I've lived without phone for many months before and never missed it. I don't have a cellphone, will NEVER have a cellphone again unless it's absolutely necessary for work. No PDA. No laptop. No cappuccino machine. No mp3 player . . . I'm already emerging clean and refreshed every day.
2. What is the most you've ever paid for a:
A) Shirt -- $95, levis brand, soft chambray, tip top tailors, white, a gift for Marty
B) Pair of Shoes -- $150, dress boots, black, the bay, for me
C) CD or Album -- Not sure, $55-$75 range, Bon Jovi box set, 100,000,000 Fans Can't be Wrong
D) DVD -- $60 range, Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas Criterion Collection
E) Book -- good lord! no friggin' idea, well over a hundred for sure for textbook type stuff, paid $85 or $90 for a thesaurus I really wanted one time
F) Vacation -- not much for sure, never go that far, maybe $500
3. Looking back at the answers to#2, which one was the most foolish?
The Levis shirt, of course . . .
4. Take this quiz: Which snack food are you?
What Snack Food are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
5. There are three wells: Love, Beauty and Creativity. If you could only drink from one of them, which would you choose and why?
Creativity of course. Without it I'd be dead and all the love and beauty in the world wouldn't matter.
6. If you were another person, do you think you would be friends with the person you know as yourself?
I like to think so yes. I'm kinda cool sometimes. Very nice. I don't cause too much harm.
1. A reader to "Men's Journal" recently wrote about technological innovations, stating that there isn't any gadget he couldn't live without: "To see how vital technology is, spend a few days in the backcountry without your phone, pager, PDA, laptop, cappuccino machine, or MP3 player. You'll emerge cleansed and refreshed." Could you go a whole week really roughing it with no modern conveniences? Would you want to?
I could. I have. And I would again. But it only works if I'm cleared to go, no obligations to keep. I would live forever without a phone if I could get away with it because it annoys the crap out of me. I've lived without phone for many months before and never missed it. I don't have a cellphone, will NEVER have a cellphone again unless it's absolutely necessary for work. No PDA. No laptop. No cappuccino machine. No mp3 player . . . I'm already emerging clean and refreshed every day.
2. What is the most you've ever paid for a:
A) Shirt -- $95, levis brand, soft chambray, tip top tailors, white, a gift for Marty
B) Pair of Shoes -- $150, dress boots, black, the bay, for me
C) CD or Album -- Not sure, $55-$75 range, Bon Jovi box set, 100,000,000 Fans Can't be Wrong
D) DVD -- $60 range, Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas Criterion Collection
E) Book -- good lord! no friggin' idea, well over a hundred for sure for textbook type stuff, paid $85 or $90 for a thesaurus I really wanted one time
F) Vacation -- not much for sure, never go that far, maybe $500
3. Looking back at the answers to#2, which one was the most foolish?
The Levis shirt, of course . . .
4. Take this quiz: Which snack food are you?
What Snack Food are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
5. There are three wells: Love, Beauty and Creativity. If you could only drink from one of them, which would you choose and why?
Creativity of course. Without it I'd be dead and all the love and beauty in the world wouldn't matter.
6. If you were another person, do you think you would be friends with the person you know as yourself?
I like to think so yes. I'm kinda cool sometimes. Very nice. I don't cause too much harm.
Storms Never Last
The wine stains on the carpet tell the tale better than I ever could. I would take pictures . . . but yeah, the camera thing continues unresolved. Got to try and get it worked out once and for all before leaving for a whirlwind week on the Miramichi starting Monday. Stop by and see your mom and dad, And hear ’em talk about the busy week they had
Suspect I'll be buying something new, something better, the one I should've bought the first time around. It's a shame to have lost all the MWW pics though. Curses on Kodak!
I am in a state of vegetation that I need to shake off, so much still to do, but I've been whooping it up for a couple of days. Lying around drinking wine, grazing on olives and omelets, listening to tunes and generally living the fun life. Isn't that what you do when friends come calling? I know it’s late, I know you’re weary
The wedding happens this week. Friday evening. We're going to Fredericton on Tuesday for last minute shopping spree included in one of our infamous medical trips and maybe a friendly lunch . . . if we can fit it all in. I've been away a lot this summer. More so than other years. Lots of trips into Fredericton, when I never used to go there at all. I've always been a Moncton girl, and now I'm living so close and can't seem to get there ever. It's very weird. Sometimes I feel like I'm caught up in something, that things are happening for reasons that aren't clear to me yet. I'm amazed by the people I'm meeting, by the friendships I'm forming. There are some scheduling concerns with the Tuesday Fredville trip of course, there always are, but hopefully will get away early and get to do everything we want. There's a place up ahead and I'm goin' Just as fast as my feet can fly
I just found out a friend is coming with us, which is excellent. I'm sure he'll enjoy helping us with the wedding lingerie shopping. That's probably right up his alley :-) He is certainly great at carrying bags . . . he is the bestest at that. The last time I saw him we went shopping in Amherst and he was the best sport. I believe we may also have been doing some lingerie shopping that day as well. Oh yes, I remember now, it was the great sport bra fiasco. Sadly, we came away empty handed on that end, with bags of books instead. We always have a good time though, lots of snorting laughs, so it'll likely be an extra fun time in Freddy. Can't figure out whose life I'm living
This random playlist is a funny thing, a really funny thing. Lyrics seem to drop and drag into the blog, seem to belong somehow. Completely random? Or have the angels taken to deejaying?
