I was sick for two weeks, but I'm feeling functionally better now. Been busy with work and also finishing up NB Ink. I sent it off yesterday and since I haven't heard back I'm thinking there are no changes. I took something last night for my sinus and it knocked me out, seriously. I slept like FOREVER!! And now I've got that buzzing drug head hangover going on . . . and it's almost 3 in the afternoon! Heavy duty stuff. Won't be taking it again, unless I'm looking to kill myself (a half dozen would probably be fatal).
I'm getting ready for another road trip. Off to Fredericton on the weekend to attend the Whiskey & Spirits Festival and interview an artist for BnM. From Fredville I head to Miramichi for the Silicon East 2005 conference. I should be home again by Tuesday or Wednesday next week.
Tonight I'm going to the Sackville Writers' Group meeting. Should really print something off to distribute to the group for discussion next time . . . should.
Mood: drained
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: David Bowie, China Girl
Hair: looking a lot like Matt Mays . . .
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Rainy Day Tasks
Climbing out from under my rock and confronting the mess that is my inbox this morning. Fun, yeah!
But seriously, it's a good thing to delete, to file, to reply . . . It is piss-pouring rain here. Heavy rainfall warning in effect. Another tropical storm. Woke me up early, earlier than usual, drumming on the roof.
Household chores on tap. Somebody's gotta do it! The good faeries never seem to drop by my place. Maybe they are too busy taking care of the boys in the house. Those boys. Their dishes get done daily (they have a dishwasher!). Laundry happens like clockwork every every evening. Garbage hits the curb every week . . . there's faeries or something over there for sure.
Mood: wet
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: running water
Hair: yuck!
But seriously, it's a good thing to delete, to file, to reply . . . It is piss-pouring rain here. Heavy rainfall warning in effect. Another tropical storm. Woke me up early, earlier than usual, drumming on the roof.
Household chores on tap. Somebody's gotta do it! The good faeries never seem to drop by my place. Maybe they are too busy taking care of the boys in the house. Those boys. Their dishes get done daily (they have a dishwasher!). Laundry happens like clockwork every every evening. Garbage hits the curb every week . . . there's faeries or something over there for sure.
Mood: wet
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: running water
Hair: yuck!
Thursday, October 06, 2005
The Camster
Put in Singles dvd while I was eating my supper tonight. Intended to just watch while I ate and then pop it out, but you know me, I got sucked in. It's Cameron Crowe! What can I say? Impossible to pull out a half hour in. Cameron is a movie god. He's my favourite writer/director by far. I love everything he touches. Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Say Anything, Jerry Maguire, Almost Famous, Vanilla Sky -- the man is genius. I'm dying to see Elizabethtown. So I slipped in Singles and ended up watching the whole thing again. It's Seattle, early 90's, Pearl Jam does an awesome cameo . . . that's one thing about Cameron that makes him awesome, the music, the man knows music. His soundtracks are awesome. And I don't know if it's just me or people my age or what, but he's got this way of making all the stories feel like they're about me. I so identify with everything he writes. I enjoy his humour, his attention to detail, his dialogue, the way he portrays the world. His movies make me laugh, make me cry, sometimes rip my heart out and leave me for roadkill (Vanilla Sky!) but I'm helpless to stop watching. I always want more. I think if I ever made movies these are the kind of films I would be trying to do. So why am I telling you all this? Because tonight I put in Singles and it made me smile, made me think, made me relax, just made me feel good and I think that's worth noting.
Mood: comfy
Drinking: coffee/hot chocolate/brandy mixture that is quite yummy and inspiring
Listening To: Save the Last Dance for Me, Jon Bon Jovi & Tom Waits live
Hair: dunno if these locks will survive til TO or not
Mood: comfy
Drinking: coffee/hot chocolate/brandy mixture that is quite yummy and inspiring
Listening To: Save the Last Dance for Me, Jon Bon Jovi & Tom Waits live
Hair: dunno if these locks will survive til TO or not
Third Show Announced for Toronto
Holy crap! Today Bon Jovi announced a third concert in Toronto for Saturday Jan 21st. Tix go on sale next weekend, the 15th. It took everything in me not to get more tickets to the second show (and there's still an auction going on for floor seats first 15 rows that I'm a little antsy about) . . . and now there is a third. I just keep telling myself that this credit card has to take me to Italy . . . the higher I run it up now, the further away Florence gets . . . THINK Italy, Kel! . . . Jersey Italian is not the same thing.
Mood: spacey
Drinking: coffee, water, brandy
Listening To: Just Older (Live)
Hair: seeing red
Mood: spacey
Drinking: coffee, water, brandy
Listening To: Just Older (Live)
Hair: seeing red
What's Your Funky Inner Hair Colour?
| Your Hair Should Be Red |
 Passionate, fiery, and sassy. You're a total smart aleck who's got the biggest personality around. |
I've done red and enjoyed it before, maybe it's time to give it another go.
Cuttings
9.
At age twenty-nine, Katt got lucky.
A strange man picked her up hitchhiking. He drove out an old dirt road into the woods and parked the car. He pinned her under him and tore at her clothes, slapped her across the face and left bruises. He ripped into her skin and she bled. But Katt fought hard like a wild animal and crawled out of the car. He chased her, but she ran fast. She lunged into a stream and waded up to her neck even though she couldn’t swim a stroke. She ran through the silent night with the devil on her back. She collapsed at the door of a friend’s house. Banged with both fists until the lights snapped on. Her clothes dripped with bloody water. Katt’s friend dressed her in an oversized white shirt while he washed and dried her clothes. He stroked her and nudged hot tea into her hands. Katt trembled and chain-smoked. She shivered, sobbed, felt angry and weak. Katt wished she had been strong enough to kill the stranger and vowed to buy a switchblade.
-- Another excerpt from Katt's Lives
By the fall of '98 I'm almost done with it. But I don't know that yet. I don't know that within a month he will arrive from tobacco road to begin the final dance, to provide the final push into the abyss of madness. I don't believe I'll ever dance with that devil again. I laugh at the suggestion, and I'm serious. I left him for someone else. I left him for his best friend, his brother-in-law, best man at his wedding. I chose someone else. But out of sight, out of mind; he seldom enters my thoughts.
This fall I'm obsessed with another. I've been dumped, but not really dumped. He still comes around. He still calls. I still have hope. I'm still good enough for screwing. Though not good enough for his bed, only for hotel rooms and backseats and tall grass and truck bunks. I think I love him. I think he loved me too once. I don't want to think he only uses me now. I won't think that. I bury these thoughts behind drunk clouds circling my hazy mind. It is much more pleasant to believe sex is love. Even though he only shows up once every few weeks and stays just long enough to take his pleasure. Even though I've heard he's dating other girls. Even though I saw him touch someone else's hair, but he won't so much as kiss my cheek anymore. If it is truly over, why doesn't he leave me alone? If he doesn't care, why doesn't he stay away?
I'm sleeping less. I'm so wired from pills that even the few hours stolen each week are restless fits of tossing. Five minutes of shut eye feels like an eternity. Time is screwed up. I see every sunrise, every sunset, but I like the dark the best. Sunlight hurts my eyes.
I always have an open beer. Though this fall I'm also dipping into the whiskey because I realise I am able to drink too much beer, cases disappear on nights spent alone with no customers. Rye is a cheaper habit, more profit margin, and I'm spending way too much money.
A friend shows up to help with an event Saturday, work the door, empty the ashtrays, throw people out who piss me off. He doesn't understand how I deal with this hassle everyday and stay sober. I'm sober? Since when? I've downed 16 Alpine and it's only just 2 in the afternoon. I can't remember the last time I ate. I haven't been home since Wednesday. I'm wearing men's clothes -- too tight faded Levis, a large white denim shirt, cracked brown leather belt -- fresh clothes borrowed from the man who let me shower at his place this morning after the all-night card game.
I'm missing cash but I never bother to count it, so I have no idea how much. At least $80 maybe as much as $500. I've given up carrying a purse. I don't trust people not to steal it. I don't trust people not to rifle through it and take things without my knowing. I don't trust myself to remember I have it with me. Instead I carry thousands of dollars in my right front jeans pocket in case of emergency. I need $500 on me at all times, just in case, or I'm uncomfortable. I'm a little paranoid. I think the missing money fell out of my pocket but it's impossible to know for sure.
I'm working my way through my second pack of cigarettes. I just took another handful of pills with a shot of whiskey . . . and I'm passing for sober. In this place I am the boss and I'm passing as being in control. The weight of this shocks even me . . . and I'm wasted.
Weeknights are slow. Sometimes a few people show up, sometimes nobody at all. My mother calls every night to see if I want her to come take me home. I lie and say I have customers or I have plans or I have a drive with someone else. Every night I wait for him to call or show up. And every night he stays away. Most nights I don't want to be around people, which is good because most nights people don't want to be around me. I'm weary, sick of everything. Everyone wants something from me, but nobody is honest. The human race is disappointing. I'm sad.
After I lie to my mother I lock the doors, turn off the lights. I like the way the streetlight shines in through the windows. I like that I can see the outside, watch the parking lot and driveway, but nobody can see me. I am invisible in the darkness. The night is my favourite time, I walk all over town and through the woods and out to the river and nobody ever sees. By the glow of the streetlight I put my loonie in the jukebox. Madonna sings to me. I climb onto the pool table, lie on my back, staring into the rafters, and I cry.
Where do we go from here?
This isn't where we intended to be
We had it all, you believed in me
I believed in you
Certainties disappear
What do we do for our dream to survive?
How do we keep all our passions alive,
As we used to do?
Deep in my heart I'm concealing
Things that I'm longing to say
Scared to confess what I'm feeling
Frightened you'll slip away
You must love me
You must love me
My heart is broken. It hurts so much and no matter what I do I can't turn it off. I drink more. I party harder. I throw myself into event planning. I hook up with other boys. I crack jokes and smile a lot and drive people home even though legally I'm forbidden and undoubtedly impaired myself. Nothing helps. It hurts. And the hurting tires me.
This is my life that fall.
It's a weeknight when he comes in. Early in the week. Based on the clientele, probably a Tuesday. On Tuesday's I almost always go home and tonight I want to go home. I plan to go home.
He's a regular. A drunk. An alcoholic. No good. Everyone pities his wife at home with their new baby. He's also a friend of the guy I've been obsessing about, the guy breaking my heart, snapping my heart strings, tying them into knots. He's a little annoying but mostly under my radar, harmless, funny by times, not troublesome.
At closing he offers to give me a ride home. He's going my way. It's Tuesday and I want to go home, sleep for four hours before the insanity of weekend begins tomorrow and runs through until next Tuesday. My mind is preoccupied as we drive out the road toward the main highway. I'm thinking about things, not paying attention. My conversation is on automatic pilot, just general gossip and pleasantries, nothing serious.
He turns onto a dirt road and drives toward the river. I'm not alarmed. I know the man who lives in the house by this river. He is another friend of the man I'm in love with, and if he is home he might be having a party, and if he's having a party chances are good that the man I desire will be there. My surroundings come into clearer focus as I perk at this idea. But at the end of the lane the house is dark. Nobody home. And I fall into my disappointed thoughts.
He puts the car into park and turns off the engine. I think he must need to take a piss. He starts to talk. Damn! I'm the bartender and everybody dumps their problems at my feet. I climb further into my mind, turning over my thoughts while I nod and appear understanding.
When it happens I don't see it coming. It happens quickly. One second he is chattering away about what a pain his wife is but how much he loves his kid and in mid-sentence his lips lock onto mine as he lunges to the passenger side. But even this is not totally unexpected. This stuff happens. I'm the bartender. And guys think that means I'm up for grabs. It's an annoyance, but easily straightened out.
I pull away, put a hand on his chest. Stop. I'm sorry, but I'm not into this. You seem like a nice guy and all but I'm crazy about someone else and you've got a wife and kids and this isn't right and I'd just like to go home now, okay. This is the jist of the spiel. It works. Guys are surprised because they've heard rumours about me. They'll feed the rumour mill later when their friends want the juicy details about their encounter with me. Some guys I even have secret agreements with -- I won't tell anyone that we didn't do anything. Agreements I honour, answering with a smile and saying nothing when asked, rather than deny. What do I care about rumours? What do I care what people think? I know who I am and what I've done.
The spiel works. Usually. But not this time.
It happens so quick I don't even know how. One second I am sitting in the passenger seat, delivering the spiel, waiting for the apologetic response, and the sound of the ignition. Then I'm on my back. Pinned. Steering wheel cutting into my shoulder. Feet still touching the passenger mat. His tongue forces its way into my mouth and his hands snake under my blouse and invade my bra. It's so quick, I'm stunned, can't react. And when I do react I'm not understanding the gravity of this situation -- Hold 'er now! That's enough.
His fingers are like pincers on my breasts. He sqeezes and pulls and twists, hard -- You're hurting me. Let me up.
He ignores me, like I've said nothing. Slides a hand into my jeans -- Enough! Get off of me!
With both hands I push against him. But I can't budge him. Panic swells in my throat -- STOP!! NOW!
My jeans are undone, open, pulled onto my thighs, blouse pushed up over my face, he's undoing his pants, I hear the zipper, feel hot skin against my stomache . . . Oh my God! Oh my God! He's really doing this. Oh my God! I can't stop him. . . . panicked thoughts, prayers, tears streaming down my face and then a sickening realisation -- NO CONDOM! Oh my God! Disease! Pregancy! . . . If I live. If I god damn live! This is how girls die. This is how girls disappear. This is it. Oh my God! He does this and he won't be able to let me walk out of here. -- NO!! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!!
And I'm flailing, pushing, striking, screaming, when he slaps me -- Shut up, you fucking bitch!
This changes everything. And fear turns to anger at my helplessness turns to hate for this man. I will not let him violate me. I will fight him with my last breath. He will have to kill me first before he gets inside of me. I wish for a knife in my boot. If I had a knife I would gut this man and watch him bleed to death. I would tear out his throat and then walk on out of here and have a steak dinner to celebrate. I'm thinking these things as I go berserk striking with fists, biting, trying to kick, somehow getting a knee free and ramming it into his groin. He weakens and I go crazier, getting out from under him, opening the car door, grabbing my things and running in one fluid motion. This too happens so quick.