I've got to put together some mixes for Stacy and now I realise I'm tapped, out of blanks . . . think Jenn has many tunes, imagine I will be spending much time at her house while I'm home, trying to maintain some normalcy with regard to email, blogging and yes, even work. Hope the weather is not humid sweltering stuff that climbs into my legs and takes up residence for the week . . . that would not be good. You say yes, I say no, You say stop and I say go, go, go
Haven't really eaten today. Got up super early, too early, a god-awful time I see a lot of from the other end, just going to bed, but seldom on the rise and shiner. Absolutely no need to get up that early, could've slept at least another hour with no harm done . . . but I suppose I didn't really have to get up. I wanted to afterall, it was a conscious decision, no bully tactics. After a few hours I went back to bed and slept until late this afternoon. I'm all off-kilter now, out of whack, craving cheap Chinese take-out . . . or a can of peas. but you'll know why
Need to get something into me and snap out of this. I'm sure all I can manage is a hot dog. Not a hot dog stir-fry mind you, but a traditional hot dog. Well without the bun. And with pickles. I don't think traditional hot dogs come with pickles usually. But I think I could handle some pickels, if such things still live in my fridge. Need to take stock of that situation, freeze anything I can that won't live out the week, eat up as much of the other, then maybe do a toss out. Wondering if some stuff would survive the trip to Mom's or if it just takes too long. Going on the train. I love the train. I love that sense of being in limbo. Why am I obsessed with the sense of limbo? It shows up everywhere, in all that I am. You are the first one of your kind
Just want to curl up with a good movie. But what? Am I up for a little Vanilla Sky maybe? Or how about some Fight Club? Lost in Translation again? Fear and Loathing. I have the urge to watch 28 Days Later . . . but am concerned I might become just a little bit afraid and uncomfortable here on my own. I watched it alone before . . . I think. But I'm pretty sure it was back in Barnbonia. I haven't watched a dvd in ages. Haven't written about any here like I used to, lost momentum on that. What am I doing instead? I'm not watching tv. Never hardly turn the thing on, only for Rock Star. Of course I have no idea when things are on either, which makes a difference. I buy the Sackville paper every week, with the tv guide listings, then toss it onto the tv stand, unopened, to be thrown out the following week unread and replaced by the next issue. This makes absolutely no sense, but still it is what I do. I don't want to learn the hard way
Some weeks go by without the paper, I suppose, but still it's this crazy little ritual. I've been looking for a scratch ticket. I know, I know, I NEVER buy lotto tickets . . . better odds of being struck by lightning and all that . . . but I am positive that the other day I purchased a ticket. And no, I don't mean the one I bought for my mother while we were in Alma. I mean I bought one for me, here, in Sackville. And it has vanished without a trace. Did I dream it? Did I dream I was in the Jean Coutu buying tootpaste and other things including a scratch ticket? I'm having a fuzzy day. One of those days where I'm just not real sure of what's been going on, where I've been, what I've been doing, what's real and what's dream. It's all a little fuzzy about the edges. Some food, some sleep, and it'll come into focus tomorrow, but today it's grey matter. And she says she can't imagine, What on earth I'm waitin for
Today my body is sore from lack of rest and the temperature drop. My toes are aching. Had to put on socks and a sweater, layer up in order to semi-function. This is the arthritis kicking in. This is what it does. A couple of neglectful days and it feels the need to remind me that it's still around, and any reprieve I've been experiencing can be taken away as quickly as it was given. This I'm used to. But today my ribs are sore. What was I doing? Unexplained bruising again. Am I that clumsy? And so frequently clumsy that I no longer recall when I've fallen or had some minor jabbing accident? Shadow boxing in my sleep perhaps?
Yeah, my, my such a sweet thing
I wanna do everything
What a beautiful feeling
Mood: tired, blah, & freezing
Drinking: not today . . . not tomorrow . . . but soon the wine will flow again
Listening To: Winamp Random Set List Top 10 --
1. Trisha Yearwood, Perfect Love
2. Kenny Rogers & Sheena Easton, We've Got Tonight
3. CCR, Up Around the Bend
4. Bon Jovi, Love Me Back to Life
5. The Beatles, Hello Good Bye
6. Buddy Holly, True Love Ways
7. U2, Original of the Species
8. Faith Hill, This Kiss
9. Clay Aiken, I'm Not Supposed to Love You
10. Joan Jett, Crimson & Clover
Hair: been better . . . been worse
Suspect I'll be buying something new, something better, the one I should've bought the first time around. It's a shame to have lost all the MWW pics though. Curses on Kodak!
I am in a state of vegetation that I need to shake off, so much still to do, but I've been whooping it up for a couple of days. Lying around drinking wine, grazing on olives and omelets, listening to tunes and generally living the fun life. Isn't that what you do when friends come calling? I know it’s late, I know you’re weary
The wedding happens this week. Friday evening. We're going to Fredericton on Tuesday for last minute shopping spree included in one of our infamous medical trips and maybe a friendly lunch . . . if we can fit it all in. I've been away a lot this summer. More so than other years. Lots of trips into Fredericton, when I never used to go there at all. I've always been a Moncton girl, and now I'm living so close and can't seem to get there ever. It's very weird. Sometimes I feel like I'm caught up in something, that things are happening for reasons that aren't clear to me yet. I'm amazed by the people I'm meeting, by the friendships I'm forming. There are some scheduling concerns with the Tuesday Fredville trip of course, there always are, but hopefully will get away early and get to do everything we want. There's a place up ahead and I'm goin' Just as fast as my feet can fly
I just found out a friend is coming with us, which is excellent. I'm sure he'll enjoy helping us with the wedding lingerie shopping. That's probably right up his alley :-) He is certainly great at carrying bags . . . he is the bestest at that. The last time I saw him we went shopping in Amherst and he was the best sport. I believe we may also have been doing some lingerie shopping that day as well. Oh yes, I remember now, it was the great sport bra fiasco. Sadly, we came away empty handed on that end, with bags of books instead. We always have a good time though, lots of snorting laughs, so it'll likely be an extra fun time in Freddy. Can't figure out whose life I'm living
This random playlist is a funny thing, a really funny thing. Lyrics seem to drop and drag into the blog, seem to belong somehow. Completely random? Or have the angels taken to deejaying?
I've got to put together some mixes for Stacy and now I realise I'm tapped, out of blanks . . . think Jenn has many tunes, imagine I will be spending much time at her house while I'm home, trying to maintain some normalcy with regard to email, blogging and yes, even work. Hope the weather is not humid sweltering stuff that climbs into my legs and takes up residence for the week . . . that would not be good. You say yes, I say no, You say stop and I say go, go, go
Haven't really eaten today. Got up super early, too early, a god-awful time I see a lot of from the other end, just going to bed, but seldom on the rise and shiner. Absolutely no need to get up that early, could've slept at least another hour with no harm done . . . but I suppose I didn't really have to get up. I wanted to afterall, it was a conscious decision, no bully tactics. After a few hours I went back to bed and slept until late this afternoon. I'm all off-kilter now, out of whack, craving cheap Chinese take-out . . . or a can of peas. but you'll know why
Need to get something into me and snap out of this. I'm sure all I can manage is a hot dog. Not a hot dog stir-fry mind you, but a traditional hot dog. Well without the bun. And with pickles. I don't think traditional hot dogs come with pickles usually. But I think I could handle some pickels, if such things still live in my fridge. Need to take stock of that situation, freeze anything I can that won't live out the week, eat up as much of the other, then maybe do a toss out. Wondering if some stuff would survive the trip to Mom's or if it just takes too long. Going on the train. I love the train. I love that sense of being in limbo. Why am I obsessed with the sense of limbo? It shows up everywhere, in all that I am. You are the first one of your kind
Just want to curl up with a good movie. But what? Am I up for a little Vanilla Sky maybe? Or how about some Fight Club? Lost in Translation again? Fear and Loathing. I have the urge to watch 28 Days Later . . . but am concerned I might become just a little bit afraid and uncomfortable here on my own. I watched it alone before . . . I think. But I'm pretty sure it was back in Barnbonia. I haven't watched a dvd in ages. Haven't written about any here like I used to, lost momentum on that. What am I doing instead? I'm not watching tv. Never hardly turn the thing on, only for Rock Star. Of course I have no idea when things are on either, which makes a difference. I buy the Sackville paper every week, with the tv guide listings, then toss it onto the tv stand, unopened, to be thrown out the following week unread and replaced by the next issue. This makes absolutely no sense, but still it is what I do. I don't want to learn the hard way
Some weeks go by without the paper, I suppose, but still it's this crazy little ritual. I've been looking for a scratch ticket. I know, I know, I NEVER buy lotto tickets . . . better odds of being struck by lightning and all that . . . but I am positive that the other day I purchased a ticket. And no, I don't mean the one I bought for my mother while we were in Alma. I mean I bought one for me, here, in Sackville. And it has vanished without a trace. Did I dream it? Did I dream I was in the Jean Coutu buying tootpaste and other things including a scratch ticket? I'm having a fuzzy day. One of those days where I'm just not real sure of what's been going on, where I've been, what I've been doing, what's real and what's dream. It's all a little fuzzy about the edges. Some food, some sleep, and it'll come into focus tomorrow, but today it's grey matter. And she says she can't imagine, What on earth I'm waitin for
Today my body is sore from lack of rest and the temperature drop. My toes are aching. Had to put on socks and a sweater, layer up in order to semi-function. This is the arthritis kicking in. This is what it does. A couple of neglectful days and it feels the need to remind me that it's still around, and any reprieve I've been experiencing can be taken away as quickly as it was given. This I'm used to. But today my ribs are sore. What was I doing? Unexplained bruising again. Am I that clumsy? And so frequently clumsy that I no longer recall when I've fallen or had some minor jabbing accident? Shadow boxing in my sleep perhaps?