I run into the reeds. It's dark. And I like the dark. I'm used to running around the woods and the river when everyone else sleeps. I'm not afraid of the night. I'm quiet now, my heart drumming in my ears as I fly across the swamp in grass above my head. Slowed only by the occasional tripping over dead wood or into big holes that knock the wind out of me. When I think I'm far enough away, I hunker down and listen. Crickets, frogs, all manner of night things sing in the grass. I can hear the river just to my left. A big splash, not like a salmon jumping, maybe a beaver. There is a dam closeby.
I hear him cursing in the drive, staggering around, muttering to himself. He comes to the edge of the grass. Takes a couple of steps into the reeds and stops -- C'mon out and I'll drive you home. I didn't mean nothing by it.
Using his best voice, his sweet voice, but I know it's a trick. Focus on my breathing, keeping it slow and light. I remember playing hide and seek in the woods when I was a kid. I remember sitting behind a tiny hill, not even high enough to hide me. I sat there, practically in the open, and watched my cousin search for me. I stayed so still and breathed so shallow that she walked right up to me and didn't see me. She came so close to me that I looked her right in the face and smiled thinking surely I was caught. But I didn't move, waited for her to speak first. She didn't see me, never found me, gave up eventually and went in the house thinking I must've somehow snuck away and gone inside.
He's walking along the edge of the swamp, calling to me -- This is crazy! C'mon out now and talk to me about this. This is all just one big misunderstanding.
The more he calls to me and I don't answer, the angrier he becomes -- When I find you, you're gonna be one sorry bitch! Get your ass out here now or you're going to get it!
I don't move. Wonder at how far the main road is across country, through the swamp, can it even be gotten to this way.
He gets into his car and shines the headlights into the grass. If I stay still I won't give myself away. The grass is much too tall and dense to reveal anything hiding in its depths. If I panic and move, the grass will betray me, sway and show where I am. If I stay still I'll be safe. Unless he comes in here . . . I plot a retreat, just in case, I believe I can outrun him. But he's drunk, confused, not sure where I've gone, so I don't think he'll launch a full search of the swamp. Plus it's late and dawn comes in a couple of hours. He doesn't have time to roam the swamp on the chance that I might be in here.
He idles his car out the lane, stopping every now and then to listen or shine headlights into the woods. He continues to call me and to threaten. My plan is to wait him out. To slowly sneak out the lane behind him. Surely he will give up at the road and go home. Then I will walk back to the club and spend the night there. I come onto my feet and start sneaking up the hill, staying in the woods about 15 feet from the lane.
He's still driving slow, still calling to me out his window, and when he reaches the road he doesn't stop. He doesn't go home. Instead he turns and putters back toward the club. When his taillights disappear, I break from the woods and run down the road in the opposite direction, toward the main highway. I don't get far before I hear him coming back and I dive into the ditch and the woods beyond. He's serious about finding me. He's not going home. He drives back and forth from the club to the main highway, out the lane and back again, threatening me out his window. We're the only two people out here tonight and he knows it, he intends to wait me out, wait until daylight when it's easier to see me. And the longer this drags on the more angry and sober he becomes.
It's apparent I must take drastic action. I cannot wait him out. I cannot get out of here via the road. Again I wonder about the swamp and whether I can get through it to the main highway. I make my way back there through the woods. Navigating in the grass is difficult. It's like a jungle, stretching feet above my head and thick. I could use a machete to hack my way through. When I get out of here, I will acquire very sharp blades of all shapes and sizes and make them into my new best friends. I come across a chain link fence, can't get over it, can't go through it, and after following it for several minutes I decide I can't go around it. The swamp is fenced off from the main highway.
I'm tired and frustrated and I can still hear him looking for me. Night cover is nearly gone. The sky is lightening to a dark grey. I'm running out of time. I hear the river to my left and make for the shore. If I'm standing on the riverbank when he comes back and shines his lights, he will see me. This part of the river is not very wide and in summertime very shallow . . . it's fall. I can't swim. But I'm out of options. I wade in. One step and I'm knee-deep. The water is cold and moving fast. Another step and the water covers my thighs. The rocks are slippery under my boots. I need to be careful not to fall. I step and sink to my waist. My jeans grow heavy with water, weighing me down. The opposite shore is further than I thought. It's possible the deepest part will be over my head. Step and I'm in to my chest. The water is dark and strong. Another step and my shoulders go under. Oh God, am I halfway? Is this the deepest part? Difficult to stay upright. Step and my neck is covered, the river laps against my chin. At least if I die out here it will be on my terms. I think I understand Virginia. The river is powerful but also comforting. It would be easy to let my knees buckle and float away. In the next step I might be over my head and have no choice but to try to float or swim. I take the step and the water drops back around my shoulders. I hurry now, getting to the shore as quick as I can.
I am soaked through. The birds are awake and singing. I have very little time before full daylight and with it people going to work, getting kids off to school, going about their mundane lives as if terrible things haven't happened in the night. If he's still out there, I will be a conspicuous target. I run. This side of the river, doesn't have tall grass. The terrain is spongy, mossy, wet, slippery. But I don't slow. I run until my chest burns, until my ribs feel like they're ripping into my lungs, and then I run some more. I run as if he is right behind me. I can outrun him, I know I can. I zip across the marsh in my wet clothes. I climb the shale rock cliff under the overpass and hit the main highway at a trot. When I hear a car coming I run into the next yard and continue making my way through people's backyards. I hope nobody sees me. I hope nobody has dogs.
Within minutes I reach my friend's apartment building and collapse against his door, knocking. He is sleeping. This is a given. It's still a couple of hours before he will be getting up to go to work. I knock louder. I'm panicked, here, in broad daylight, in the open air outside his building with cars passing on the street. When the door opens I start sobbing uncontrollably. He pulls me in and locks the door. -- What the hell happened to you?
I can't talk. It's all gibberish. My teeth are chattering. I head straight into the bathroom to strip. He brings me one of his shirts and helps me undress. My clothes are filthy, full of mud and grass stains, stinking like the river. We throw everything into the washing machine. I get into the shower. I can't get the water hot enough. I stand under the shower head with my eyes closed and cry as the water massages my scalp and cascades over my body. I towel off, put on the big shirt, start the washer and join him in the living room. He shoves a cup of hot tea into my hands and makes me take a sip. -- Ok. Are you going to tell me what happened?
I don't say anything. I can't. If I say it out loud it will be real. Maybe I can leave it in darkness, leave it in the night. I don't even realise that I'm crying again until a teardrop splashes into my tea. -- Something happened. Somebody did something to you. Now, I want to know what and who.
He's upset by this. He's afraid for me. Angry for me. Ready to gather a posse and go hunt some people down. I set down my tea and go to him, climb into his lap, wrap my arms around his shoulders and burrow my face into his neck breathing in his familar safe scent. We sit on the couch and he holds me like that until he thinks I've drifted off and gets up to carry me to bed. When he lays me back on the bed he's surprised to see my open eyes looking at him. He whispers that he thought I was asleep and starts to leave. He's got to get ready for work but I don't want to be alone. I don't know if I can be alone. I grab his hands and pull him onto the bed with me, lay my head on his chest. He strokes my hair and tries again -- Do you want to talk about it?
I raise my head, rest my chin on his chest and look into his eyes -- I need your help. I need to buy a good knife. A hunting knife maybe. Something you'd use to gut a deer. But not too big, too heavy to carry. As long as it's sharp. That's all that matters. Sharp and concealable. Maybe a six or eight inch blade . . . .
At age twenty-nine, Katt got lucky.