Yeah, my, my such a sweet thing
I wanna do everything
What a beautiful feeling
Mood: tired, blah, & freezing
Drinking: not today . . . not tomorrow . . . but soon the wine will flow again
Listening To: Winamp Random Set List Top 10 --
1. Trisha Yearwood, Perfect Love
2. Kenny Rogers & Sheena Easton, We've Got Tonight
3. CCR, Up Around the Bend
4. Bon Jovi, Love Me Back to Life
5. The Beatles, Hello Good Bye
6. Buddy Holly, True Love Ways
7. U2, Original of the Species
8. Faith Hill, This Kiss
9. Clay Aiken, I'm Not Supposed to Love You
10. Joan Jett, Crimson & Clover
Hair: been better . . . been worse
gel'ing again
toronto, early 90's. major fight, not the time i disappeared for days and he didn't notice, before that, before total disintegration. don't remember causes. mb took me to the club for decompression. double cc and coke . . . many glasses, too many, debate-able. after-hours party in mississauga, jonka's condo filled to capacity. line up for the bathroom, people do lines. i'm the sad puppy, don't feel like i'm really there, like i'm in it . . . rude guy bugs me and i lay into him. not a wise move. he is rude . . . and violent, backhanding the girl, not a problem. i don't back down, feel nothing, numbness . . . wish somebody would do something, anything, to make me feel something, a backhand feels necessary. mb rescues before things get too outta hand. rude guy gets tossed, i'm new but somehow i've got the seniority in this situation, the right friends . . . i am the dealer's girl tho i don't realise this yet, instant security access in friendly territory, tho i'm not holding.
i drift. room to room. group to group. unsettled. into the kitchen. refill time though i can barely stand, too many wobbly pops already. kitchen is bright, too bright, hard to see with so much white. this is not a popular hang-out, only one guy sitting not at the kitchenette but on the counter top, drinking coffee. he has black curly hair, fuzzy brows but not the unibrow, huge brown eyes, longest, darkest lashes i've ever seen. he's beautiful. reminds me of bruno from fame . . . only better looking. i wonder if he plays piano. i stagger, brush up against him as i try to manage the fridge. he steadies me so i don't fall. i think you've had enough. the gall of him! he's serious too, removing me from the fridge, guiding me to the table, easing me into a chair, producing a cup of coffee in front of me. what does he know about anything? he knows enough. he knows i need to slow down. i don't want to drink coffee, don't want to talk to this man, even if he is beautiful. stagger to my feet and swagger on out of there, nobody is going to tell me what to do.
drifing again. rude man has regained entrance. i can't find mb. wide berth. all i want is a drink, no trouble. his looks are not encouraging. searching for another bathroom. what about us people who don't do lines? where are we supposed to go? through a bedroom. sex happening on the king sized bed. boys and girls. attached at every opening. can't tell how many. limbs sprawling. communal moan. another line. for the washroom. white lines on mirrors on the chest at the foot of the bed. arms reaching out from the covers, pulling me in. resistance. curiosity. who is here anyway? almost curious enough . . . relax. take this and chill. join us. you're beautiful. sitting on the bed. adrenaline. reaching for the line. hands on my thighs, the small of my back, my breasts, almost feeling something. whispers in my hair. join us and disappear. this tower's starting to lean. eyes closed. i want to disappear. buttons, snaps, zippers, prying fingers. shouldn't be here. drowning in this magnetic pull. where's my bodyguard? where's mb? resistance is futile.
what do you think you're doing? snapped out of it. snatched from the writhing. tucking me in, straightening me out. you shouldn't be in here. i know. lashes so long and black i'm completely mesmerised. come with me, this way. floating back to the kitchen. coffee. he talks me down, talks me through it. when the feeling comes it bursts out of me in salt water. i've lost time. where was i? what have i done? nothing. shh, shh, don't cry, out in time. i love this man. i want to keep him. want to take him home with me and bring him out everyday like a good luck charm. wear him around my neck. hours in the kitchen and nobody comes in. nobody sees. be right back.
i need to go to the bathroom so badly now, break into the line, squeeze past the girls and onto a toilet. watch the needle under her breast, between her toes. instant glazing. powder crusted nostrils. relief. exit and there is rude guy. just me and rude guy in the hallway, the line disappeared. bitch. you're going to get what's coming to you. fear brings out boldness, stupidity, first blood. punch his nose with everything in me, hoping for shock advantage. works. but he's bloody and seeing red. running back to the kitchen. dark eyes is gone. panic. i'm alone. then mb and rob and scotty and others bursting in. i'm surrounded, enclosed, encircled and escorted to the elevator. rude buddy is shouting from the doorway, but won't follow. mb almost goes back, cooler heads prohibit further action and we escape into the night.
what the hell was all that about? i'm in trouble with my bodyguard. mb is pissed. i'm not allowed to get into fistfights cause i'm too young and too little. i'm supposed to be smart. i'm supposed to know better. when i feel threatened i'm supposed to find one of them. these are the rules. they aren't complicated and they do work. i apologise and she's hugging me, we're crying, i'm falling asleep on her shoulder on the way home. that night i sleep between her and her brother in the big bed. safe. with boys crashed on other beds and floor. as i start to drift i ask her if she knew the guy with the curly hair, the guy with the dark eyes. no, she doesn't know who i mean.
in coming weeks i ask everyone, even jonka. there was nobody there who looked like that. nobody drinking coffee in the kitchen. bodyguards had never abandoned their post, they kept an eye on me. you were not yourself that night. no i wasn't. and i wasn't alone either.
Mood: still friggin' queasy, need to eat something maybe
Drinking: need to drink something too perhaps
Listening To: Paula Cole, I Don't Wanna Wait
Hair: gold-toned
i drift. room to room. group to group. unsettled. into the kitchen. refill time though i can barely stand, too many wobbly pops already. kitchen is bright, too bright, hard to see with so much white. this is not a popular hang-out, only one guy sitting not at the kitchenette but on the counter top, drinking coffee. he has black curly hair, fuzzy brows but not the unibrow, huge brown eyes, longest, darkest lashes i've ever seen. he's beautiful. reminds me of bruno from fame . . . only better looking. i wonder if he plays piano. i stagger, brush up against him as i try to manage the fridge. he steadies me so i don't fall. i think you've had enough. the gall of him! he's serious too, removing me from the fridge, guiding me to the table, easing me into a chair, producing a cup of coffee in front of me. what does he know about anything? he knows enough. he knows i need to slow down. i don't want to drink coffee, don't want to talk to this man, even if he is beautiful. stagger to my feet and swagger on out of there, nobody is going to tell me what to do.
drifing again. rude man has regained entrance. i can't find mb. wide berth. all i want is a drink, no trouble. his looks are not encouraging. searching for another bathroom. what about us people who don't do lines? where are we supposed to go? through a bedroom. sex happening on the king sized bed. boys and girls. attached at every opening. can't tell how many. limbs sprawling. communal moan. another line. for the washroom. white lines on mirrors on the chest at the foot of the bed. arms reaching out from the covers, pulling me in. resistance. curiosity. who is here anyway? almost curious enough . . . relax. take this and chill. join us. you're beautiful. sitting on the bed. adrenaline. reaching for the line. hands on my thighs, the small of my back, my breasts, almost feeling something. whispers in my hair. join us and disappear. this tower's starting to lean. eyes closed. i want to disappear. buttons, snaps, zippers, prying fingers. shouldn't be here. drowning in this magnetic pull. where's my bodyguard? where's mb? resistance is futile.
what do you think you're doing? snapped out of it. snatched from the writhing. tucking me in, straightening me out. you shouldn't be in here. i know. lashes so long and black i'm completely mesmerised. come with me, this way. floating back to the kitchen. coffee. he talks me down, talks me through it. when the feeling comes it bursts out of me in salt water. i've lost time. where was i? what have i done? nothing. shh, shh, don't cry, out in time. i love this man. i want to keep him. want to take him home with me and bring him out everyday like a good luck charm. wear him around my neck. hours in the kitchen and nobody comes in. nobody sees. be right back.
i need to go to the bathroom so badly now, break into the line, squeeze past the girls and onto a toilet. watch the needle under her breast, between her toes. instant glazing. powder crusted nostrils. relief. exit and there is rude guy. just me and rude guy in the hallway, the line disappeared. bitch. you're going to get what's coming to you. fear brings out boldness, stupidity, first blood. punch his nose with everything in me, hoping for shock advantage. works. but he's bloody and seeing red. running back to the kitchen. dark eyes is gone. panic. i'm alone. then mb and rob and scotty and others bursting in. i'm surrounded, enclosed, encircled and escorted to the elevator. rude buddy is shouting from the doorway, but won't follow. mb almost goes back, cooler heads prohibit further action and we escape into the night.
what the hell was all that about? i'm in trouble with my bodyguard. mb is pissed. i'm not allowed to get into fistfights cause i'm too young and too little. i'm supposed to be smart. i'm supposed to know better. when i feel threatened i'm supposed to find one of them. these are the rules. they aren't complicated and they do work. i apologise and she's hugging me, we're crying, i'm falling asleep on her shoulder on the way home. that night i sleep between her and her brother in the big bed. safe. with boys crashed on other beds and floor. as i start to drift i ask her if she knew the guy with the curly hair, the guy with the dark eyes. no, she doesn't know who i mean.
in coming weeks i ask everyone, even jonka. there was nobody there who looked like that. nobody drinking coffee in the kitchen. bodyguards had never abandoned their post, they kept an eye on me. you were not yourself that night. no i wasn't. and i wasn't alone either.
Mood: still friggin' queasy, need to eat something maybe
Drinking: need to drink something too perhaps
Listening To: Paula Cole, I Don't Wanna Wait
Hair: gold-toned
Beyond Here, Just Broken
Having second morning in the middle of the afternoon with yesterday's breakfast. No rain in this do-over. Less words. Too quiet. So this is what the bottom of six looks like. Shaky ground. Final countdown is underway and I've got to get this craft ready for approach. People want stuff. Here I go.
Mood: weak
Drinking: not drinking . . . drank
Listening To: The Beatles, Come Together
Hair: slick to my scalp
Mood: weak
Drinking: not drinking . . . drank
Listening To: The Beatles, Come Together
Hair: slick to my scalp
Friday, August 12, 2005
Evening
Bon Soir from the Tantramar . . . ciao bella
too many questions Carol . . . not enough time . . .
Good ones though . . . maybe someday.
Mood: complicated ... with no deeper sense
Drinking: corona with lemon
Listening To: u2, vertigo . . . among others
Hair: severly messed up
too many questions Carol . . . not enough time . . .
Good ones though . . . maybe someday.
Mood: complicated ... with no deeper sense
Drinking: corona with lemon
Listening To: u2, vertigo . . . among others
Hair: severly messed up
The Obligatory "you blog a lot" post for T
Shouldn't blog drunk . . . but am I drunk? wine with breakfast but is it breakfast if it happens well after noon? . . . inquisitive . . . bored? . . . absol-fucking-lutely-not!
Mood: Intoxicated
Drinking: Red, red, whine
Listening To: . . . stuff
Hair: snarly
Mood: Intoxicated
Drinking: Red, red, whine
Listening To: . . . stuff
Hair: snarly
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Angels Amongst Us
The other morning at the Irving while I waited for the bus to take me to Moncton, I noticed a lot of really nice motorcycles coming in to gas up for the day. Some were local, others just passing through. There do seem to be a lot of really nice bikes here. My street is one of the major ones, pretty busy, so I see and hear them going a lot.