A strange man picked her up hitchhiking. He drove out an old dirt road into the woods and parked the car. He pinned her under him and tore at her clothes, slapped her across the face and left bruises. He ripped into her skin and she bled. But Katt fought hard like a wild animal and crawled out of the car. He chased her, but she ran fast. She lunged into a stream and waded up to her neck even though she couldn’t swim a stroke. She ran through the silent night with the devil on her back. She collapsed at the door of a friend’s house. Banged with both fists until the lights snapped on. Her clothes dripped with bloody water. Katt’s friend dressed her in an oversized white shirt while he washed and dried her clothes. He stroked her and nudged hot tea into her hands. Katt trembled and chain-smoked. She shivered, sobbed, felt angry and weak. Katt wished she had been strong enough to kill the stranger and vowed to buy a switchblade.
-- Another excerpt from Katt's Lives
By the fall of '98 I'm almost done with it. But I don't know that yet. I don't know that within a month he will arrive from tobacco road to begin the final dance, to provide the final push into the abyss of madness. I don't believe I'll ever dance with that devil again. I laugh at the suggestion, and I'm serious. I left him for someone else. I left him for his best friend, his brother-in-law, best man at his wedding. I chose someone else. But out of sight, out of mind; he seldom enters my thoughts.
This fall I'm obsessed with another. I've been dumped, but not really dumped. He still comes around. He still calls. I still have hope. I'm still good enough for screwing. Though not good enough for his bed, only for hotel rooms and backseats and tall grass and truck bunks. I think I love him. I think he loved me too once. I don't want to think he only uses me now. I won't think that. I bury these thoughts behind drunk clouds circling my hazy mind. It is much more pleasant to believe sex is love. Even though he only shows up once every few weeks and stays just long enough to take his pleasure. Even though I've heard he's dating other girls. Even though I saw him touch someone else's hair, but he won't so much as kiss my cheek anymore. If it is truly over, why doesn't he leave me alone? If he doesn't care, why doesn't he stay away?
I'm sleeping less. I'm so wired from pills that even the few hours stolen each week are restless fits of tossing. Five minutes of shut eye feels like an eternity. Time is screwed up. I see every sunrise, every sunset, but I like the dark the best. Sunlight hurts my eyes.
I always have an open beer. Though this fall I'm also dipping into the whiskey because I realise I am able to drink too much beer, cases disappear on nights spent alone with no customers. Rye is a cheaper habit, more profit margin, and I'm spending way too much money.
A friend shows up to help with an event Saturday, work the door, empty the ashtrays, throw people out who piss me off. He doesn't understand how I deal with this hassle everyday and stay sober. I'm sober? Since when? I've downed 16 Alpine and it's only just 2 in the afternoon. I can't remember the last time I ate. I haven't been home since Wednesday. I'm wearing men's clothes -- too tight faded Levis, a large white denim shirt, cracked brown leather belt -- fresh clothes borrowed from the man who let me shower at his place this morning after the all-night card game.
I'm missing cash but I never bother to count it, so I have no idea how much. At least $80 maybe as much as $500. I've given up carrying a purse. I don't trust people not to steal it. I don't trust people not to rifle through it and take things without my knowing. I don't trust myself to remember I have it with me. Instead I carry thousands of dollars in my right front jeans pocket in case of emergency. I need $500 on me at all times, just in case, or I'm uncomfortable. I'm a little paranoid. I think the missing money fell out of my pocket but it's impossible to know for sure.
I'm working my way through my second pack of cigarettes. I just took another handful of pills with a shot of whiskey . . . and I'm passing for sober. In this place I am the boss and I'm passing as being in control. The weight of this shocks even me . . . and I'm wasted.
Weeknights are slow. Sometimes a few people show up, sometimes nobody at all. My mother calls every night to see if I want her to come take me home. I lie and say I have customers or I have plans or I have a drive with someone else. Every night I wait for him to call or show up. And every night he stays away. Most nights I don't want to be around people, which is good because most nights people don't want to be around me. I'm weary, sick of everything. Everyone wants something from me, but nobody is honest. The human race is disappointing. I'm sad.
After I lie to my mother I lock the doors, turn off the lights. I like the way the streetlight shines in through the windows. I like that I can see the outside, watch the parking lot and driveway, but nobody can see me. I am invisible in the darkness. The night is my favourite time, I walk all over town and through the woods and out to the river and nobody ever sees. By the glow of the streetlight I put my loonie in the jukebox. Madonna sings to me. I climb onto the pool table, lie on my back, staring into the rafters, and I cry.
Where do we go from here?
This isn't where we intended to be
We had it all, you believed in me
I believed in you
Certainties disappear
What do we do for our dream to survive?
How do we keep all our passions alive,
As we used to do?
Deep in my heart I'm concealing
Things that I'm longing to say
Scared to confess what I'm feeling
Frightened you'll slip away
You must love me
You must love me
My heart is broken. It hurts so much and no matter what I do I can't turn it off. I drink more. I party harder. I throw myself into event planning. I hook up with other boys. I crack jokes and smile a lot and drive people home even though legally I'm forbidden and undoubtedly impaired myself. Nothing helps. It hurts. And the hurting tires me.
This is my life that fall.
It's a weeknight when he comes in. Early in the week. Based on the clientele, probably a Tuesday. On Tuesday's I almost always go home and tonight I want to go home. I plan to go home.
He's a regular. A drunk. An alcoholic. No good. Everyone pities his wife at home with their new baby. He's also a friend of the guy I've been obsessing about, the guy breaking my heart, snapping my heart strings, tying them into knots. He's a little annoying but mostly under my radar, harmless, funny by times, not troublesome.
At closing he offers to give me a ride home. He's going my way. It's Tuesday and I want to go home, sleep for four hours before the insanity of weekend begins tomorrow and runs through until next Tuesday. My mind is preoccupied as we drive out the road toward the main highway. I'm thinking about things, not paying attention. My conversation is on automatic pilot, just general gossip and pleasantries, nothing serious.
He turns onto a dirt road and drives toward the river. I'm not alarmed. I know the man who lives in the house by this river. He is another friend of the man I'm in love with, and if he is home he might be having a party, and if he's having a party chances are good that the man I desire will be there. My surroundings come into clearer focus as I perk at this idea. But at the end of the lane the house is dark. Nobody home. And I fall into my disappointed thoughts.
He puts the car into park and turns off the engine. I think he must need to take a piss. He starts to talk. Damn! I'm the bartender and everybody dumps their problems at my feet. I climb further into my mind, turning over my thoughts while I nod and appear understanding.
When it happens I don't see it coming. It happens quickly. One second he is chattering away about what a pain his wife is but how much he loves his kid and in mid-sentence his lips lock onto mine as he lunges to the passenger side. But even this is not totally unexpected. This stuff happens. I'm the bartender. And guys think that means I'm up for grabs. It's an annoyance, but easily straightened out.
I pull away, put a hand on his chest. Stop. I'm sorry, but I'm not into this. You seem like a nice guy and all but I'm crazy about someone else and you've got a wife and kids and this isn't right and I'd just like to go home now, okay. This is the jist of the spiel. It works. Guys are surprised because they've heard rumours about me. They'll feed the rumour mill later when their friends want the juicy details about their encounter with me. Some guys I even have secret agreements with -- I won't tell anyone that we didn't do anything. Agreements I honour, answering with a smile and saying nothing when asked, rather than deny. What do I care about rumours? What do I care what people think? I know who I am and what I've done.
The spiel works. Usually. But not this time.
It happens so quick I don't even know how. One second I am sitting in the passenger seat, delivering the spiel, waiting for the apologetic response, and the sound of the ignition. Then I'm on my back. Pinned. Steering wheel cutting into my shoulder. Feet still touching the passenger mat. His tongue forces its way into my mouth and his hands snake under my blouse and invade my bra. It's so quick, I'm stunned, can't react. And when I do react I'm not understanding the gravity of this situation -- Hold 'er now! That's enough.
His fingers are like pincers on my breasts. He sqeezes and pulls and twists, hard -- You're hurting me. Let me up.
He ignores me, like I've said nothing. Slides a hand into my jeans -- Enough! Get off of me!
With both hands I push against him. But I can't budge him. Panic swells in my throat -- STOP!! NOW!
My jeans are undone, open, pulled onto my thighs, blouse pushed up over my face, he's undoing his pants, I hear the zipper, feel hot skin against my stomache . . . Oh my God! Oh my God! He's really doing this. Oh my God! I can't stop him. . . . panicked thoughts, prayers, tears streaming down my face and then a sickening realisation -- NO CONDOM! Oh my God! Disease! Pregancy! . . . If I live. If I god damn live! This is how girls die. This is how girls disappear. This is it. Oh my God! He does this and he won't be able to let me walk out of here. -- NO!! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!!
And I'm flailing, pushing, striking, screaming, when he slaps me -- Shut up, you fucking bitch!
This changes everything. And fear turns to anger at my helplessness turns to hate for this man. I will not let him violate me. I will fight him with my last breath. He will have to kill me first before he gets inside of me. I wish for a knife in my boot. If I had a knife I would gut this man and watch him bleed to death. I would tear out his throat and then walk on out of here and have a steak dinner to celebrate. I'm thinking these things as I go berserk striking with fists, biting, trying to kick, somehow getting a knee free and ramming it into his groin. He weakens and I go crazier, getting out from under him, opening the car door, grabbing my things and running in one fluid motion. This too happens so quick.
I run into the reeds. It's dark. And I like the dark. I'm used to running around the woods and the river when everyone else sleeps. I'm not afraid of the night. I'm quiet now, my heart drumming in my ears as I fly across the swamp in grass above my head. Slowed only by the occasional tripping over dead wood or into big holes that knock the wind out of me. When I think I'm far enough away, I hunker down and listen. Crickets, frogs, all manner of night things sing in the grass. I can hear the river just to my left. A big splash, not like a salmon jumping, maybe a beaver. There is a dam closeby.
I hear him cursing in the drive, staggering around, muttering to himself. He comes to the edge of the grass. Takes a couple of steps into the reeds and stops -- C'mon out and I'll drive you home. I didn't mean nothing by it.
Using his best voice, his sweet voice, but I know it's a trick. Focus on my breathing, keeping it slow and light. I remember playing hide and seek in the woods when I was a kid. I remember sitting behind a tiny hill, not even high enough to hide me. I sat there, practically in the open, and watched my cousin search for me. I stayed so still and breathed so shallow that she walked right up to me and didn't see me. She came so close to me that I looked her right in the face and smiled thinking surely I was caught. But I didn't move, waited for her to speak first. She didn't see me, never found me, gave up eventually and went in the house thinking I must've somehow snuck away and gone inside.
He's walking along the edge of the swamp, calling to me -- This is crazy! C'mon out now and talk to me about this. This is all just one big misunderstanding.
The more he calls to me and I don't answer, the angrier he becomes -- When I find you, you're gonna be one sorry bitch! Get your ass out here now or you're going to get it!
I don't move. Wonder at how far the main road is across country, through the swamp, can it even be gotten to this way.
He gets into his car and shines the headlights into the grass. If I stay still I won't give myself away. The grass is much too tall and dense to reveal anything hiding in its depths. If I panic and move, the grass will betray me, sway and show where I am. If I stay still I'll be safe. Unless he comes in here . . . I plot a retreat, just in case, I believe I can outrun him. But he's drunk, confused, not sure where I've gone, so I don't think he'll launch a full search of the swamp. Plus it's late and dawn comes in a couple of hours. He doesn't have time to roam the swamp on the chance that I might be in here.
He idles his car out the lane, stopping every now and then to listen or shine headlights into the woods. He continues to call me and to threaten. My plan is to wait him out. To slowly sneak out the lane behind him. Surely he will give up at the road and go home. Then I will walk back to the club and spend the night there. I come onto my feet and start sneaking up the hill, staying in the woods about 15 feet from the lane.
He's still driving slow, still calling to me out his window, and when he reaches the road he doesn't stop. He doesn't go home. Instead he turns and putters back toward the club. When his taillights disappear, I break from the woods and run down the road in the opposite direction, toward the main highway. I don't get far before I hear him coming back and I dive into the ditch and the woods beyond. He's serious about finding me. He's not going home. He drives back and forth from the club to the main highway, out the lane and back again, threatening me out his window. We're the only two people out here tonight and he knows it, he intends to wait me out, wait until daylight when it's easier to see me. And the longer this drags on the more angry and sober he becomes.
It's apparent I must take drastic action. I cannot wait him out. I cannot get out of here via the road. Again I wonder about the swamp and whether I can get through it to the main highway. I make my way back there through the woods. Navigating in the grass is difficult. It's like a jungle, stretching feet above my head and thick. I could use a machete to hack my way through. When I get out of here, I will acquire very sharp blades of all shapes and sizes and make them into my new best friends. I come across a chain link fence, can't get over it, can't go through it, and after following it for several minutes I decide I can't go around it. The swamp is fenced off from the main highway.
I'm tired and frustrated and I can still hear him looking for me. Night cover is nearly gone. The sky is lightening to a dark grey. I'm running out of time. I hear the river to my left and make for the shore. If I'm standing on the riverbank when he comes back and shines his lights, he will see me. This part of the river is not very wide and in summertime very shallow . . . it's fall. I can't swim. But I'm out of options. I wade in. One step and I'm knee-deep. The water is cold and moving fast. Another step and the water covers my thighs. The rocks are slippery under my boots. I need to be careful not to fall. I step and sink to my waist. My jeans grow heavy with water, weighing me down. The opposite shore is further than I thought. It's possible the deepest part will be over my head. Step and I'm in to my chest. The water is dark and strong. Another step and my shoulders go under. Oh God, am I halfway? Is this the deepest part? Difficult to stay upright. Step and my neck is covered, the river laps against my chin. At least if I die out here it will be on my terms. I think I understand Virginia. The river is powerful but also comforting. It would be easy to let my knees buckle and float away. In the next step I might be over my head and have no choice but to try to float or swim. I take the step and the water drops back around my shoulders. I hurry now, getting to the shore as quick as I can.
I am soaked through. The birds are awake and singing. I have very little time before full daylight and with it people going to work, getting kids off to school, going about their mundane lives as if terrible things haven't happened in the night. If he's still out there, I will be a conspicuous target. I run. This side of the river, doesn't have tall grass. The terrain is spongy, mossy, wet, slippery. But I don't slow. I run until my chest burns, until my ribs feel like they're ripping into my lungs, and then I run some more. I run as if he is right behind me. I can outrun him, I know I can. I zip across the marsh in my wet clothes. I climb the shale rock cliff under the overpass and hit the main highway at a trot. When I hear a car coming I run into the next yard and continue making my way through people's backyards. I hope nobody sees me. I hope nobody has dogs.