Anyway, I was reminded of the first time I went to the biker's clubhouse in Cains River. It was during a two week vacation home from Toronto around Christmas. I was 21 years old, obsessed by news and politics, and inquisitive to the point of cocky arrogance. It was one of those harsh winters when the frost rolls in knee-deep like fog every time you open the door. That was the year of the longest train ride ever from Montreal to NB. We were something like 8 hours late getting into Miramichi.
An eventful trip -- I befriended a girl from PEI who was returning to the Island to attend her sister's funeral. Her sister had been brutally murdered by her spouse after years of abuse, peace bonds, hiding, etc. Terrible story. We partied with a boy from Jacquet River, who had lost two fingers on his right hand while working with heavy equipment, and another boy from Chatham, who was moving home from Kingston to take over the family business.
I got on the train completely broke, knowing I wouldn't have anything to eat or drink for at least 24 hours, no cash for emergencies. But the boy from Chatham had left a good job in Kingston and he had some serious cash on his person. Nobody resisted when he bought round upon round of drinks and ordered snacks for everybody.
In the bar car I asked a Quebecois what he thought about separtism and a bunch of other questions which brought raised eyebrows and tight lips from several other patrons who seemed uncomfortable about discussing these things while on a train whistling through the heart of Quebec.
Later, I snuck away with the boy from Jacquet River to the dome car in the middle of the night and kissed him under the stars. Later still, the train derailed and we were ushered onto school buses and driven for an hour to another train down the road. The new train did not have enough passenger cars, so a bunch of us slept in the bar car. The staff were kind enough to keep it open, serving only coffee and soft drinks in the wee hours of the morning, but by then everyone was too drunk to notice.
There was something very freeing about traveling by train back then that you don't get now. Now it's more like being on an airplane or a bus, bar service in your seat, lights dimmed for sleeping, everyone with blankets and pillows. There was more passenger interaction in those days.
Anytime you meet and interact with strangers that you know you'll never meet again, it's very liberating. It's almost as if you're another person when you're taken out of your familiar surroundings, completely on your own, without any of the people or things around you that normally identify and help define who you are. Sometimes I would even pretend to be someone else. Invent a new background and name for myself, test it out on the stranger sitting next to me to see if he or she would believe me, believe I could be that other person.
But I'm way off track, I wanted to tell you about the clubhouse on that trip home.
It all started with a dance at the Legion. I went with my parents because they were heavily involved in such things then, serving on the executive. I met up with an old boyfriend and then left with him. Like so many people in my past, he is an alcoholic. At the time he was fighting it, trying to give it up, but on this particular night he had lost the battle. He has since totally sobered and become one of the town's most upstanding citizens. But back then he was always in a lot of trouble. We left the Legion and went to the clubhouse, where they served drinks at all times of the day and night regardless of the law. It was my first visit.
At first things were going along just fine, there were a lot of people there, men and women. Other than an incident where I asked another one of the patrons whether he carried a gun . . . the wee hours of the morning passed without incident.
Along about 4:30 a.m. I looked around and noticed that the crowd had lessened. My friend was passed out beyond waking and there were five big burly biker dudes looking at me like I was a pork chop and they were ravenous. I couldn't leave and walk out of there because of the freezing temperatures and we were miles from any sort of civilisation. Oh, oh, I thought. Quickly I assessed the situation and decided the best route of action that might save me from a not so pleasant incident I had heard lots about but never imagined I might find myself involved in.
I excused myself from the table and went to the jukebox where the biggest guy in the bar was playing music, and I began flirting with him most openly and shamelessly. He was the biggest guy but he was also one of the few actual club members on the scene, he was important and I hoped respected. I figured if I needed anyone on my side, he was the guy I wanted.
It wasn't too long before he had his arm around me and everyone else backed off, the tension went out of the air, guns were put away, and I felt okay again. Now I only had one man to deal with instead of half a dozen. Pretty soon he asked me to go upstairs with him to the private room . . . I'd heard about that room . . . but I didn't want him to throw me back to the wolves so I just smiled and followed him on up.
When we were alone he mixed me a drink and said that things had been pretty tense down there, I could've been in a nasty situation. I could've disappeared off the face of the earth that night, he warned, because sometimes people do, especially silly little girls who ask too many questions. He had a soothing gentle caring way about him, and I wasn't afraid. He said I'd done exactly the right thing to come to him, if I had gone to any of the other guys it wouldn't have been good for me. There could've been a fight, I would've been lucky to get out of there after being passed around.
He said we'd finish our drinks and then he'd drive me home. We chatted for awhile, had a couple of drinks and then true to his word he drove me home. Never laid a finger on me . . . though I'm sure the boys downstairs were supposed to think he did. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be last time that I would believe I found an angel just in time to save me from a potentially devastating situation.
Mood: Chipper
Drinking: Coffee with the last of yesterday's expired skim . . . still good though, I think, hasn't turned yet
Listening To: Billie Holiday
Hair: I'm getting good at the loosely bundled deal
Anyway, I was reminded of the first time I went to the biker's clubhouse in Cains River. It was during a two week vacation home from Toronto around Christmas. I was 21 years old, obsessed by news and politics, and inquisitive to the point of cocky arrogance. It was one of those harsh winters when the frost rolls in knee-deep like fog every time you open the door. That was the year of the longest train ride ever from Montreal to NB. We were something like 8 hours late getting into Miramichi.
An eventful trip -- I befriended a girl from PEI who was returning to the Island to attend her sister's funeral. Her sister had been brutally murdered by her spouse after years of abuse, peace bonds, hiding, etc. Terrible story. We partied with a boy from Jacquet River, who had lost two fingers on his right hand while working with heavy equipment, and another boy from Chatham, who was moving home from Kingston to take over the family business.
I got on the train completely broke, knowing I wouldn't have anything to eat or drink for at least 24 hours, no cash for emergencies. But the boy from Chatham had left a good job in Kingston and he had some serious cash on his person. Nobody resisted when he bought round upon round of drinks and ordered snacks for everybody.
In the bar car I asked a Quebecois what he thought about separtism and a bunch of other questions which brought raised eyebrows and tight lips from several other patrons who seemed uncomfortable about discussing these things while on a train whistling through the heart of Quebec.
Later, I snuck away with the boy from Jacquet River to the dome car in the middle of the night and kissed him under the stars. Later still, the train derailed and we were ushered onto school buses and driven for an hour to another train down the road. The new train did not have enough passenger cars, so a bunch of us slept in the bar car. The staff were kind enough to keep it open, serving only coffee and soft drinks in the wee hours of the morning, but by then everyone was too drunk to notice.
There was something very freeing about traveling by train back then that you don't get now. Now it's more like being on an airplane or a bus, bar service in your seat, lights dimmed for sleeping, everyone with blankets and pillows. There was more passenger interaction in those days.