Within minutes I reach my friend's apartment building and collapse against his door, knocking. He is sleeping. This is a given. It's still a couple of hours before he will be getting up to go to work. I knock louder. I'm panicked, here, in broad daylight, in the open air outside his building with cars passing on the street. When the door opens I start sobbing uncontrollably. He pulls me in and locks the door. -- What the hell happened to you?
I can't talk. It's all gibberish. My teeth are chattering. I head straight into the bathroom to strip. He brings me one of his shirts and helps me undress. My clothes are filthy, full of mud and grass stains, stinking like the river. We throw everything into the washing machine. I get into the shower. I can't get the water hot enough. I stand under the shower head with my eyes closed and cry as the water massages my scalp and cascades over my body. I towel off, put on the big shirt, start the washer and join him in the living room. He shoves a cup of hot tea into my hands and makes me take a sip. -- Ok. Are you going to tell me what happened?
I don't say anything. I can't. If I say it out loud it will be real. Maybe I can leave it in darkness, leave it in the night. I don't even realise that I'm crying again until a teardrop splashes into my tea. -- Something happened. Somebody did something to you. Now, I want to know what and who.
He's upset by this. He's afraid for me. Angry for me. Ready to gather a posse and go hunt some people down. I set down my tea and go to him, climb into his lap, wrap my arms around his shoulders and burrow my face into his neck breathing in his familar safe scent. We sit on the couch and he holds me like that until he thinks I've drifted off and gets up to carry me to bed. When he lays me back on the bed he's surprised to see my open eyes looking at him. He whispers that he thought I was asleep and starts to leave. He's got to get ready for work but I don't want to be alone. I don't know if I can be alone. I grab his hands and pull him onto the bed with me, lay my head on his chest. He strokes my hair and tries again -- Do you want to talk about it?
I raise my head, rest my chin on his chest and look into his eyes -- I need your help. I need to buy a good knife. A hunting knife maybe. Something you'd use to gut a deer. But not too big, too heavy to carry. As long as it's sharp. That's all that matters. Sharp and concealable. Maybe a six or eight inch blade . . . .
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
What Part of Fall Are You?
| You Are Warm Nights by the Fire |
 |
Valermo Drive
Nearest main intersection would be Horner and 30th, past Treeview though. The house is a bungalow, painted green, not dark but more like that seafoam green, all the rage this past summer for gowns and bridal attire. How is it that I can even remember this street? This house? I hated it there so much.
***************************************************************
He is 26 years old and has a few girls dangling. One is older, a tiny little thing originally from Newfoundland, short, dark haired, almost 40. She waitresses at the local bar and she's got a mouth on her, crude unlike any woman I've encountered up to this point. But she can sing like a beautiful bird, and sings with a band sometimes at the bar. This one has baggage, an on-again/off-again thing with an ex-husband or boyfriend, kids, physical abuse issues, etc. She wants to be saved from her wretched life. Thinks this young man is just the ticket. He likes her quite a bit too, but she's complicated, and he doesn't do complicated very well. Plus he's too damn logical, knows nobody can save somebody else they've got to do it for themselves. Just do it is his motto long before it catches on.
The other girl is around his age and they have a history, have dated off and on for a few years. Once seriously for a year and a half. This one has an exotic look about her, Greek maybe? Italian? Green eyes. Tall and curvy, thick, solid, wouldn't want to take a punch off her. Factory worker I think. Attitude up the wazoo! She proudly refers to herself as the "bitch", very outspoken, opinionated, downright snarky. And moody as hell. She lives up to the Scorpio image in spades. He likes her too. I don't understand why he's drawn to these rude and nasty women. But I suppose rude and nasty girls need someone to like them too.
There are others, but they don't rank. He's only seriously dating three girls.
I'm the third, the new player in this game and quite different from the other two. This one's only 18, a shy university student just in from down east, doe-eyed with innocence. I worship him. He is a god, the greatest thing to ever walk with two legs and I will do anything for him, anything to spend time with him, anything to make him smile. And he likes being the idol, likes the easy going way we get along with no sassy lip. Yet I'm just sarcastic enough to not be completely boring and I'm an apt pupil picking up on his sarc ways as fast as he can demonstrate.
I have no expectations, no aspirations, don't believe I figure into his equation or that I ever will, so I'm always present in the moment, enjoying his attention if I have it, off having fun with others if I don't. I hang out with him and his other girlfriends, sit in the back seat with friends while we drive them home, while he walks them to the door and kisses them good night. I don't get jealous, do not completely lose my mind, because I expect nothing from him and I'm happy to just be in his presence.
The girlfriends accept me as part of the group because they think I am his cousin, a convenient lie, easier than telling people the longer weirder story of how I came to live with a family of strangers.
For months, I am the only girl in the mix who knows about all the others (even the flings). Afterall, I live in his house. I'm the one in the dirt with the boys at the motocross track in Thornton on Sunday afternoon. I'm the one in the tattered peejays watching late great movies on City with him on weeknights. We're friends . . . who occasionally fool around, and that's okay. I don't care if we never fool around, I just want him to talk to me, teach me things, show me things, tell me I can do anything and make it true. I see other guys. Other guys come to the house and bang on my bedroom door in the middle of the night, scaring me. Other guys call and ask me to go dancing. Some other guys are cute and some I even like a little.
I know about his other girls . . . but they don't know about me. And even that isn't an intended secret, if anyone asks I'll tell them anything they want to know, but nobody asks and I'm not the type to offer details on my own. I'm good at holding onto things and keeping them for myself.
We hang out more and more until there isn't much time for anyone else. The older woman goes back with her abusive ex, quits the job at the local bar and moves out of the neighborhood. She just disappears.
The bitch sticks around and pursues. She calls and invites him to parties, to supper with her parents, to movies and concerts and many other things that he refuses. So then she calls just to talk. And then she eases on the pursuing and offers to be friends. Everyone hangs out again. More parties on Valermo Drive. The moment of total realisation comes during a party at this house. Everyone is trashed and he's passing out sitting upright on the couch. The girl and others are still going strong, the party is far from over, but he's been up for over two days working in the snow and is dead on his feet.
She tells him he can go sleep in her bed if he wants, since he is so worn out. I'm surprised when he says he can't drive home and yes, thanks, he'd love to sleep in her bed. She is a little surprised too . . . and a little smug. I'm surprised because we've been really close for weeks. He's practically moved into my bedroom. And though we haven't discussed anything, haven't had "the talk", I thought maybe . . . I'm a little disappointed. But not angry. Not hurt even. We've been winging it, no rules, and I still have no expectations. But I don't like being at this house on Valermo Drive. She isn't very nice to me, she thinks I'm some hick kid from the woods. She makes fun of the way I talk, especially when he's not in the room. And all this even though I know about her but she doesn't know about me. She's just not very nice, plain and simple, a bitch like she proclaims to all who will listen.
The idea of staying here all night, without him to unknowingly shield me from her hurtfulness just by his presence, with him sleeping in her bed is not appealing. I consider my options, start thinking about walking, about calling a cab, about a million other things.