Anytime you meet and interact with strangers that you know you'll never meet again, it's very liberating. It's almost as if you're another person when you're taken out of your familiar surroundings, completely on your own, without any of the people or things around you that normally identify and help define who you are. Sometimes I would even pretend to be someone else. Invent a new background and name for myself, test it out on the stranger sitting next to me to see if he or she would believe me, believe I could be that other person.
But I'm way off track, I wanted to tell you about the clubhouse on that trip home.
It all started with a dance at the Legion. I went with my parents because they were heavily involved in such things then, serving on the executive. I met up with an old boyfriend and then left with him. Like so many people in my past, he is an alcoholic. At the time he was fighting it, trying to give it up, but on this particular night he had lost the battle. He has since totally sobered and become one of the town's most upstanding citizens. But back then he was always in a lot of trouble. We left the Legion and went to the clubhouse, where they served drinks at all times of the day and night regardless of the law. It was my first visit.
At first things were going along just fine, there were a lot of people there, men and women. Other than an incident where I asked another one of the patrons whether he carried a gun . . . the wee hours of the morning passed without incident.
Along about 4:30 a.m. I looked around and noticed that the crowd had lessened. My friend was passed out beyond waking and there were five big burly biker dudes looking at me like I was a pork chop and they were ravenous. I couldn't leave and walk out of there because of the freezing temperatures and we were miles from any sort of civilisation. Oh, oh, I thought. Quickly I assessed the situation and decided the best route of action that might save me from a not so pleasant incident I had heard lots about but never imagined I might find myself involved in.
I excused myself from the table and went to the jukebox where the biggest guy in the bar was playing music, and I began flirting with him most openly and shamelessly. He was the biggest guy but he was also one of the few actual club members on the scene, he was important and I hoped respected. I figured if I needed anyone on my side, he was the guy I wanted.
It wasn't too long before he had his arm around me and everyone else backed off, the tension went out of the air, guns were put away, and I felt okay again. Now I only had one man to deal with instead of half a dozen. Pretty soon he asked me to go upstairs with him to the private room . . . I'd heard about that room . . . but I didn't want him to throw me back to the wolves so I just smiled and followed him on up.
When we were alone he mixed me a drink and said that things had been pretty tense down there, I could've been in a nasty situation. I could've disappeared off the face of the earth that night, he warned, because sometimes people do, especially silly little girls who ask too many questions. He had a soothing gentle caring way about him, and I wasn't afraid. He said I'd done exactly the right thing to come to him, if I had gone to any of the other guys it wouldn't have been good for me. There could've been a fight, I would've been lucky to get out of there after being passed around.
He said we'd finish our drinks and then he'd drive me home. We chatted for awhile, had a couple of drinks and then true to his word he drove me home. Never laid a finger on me . . . though I'm sure the boys downstairs were supposed to think he did. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be last time that I would believe I found an angel just in time to save me from a potentially devastating situation.
Mood: Chipper
Drinking: Coffee with the last of yesterday's expired skim . . . still good though, I think, hasn't turned yet
Listening To: Billie Holiday
Hair: I'm getting good at the loosely bundled deal
Curly-Headed Boys
Perms are back in a big way for boys. Every where I look I see long curly hair on adorable teenaged boys . . . like Kaylan Porter, Mr. Goldenlocks himself. While picnicing at Bennett Lake in Fundy Park the other day, a boy walked by with the same sort of curly do. He reminded me of a boy I met one time when I was a kid. Like most 13 year old girls I know, I was totally boy crazy. Completely in love with every boy on the high school basketball team who stood over 6 feet . . . and that year there were many of them; every boy in the graduating class and a few from grade 11; every boy who came to our school from Millerton to take shop class; every boy who dropped out of school, got a job and bought an old car; every man between the ages of 19 and 29 who lived on our road . . . you get the idea, I did not like boys my own age but put a few years between us and I was smitten. Teenage hormones are wacky things.
I was totally obsessed with teen magazines like Tiger Beat where I would get posters of my favourite celebrities and wallpaper my room with them -- Rick Springfield was number one, Scott Baio ranked high, Matt Dillion, Rob Lowe, anyone from the Brat pack, the Dukes of Hazzard stars . . . and Wayne Gretzky! Huge crush on him, posters, hockey cards, watched every game . . . would stay home on Saturday night rather than go out with friends just to see Wayne play. So yes, I was boy crazy to the max at the age of 13.
But I was also very insecure and shy. I had zero self-esteem. I didn't actually think I'd ever attract any of these boy creatures that I lusted after . . . or if I did I'd probably have to settle for one I didn't really like. Up to this point, the whole boy thing had been pretty much a disaster for me. Disappointing experimental kisses with a boy from up the road. (I do hope he learned how to kiss eventually.) I was chubby in elementary school, quiet, smart, I wasn't good at sports . . . not exactly the kind of stuff boys were interested in. On some level I was aware of the changes in my body between grades five and seven, several inches in height, slimmed down, breasts, hips, the whole thing . . . but it seemed like many of the other girls were developing much better than I was. My girlfriends used to tease me about my small breasts (if they could see me now!) and flat butt. Boys at my school still didn't pay me much mind, I was the wallflower, the quietest girl in my class. So although I was boy crazy to the max, hormonal and angsty to the nth degree, I never expected to have any boy ever pay attention to me. Which brings me to the curly headed boy.
One night when I was 13 and standing in the road smoking stolen cigarettes from Dad, a car pulled up and someone rolled down the window. It was a boy from Renous, 16 or 17. He didn't go to my school but I knew of the boy with the blonde curly hair. Everybody knew of him because he was cute and popular. He was a regular topic of conversation amongst us 13 year old girls. I was always the quiet one but something unusual happened that night. I found myself talking to this boy I didn't know, laughing, flirting a little even, generally having an over-the-moon good time for a 13 year old boy crazy girl chatting with the boy that every girl wanted and it was very easy, not forced, comfortable even. The boy wanted me to go for a ride with him in his car of course, but I didn't. He wanted to take me out sometime to a dance or something. I thought that would be okay (though my parents would've freaked out had they known). He said we'd do that and then he said good night and drove off. I went home with this new sense that maybe something had changed, maybe I was becoming a woman like the other girls afterall, maybe I would have dates and boyfriends and get to go dances and parties . . . for the first time ever I dared to hope the boy-crazy girl might get a boy of her very own to be crazy over.
I never saw that particular boy again. That same summer, a few weeks later, he died in a house fire. But I've never forgotten him and the easy way I talked to him that night. He gave me a little ego boost and shot of courage that helped raise my self-esteem just enough to survive junior high. The boy at Bennett Lake could've been his twin.
Mood: tired, procrastinating
Drinking: water
Listening To: Cream
Hair: damp still from showerhead springing leaks earlier
I was totally obsessed with teen magazines like Tiger Beat where I would get posters of my favourite celebrities and wallpaper my room with them -- Rick Springfield was number one, Scott Baio ranked high, Matt Dillion, Rob Lowe, anyone from the Brat pack, the Dukes of Hazzard stars . . . and Wayne Gretzky! Huge crush on him, posters, hockey cards, watched every game . . . would stay home on Saturday night rather than go out with friends just to see Wayne play. So yes, I was boy crazy to the max at the age of 13.
But I was also very insecure and shy. I had zero self-esteem. I didn't actually think I'd ever attract any of these boy creatures that I lusted after . . . or if I did I'd probably have to settle for one I didn't really like. Up to this point, the whole boy thing had been pretty much a disaster for me. Disappointing experimental kisses with a boy from up the road. (I do hope he learned how to kiss eventually.) I was chubby in elementary school, quiet, smart, I wasn't good at sports . . . not exactly the kind of stuff boys were interested in. On some level I was aware of the changes in my body between grades five and seven, several inches in height, slimmed down, breasts, hips, the whole thing . . . but it seemed like many of the other girls were developing much better than I was. My girlfriends used to tease me about my small breasts (if they could see me now!) and flat butt. Boys at my school still didn't pay me much mind, I was the wallflower, the quietest girl in my class. So although I was boy crazy to the max, hormonal and angsty to the nth degree, I never expected to have any boy ever pay attention to me. Which brings me to the curly headed boy.
One night when I was 13 and standing in the road smoking stolen cigarettes from Dad, a car pulled up and someone rolled down the window. It was a boy from Renous, 16 or 17. He didn't go to my school but I knew of the boy with the blonde curly hair. Everybody knew of him because he was cute and popular. He was a regular topic of conversation amongst us 13 year old girls. I was always the quiet one but something unusual happened that night. I found myself talking to this boy I didn't know, laughing, flirting a little even, generally having an over-the-moon good time for a 13 year old boy crazy girl chatting with the boy that every girl wanted and it was very easy, not forced, comfortable even. The boy wanted me to go for a ride with him in his car of course, but I didn't. He wanted to take me out sometime to a dance or something. I thought that would be okay (though my parents would've freaked out had they known). He said we'd do that and then he said good night and drove off. I went home with this new sense that maybe something had changed, maybe I was becoming a woman like the other girls afterall, maybe I would have dates and boyfriends and get to go dances and parties . . . for the first time ever I dared to hope the boy-crazy girl might get a boy of her very own to be crazy over.
I never saw that particular boy again. That same summer, a few weeks later, he died in a house fire. But I've never forgotten him and the easy way I talked to him that night. He gave me a little ego boost and shot of courage that helped raise my self-esteem just enough to survive junior high. The boy at Bennett Lake could've been his twin.
Mood: tired, procrastinating
Drinking: water
Listening To: Cream
Hair: damp still from showerhead springing leaks earlier
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Poison Air
I'm being poisoned . . . seriously. Landlord is having some sort of treatment on the drive. He called me over the din, apologised for disturbing my work, said treatment will take one hour and we need to stay off the drive for three hours after that . . . I'm confined to my apartment and I had plans, places to go, things to do. I had to close all the windows to keep the smell down, but still the fumes are terrible. Please testify on my behalf at the coroner's inquest.
Mood: light headed, dizzy, sickly
Drinking: water
Listening To: quite the fucking racket outside
Hair: laundered and pulled high
Mood: light headed, dizzy, sickly
Drinking: water
Listening To: quite the fucking racket outside
Hair: laundered and pulled high
Success!
It is Wednesday and I remembered to take out the trash! This is an exciting development. Someone tell my mother, she was worried I know.
Been catching up on some of my reading this morning. I follow a lot of blogs, subscribe to many newsletters . . . not as much as before the move when I purged myself of so many things, but still it piles up if I get away for a few days. Some things catching my eye this morning:
This is weird. A little creepy.
I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand I wouldn't want my worse enemy to review any of my work . . . on the other hand his book probably really does suck . . . hmmm, I guess they should've got a total stranger to say it sucks then . . . maybe I'm not so mixed on this afterall.
Not sure why this stuck out. It's a little sad, a little frightening. Kind of disturbing.
From Places for Writers website --
Call: Misunderstandings Magazine
posted at 18:20 EDT, Monday, August 08, 2005
The Toronto based independant literary quarterly Misunderstandings Magazine is seeking submissions for its Fall issue: poetry, short fiction (1-2 pages) and black & white artwork. Email submissions to misunderstandings.magazine@gmail.com Deadline: September 30, 2005.
Anyone ever heard of this one? There is no website that I can find . . . which makes me skeptical about legitimacy, but doesn't necessarily mean anything other than they aren't very web savvy, the magazine could be great. I'm starting to gather sub calls for next Ink, if any come your way send 'em to me.
Anyway, I've got a list on top of my list today. Tons to do! Tons! So I may be a little scarce about the blog . . . imagine that, another reprieve . . . and so soon. What is going on with me?
Mood: Rushed
Drinking: coffee with the last of the skim milk that expires today. Note to self: buy cream later
Listening To: no time for tunes . . . but that damn lawnmower is going right out straight as usual and there's quite the loud wind whistling through
Hair: got a little messy bed head going on, too busy to iron it out now
Been catching up on some of my reading this morning. I follow a lot of blogs, subscribe to many newsletters . . . not as much as before the move when I purged myself of so many things, but still it piles up if I get away for a few days. Some things catching my eye this morning:
This is weird. A little creepy.
I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand I wouldn't want my worse enemy to review any of my work . . . on the other hand his book probably really does suck . . . hmmm, I guess they should've got a total stranger to say it sucks then . . . maybe I'm not so mixed on this afterall.
Not sure why this stuck out. It's a little sad, a little frightening. Kind of disturbing.
From Places for Writers website --
Call: Misunderstandings Magazine
posted at 18:20 EDT, Monday, August 08, 2005
The Toronto based independant literary quarterly Misunderstandings Magazine is seeking submissions for its Fall issue: poetry, short fiction (1-2 pages) and black & white artwork. Email submissions to misunderstandings.magazine@gmail.com Deadline: September 30, 2005.
Anyone ever heard of this one? There is no website that I can find . . . which makes me skeptical about legitimacy, but doesn't necessarily mean anything other than they aren't very web savvy, the magazine could be great. I'm starting to gather sub calls for next Ink, if any come your way send 'em to me.
Anyway, I've got a list on top of my list today. Tons to do! Tons! So I may be a little scarce about the blog . . . imagine that, another reprieve . . . and so soon. What is going on with me?