And then he lumbers to his feet, thanks her again, says good night to all, grabs my hand and leads me off to her bedroom.
This is so not what she had in mind.
Long after he is snoring I lay awake listening to everyone discuss this scandal. A few times she says she's coming in to confront us but others talk her out of it. Others explain how I'm not the cousin, not related.
I'm the girlfriend, we all realise at once. She should've been nicer.
Mood: yawning
Drinking: water
Listening To: The Kinks, Everybody's Gonna Be Happy
Hair: drying natural
***************************************************************
He is 26 years old and has a few girls dangling. One is older, a tiny little thing originally from Newfoundland, short, dark haired, almost 40. She waitresses at the local bar and she's got a mouth on her, crude unlike any woman I've encountered up to this point. But she can sing like a beautiful bird, and sings with a band sometimes at the bar. This one has baggage, an on-again/off-again thing with an ex-husband or boyfriend, kids, physical abuse issues, etc. She wants to be saved from her wretched life. Thinks this young man is just the ticket. He likes her quite a bit too, but she's complicated, and he doesn't do complicated very well. Plus he's too damn logical, knows nobody can save somebody else they've got to do it for themselves. Just do it is his motto long before it catches on.
The other girl is around his age and they have a history, have dated off and on for a few years. Once seriously for a year and a half. This one has an exotic look about her, Greek maybe? Italian? Green eyes. Tall and curvy, thick, solid, wouldn't want to take a punch off her. Factory worker I think. Attitude up the wazoo! She proudly refers to herself as the "bitch", very outspoken, opinionated, downright snarky. And moody as hell. She lives up to the Scorpio image in spades. He likes her too. I don't understand why he's drawn to these rude and nasty women. But I suppose rude and nasty girls need someone to like them too.
There are others, but they don't rank. He's only seriously dating three girls.
I'm the third, the new player in this game and quite different from the other two. This one's only 18, a shy university student just in from down east, doe-eyed with innocence. I worship him. He is a god, the greatest thing to ever walk with two legs and I will do anything for him, anything to spend time with him, anything to make him smile. And he likes being the idol, likes the easy going way we get along with no sassy lip. Yet I'm just sarcastic enough to not be completely boring and I'm an apt pupil picking up on his sarc ways as fast as he can demonstrate.
I have no expectations, no aspirations, don't believe I figure into his equation or that I ever will, so I'm always present in the moment, enjoying his attention if I have it, off having fun with others if I don't. I hang out with him and his other girlfriends, sit in the back seat with friends while we drive them home, while he walks them to the door and kisses them good night. I don't get jealous, do not completely lose my mind, because I expect nothing from him and I'm happy to just be in his presence.
The girlfriends accept me as part of the group because they think I am his cousin, a convenient lie, easier than telling people the longer weirder story of how I came to live with a family of strangers.
For months, I am the only girl in the mix who knows about all the others (even the flings). Afterall, I live in his house. I'm the one in the dirt with the boys at the motocross track in Thornton on Sunday afternoon. I'm the one in the tattered peejays watching late great movies on City with him on weeknights. We're friends . . . who occasionally fool around, and that's okay. I don't care if we never fool around, I just want him to talk to me, teach me things, show me things, tell me I can do anything and make it true. I see other guys. Other guys come to the house and bang on my bedroom door in the middle of the night, scaring me. Other guys call and ask me to go dancing. Some other guys are cute and some I even like a little.
I know about his other girls . . . but they don't know about me. And even that isn't an intended secret, if anyone asks I'll tell them anything they want to know, but nobody asks and I'm not the type to offer details on my own. I'm good at holding onto things and keeping them for myself.
We hang out more and more until there isn't much time for anyone else. The older woman goes back with her abusive ex, quits the job at the local bar and moves out of the neighborhood. She just disappears.
The bitch sticks around and pursues. She calls and invites him to parties, to supper with her parents, to movies and concerts and many other things that he refuses. So then she calls just to talk. And then she eases on the pursuing and offers to be friends. Everyone hangs out again. More parties on Valermo Drive. The moment of total realisation comes during a party at this house. Everyone is trashed and he's passing out sitting upright on the couch. The girl and others are still going strong, the party is far from over, but he's been up for over two days working in the snow and is dead on his feet.
She tells him he can go sleep in her bed if he wants, since he is so worn out. I'm surprised when he says he can't drive home and yes, thanks, he'd love to sleep in her bed. She is a little surprised too . . . and a little smug. I'm surprised because we've been really close for weeks. He's practically moved into my bedroom. And though we haven't discussed anything, haven't had "the talk", I thought maybe . . . I'm a little disappointed. But not angry. Not hurt even. We've been winging it, no rules, and I still have no expectations. But I don't like being at this house on Valermo Drive. She isn't very nice to me, she thinks I'm some hick kid from the woods. She makes fun of the way I talk, especially when he's not in the room. And all this even though I know about her but she doesn't know about me. She's just not very nice, plain and simple, a bitch like she proclaims to all who will listen.
The idea of staying here all night, without him to unknowingly shield me from her hurtfulness just by his presence, with him sleeping in her bed is not appealing. I consider my options, start thinking about walking, about calling a cab, about a million other things.
And then he lumbers to his feet, thanks her again, says good night to all, grabs my hand and leads me off to her bedroom.
This is so not what she had in mind.
Long after he is snoring I lay awake listening to everyone discuss this scandal. A few times she says she's coming in to confront us but others talk her out of it. Others explain how I'm not the cousin, not related.
I'm the girlfriend, we all realise at once. She should've been nicer.
Mood: yawning
Drinking: water
Listening To: The Kinks, Everybody's Gonna Be Happy
Hair: drying natural
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
The Three Dimension Luck and Power Test
| You Are Internal - Realist - Powerful |
You feel your life is controlled internally. If you want something, you make it happen. You don't wait around for things to go your way. You value your independence and don't like others to have control. You are a realist when it comes to luck. You don't attribute everything to luck, but you do know some things are random. You don't beat yourself up when bad things happen to you... But you do your best to try to make your own luck. When it comes to who's in charge, it's you. Life is a kingdom, and you're the grand ruler. You don't care much about what others think. But they better care what you think! |
Back Again!
I think I know what the hell has been wrong with me . . . well, a contributing factor at any rate. September blues have always been just part of who I am but I also haven't been dreaming. Does this happen EVERY September? I wonder. Anyway, I hadn't even realised it until I started dreaming again the night before last. Without my active dream life I think I go a little crazy. And I've been a little crazy this past month or so. But thank god! The dreams are back. Last night (well really late this morning, I've been taking non-drowsy sinus meds, so I'm a little antsy . . . in that wonderful amphetamine way I love so much) I tossed and turned and awoke every half hour from the dream . . . and it was freaking wonderful! I feel so much better.
In my dream there was a big Coughlan family reunion thing coming up, maybe a Christmas party. Mom was trying to convince me to go, but I had other plans, didn't want to go anyway. And this back and forth with Mom went on and on, the way it might have in real life years ago when Mom used to try to convince me to go to these things. And I kept waking up, looking at the clock and going back to it. But then the scene switched from Mom's house to Grammie & Grandad's . . . their big, empty, quiet house . . . and I remembered that they are gone, that I'm not 26 anymore, that I said I wasn't going to let certain family members keep me from anymore gatherings . . . and I told her I'd go. Then I woke up and made coffee.