Mood: Rushed
Drinking: coffee with the last of the skim milk that expires today. Note to self: buy cream later
Listening To: no time for tunes . . . but that damn lawnmower is going right out straight as usual and there's quite the loud wind whistling through
Hair: got a little messy bed head going on, too busy to iron it out now
Rock Star
Every week Mig performs and I think, "Wow! Nobody will be any better." Mig is hot! That whole second skin low-rider striped pants thing he's got going on, shirtless under his jacket . . . what song is he even singing? I have no recollection . . . the man is just too gorgeous. Every week I think there is nobody I will like more than Mig . . .
And then Marty performs . . . and it's game over. JD says he wants to win more than anyone else, but Marty is the one totally going for it. Unplugged tonight. He is setting the bar. I go into the program totally prepared for Marty to disappoint me (how long can he keep this up?), especially after Mig blows my mind . . . by the time Marty performs I'm about ready to fall asleep, drowsy . . . he opens his mouth and I get goosebumps, EVERY time, goosebumps.
First the goosebumps and then I sit right up, poker straight, he has my attention. I remember his song. I remember the way he sung it. I remember everything -- what he said, what the judges said, how he looked, the way his hair hung in eyes. He's got that star magnetism in spades. He misses a note or two, who cares? Still don't know whether I want him to win this thing though and be stuck singing crappy INXS tunes fronting that band . . . he should just go make a record already, solo, do concerts . .. I can't believe I let myself get addicted to this show.
Mood: exhaustion setting in
Drinking: some kind of pop . . . i poured it so many hours ago, I no longer remember the brand . . . piss warm
Listening To: Dr. Hook
Hair: pulled back but coming loose, wisps hugging my jawline
And then Marty performs . . . and it's game over. JD says he wants to win more than anyone else, but Marty is the one totally going for it. Unplugged tonight. He is setting the bar. I go into the program totally prepared for Marty to disappoint me (how long can he keep this up?), especially after Mig blows my mind . . . by the time Marty performs I'm about ready to fall asleep, drowsy . . . he opens his mouth and I get goosebumps, EVERY time, goosebumps.
First the goosebumps and then I sit right up, poker straight, he has my attention. I remember his song. I remember the way he sung it. I remember everything -- what he said, what the judges said, how he looked, the way his hair hung in eyes. He's got that star magnetism in spades. He misses a note or two, who cares? Still don't know whether I want him to win this thing though and be stuck singing crappy INXS tunes fronting that band . . . he should just go make a record already, solo, do concerts . .. I can't believe I let myself get addicted to this show.
Mood: exhaustion setting in
Drinking: some kind of pop . . . i poured it so many hours ago, I no longer remember the brand . . . piss warm
Listening To: Dr. Hook
Hair: pulled back but coming loose, wisps hugging my jawline
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
T! Get a Sitter! Quickly Now!
This just in:
Toronto Club Date Confirmed!
The Rolling Stones are performing a club date on Wednesday, August 10th at the Phoenix Concert Theatre in Toronto.
Tickets go on sale Wednesday, August 10th at 8:00 AM at the Phoenix Concert Theatre Box Office at 410 Sherbourne Street. Tickets are very limited.
See below for more details.
ROLLING STONES - A BIGGER BANG!
TORONTO CLUB DATE CONFIRMED!
SPECIAL GUESTS: THE TREWS
DOORS: 7:30 PM
TREWS: 8:30 PM
STONES: 9:30 PM
REGULAR ROLLING STONES TORONTO COVER - TICKETS $10.00
1 TICKET PER PERSON - NON-TRANSFERABLE
PERSON PURCHASING TICKET WILL BE WRISTBANDED AND
NEED TO ARRIVE AT SHOW WITH TICKET & WRISTBAND INTACT.
***
On another note . . . I love The Trews. Since Sunday I've had one of their songs stuck in my head. I noticed it when I was waiting for the bus Sunday morning. Standing there, people watching the pumps, head bobbing, toe tapping, like I had an iPod strapped on, tunes cranked . . . except I didn't. Unplugged. Music-less. But The Trews blaring in my brain nonetheless. Noticed it again standing in line at Kelly's Bakery in Alma, waiting on coffee . . . I was like a character from The Full Monty. You know when they're all waiting in line at the unemployment office . . . The Trews have been blasting in my brain for days . . . until the ride home this afternoon . . . Davie Wilcox . . . Riverboat Fantasy . . . on the C103 nooner . . . and now I've got all manner of David Wilcox running in the background, the soundtrack to Kellie's life. Sadly all my Wilcox (that Charlie gave me one night when he was deejaying the club) is on cassette . . . somewhere in Miramichi. Brother Lee probably has them stashed in his room . . . never listening to it . . . because he is 25 and likes country music and muscle cars and all that kind of stuff . . .
Toronto Club Date Confirmed!
The Rolling Stones are performing a club date on Wednesday, August 10th at the Phoenix Concert Theatre in Toronto.
Tickets go on sale Wednesday, August 10th at 8:00 AM at the Phoenix Concert Theatre Box Office at 410 Sherbourne Street. Tickets are very limited.
See below for more details.
ROLLING STONES - A BIGGER BANG!
TORONTO CLUB DATE CONFIRMED!
SPECIAL GUESTS: THE TREWS
DOORS: 7:30 PM
TREWS: 8:30 PM
STONES: 9:30 PM
REGULAR ROLLING STONES TORONTO COVER - TICKETS $10.00
1 TICKET PER PERSON - NON-TRANSFERABLE
PERSON PURCHASING TICKET WILL BE WRISTBANDED AND
NEED TO ARRIVE AT SHOW WITH TICKET & WRISTBAND INTACT.
***
On another note . . . I love The Trews. Since Sunday I've had one of their songs stuck in my head. I noticed it when I was waiting for the bus Sunday morning. Standing there, people watching the pumps, head bobbing, toe tapping, like I had an iPod strapped on, tunes cranked . . . except I didn't. Unplugged. Music-less. But The Trews blaring in my brain nonetheless. Noticed it again standing in line at Kelly's Bakery in Alma, waiting on coffee . . . I was like a character from The Full Monty. You know when they're all waiting in line at the unemployment office . . . The Trews have been blasting in my brain for days . . . until the ride home this afternoon . . . Davie Wilcox . . . Riverboat Fantasy . . . on the C103 nooner . . . and now I've got all manner of David Wilcox running in the background, the soundtrack to Kellie's life. Sadly all my Wilcox (that Charlie gave me one night when he was deejaying the club) is on cassette . . . somewhere in Miramichi. Brother Lee probably has them stashed in his room . . . never listening to it . . . because he is 25 and likes country music and muscle cars and all that kind of stuff . . .
Freaking Out Time
Oh my God! I'm freaking out. It's really happening. They've gone ahead and posted a notice on their website . . . and now I'm supposed to write a press release and send it out . . . Need to breath. Must stop heart palpitations.
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