Mood: a little high
Drinking: coffee with cream
Listening To: Bon Jovi, I Want to be Loved
Hair: feels like it's standing on end
In my dream there was a big Coughlan family reunion thing coming up, maybe a Christmas party. Mom was trying to convince me to go, but I had other plans, didn't want to go anyway. And this back and forth with Mom went on and on, the way it might have in real life years ago when Mom used to try to convince me to go to these things. And I kept waking up, looking at the clock and going back to it. But then the scene switched from Mom's house to Grammie & Grandad's . . . their big, empty, quiet house . . . and I remembered that they are gone, that I'm not 26 anymore, that I said I wasn't going to let certain family members keep me from anymore gatherings . . . and I told her I'd go. Then I woke up and made coffee.
Mood: a little high
Drinking: coffee with cream
Listening To: Bon Jovi, I Want to be Loved
Hair: feels like it's standing on end
Quick Meme
Not counting your computer, printer, other hardware, software or cables, list a dozen non-computer things on your desk or computer workspace.
1. Ricola Exhinacea Lemon throat drops
2. 591 ml bottle of Dasani remineralized water
3. Strunk's The Elements of Style
4. Photo album containing pics from Rolling Stones Concert Magnetic Hill
5. Alden Nowlan's Selected Poems edited by Patrick Lane & Lorna Crozier
6. A box of 100 white pushpins
7. Travel sewing kit
8. Small blue duster
9. Yellow plastic flyswat (for when the bats attack)
10. A photo of Paulina in pink frame
11. A plastic box filled with gemstones
12. A dozen spiral notebooks opened to random pages
1. Ricola Exhinacea Lemon throat drops
2. 591 ml bottle of Dasani remineralized water
3. Strunk's The Elements of Style
4. Photo album containing pics from Rolling Stones Concert Magnetic Hill
5. Alden Nowlan's Selected Poems edited by Patrick Lane & Lorna Crozier
6. A box of 100 white pushpins
7. Travel sewing kit
8. Small blue duster
9. Yellow plastic flyswat (for when the bats attack)
10. A photo of Paulina in pink frame
11. A plastic box filled with gemstones
12. A dozen spiral notebooks opened to random pages
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Jovi Update
Tickets for Bon Jovi went on sale to the general public this morning and sold out in 1.5 minutes. A second show was added today . . . but I haven't been able to find any tickets. Cruising the fan club message board and seeing what sections other people have got, sections they think are good (but yet are WAY further away than the tix I got) . .. makes me think I DONE GOOD!! I've booked transport and lodging -- everything is all arranged. I can't wait to get back into the city. This will be the first time I'll ever go to Toronto and return home WITHOUT a plan to move there . . . this will be the first time . . . right? There is no way I'm going to convince myself in the dead of winter that uprooting and moving back to Toronto is something I need to do . . . right? This time, that's not going to happen. Surely to God I'm too old now to be moving halfway across the country on a whim. Surely.
Unless of course, Jon Bon Jovi himself asks me to move (do his kids need a nanny?) . . . but then I'd be Jersey bound, wouldn't I? Yes, so it's settled. I'll visit but there'll be none of this moving nonsense . . . no matter what.
Mood: excited
Drinking: still brandy . . . still not helping my illness . . . but what the hell, it's good stuff
Listening To: Matt Mays, Travellin'
Hair: still pulled back
Unless of course, Jon Bon Jovi himself asks me to move (do his kids need a nanny?) . . . but then I'd be Jersey bound, wouldn't I? Yes, so it's settled. I'll visit but there'll be none of this moving nonsense . . . no matter what.
Mood: excited
Drinking: still brandy . . . still not helping my illness . . . but what the hell, it's good stuff
Listening To: Matt Mays, Travellin'
Hair: still pulled back
I Am Amused
Got an amusing email from a fellow Sackville resident. She said her friends have been reading my blog and enjoying it very much, sending her emails even to discuss the details. Strangers, all of them . . . to me anyway. But her name is Kellie and she's 36. Her friends wanted to know how her novel was going. (They could've posted a comment and asked.) Ah! This makes me smile.
Welcome new friends, whoever you are!
Mood: still ill
Drinking: brandy, straight up (for all the good it does)
Listening To: party boys & girls in the drive readying to go to the bar (these kids cannot hold their liquor at all)
Hair: neatly pulled back
Welcome new friends, whoever you are!
Mood: still ill
Drinking: brandy, straight up (for all the good it does)
Listening To: party boys & girls in the drive readying to go to the bar (these kids cannot hold their liquor at all)
Hair: neatly pulled back
Friday, September 30, 2005
Censored
Maybe it's not that I have nothing more to say. Maybe I'm too aware of the audience. I no longer write with abandon. Will so and so think this is about them and take it the wrong way? Become offended? Will anyone know this is fiction or will they believe this happened to me? Will everyone know this is the truth or will they think I made it up? Have I said too much? Have I not said enough?
I've been editing a post off and on since Sunday, writing, rewriting, deleting, trying to strike the perfect balance of what I want to reveal. And now I think I'll just scrap it, delete forever, I can't get it down. Once upon a time I would just write and publish in a half-hour or however long it took. First draft. No thought to the consequences. Write. Publish. Chips fall where they may. But I was here alone then. And now the threat of consequences paralyses me.
Maybe it's just a phase. Maybe it's just part of my weird annual fall cycle, where I quietly fall to pieces all the while putting on the strong front supporting everyone else I know (who seem to also fall to pieces every September). I listen. I reassure. Everyone vents. I nod at all the right places, say all the things I'm supposed to say. I don't mind it. Listening comes natural. It's what I do. I listen. I empathise. I look for logical solutions, give a viewpoint. I've been doing it since I was a kid. Even when I was a teenager I was in the centre of my parents marriage, listening, trying to counsel. (A terrible place to put your kids, by the way, I don't recommend it.)
A long time ago a man told me he fell in love with me while watching me listen to a troubled friend and comfort her. He said he had never seen anyone focus so much attention on another person and he knew then that he needed me in his life. I've heard some version of this a few times. I've been called intense, passionate, and a bunch of other stuff. But what they all really mean is that they want to be listened to like that, so intently. That's all. I mean, who doesn't want somebody to listen? To have someone's undivided attention and genuine interest in what you've got to say . . . that's what everyone wants.
Even me.
I will write again.
This is the story of my life
And I write it everyday
I know it isn't black and white
And it's anything but gray
I know that no, I'm not alright
But I'll be OK ‘cause
Anything can, everything can happen
That's the story of my life
-- JBJ
Mood: headachy
Drinking: coffee spiked with brandy (or is it brandy with a splash of coffee?)
Listening To: Bon Jovi, Who Says You Can't Go Home
Hair: hiding my face
I've been editing a post off and on since Sunday, writing, rewriting, deleting, trying to strike the perfect balance of what I want to reveal. And now I think I'll just scrap it, delete forever, I can't get it down. Once upon a time I would just write and publish in a half-hour or however long it took. First draft. No thought to the consequences. Write. Publish. Chips fall where they may. But I was here alone then. And now the threat of consequences paralyses me.
Maybe it's just a phase. Maybe it's just part of my weird annual fall cycle, where I quietly fall to pieces all the while putting on the strong front supporting everyone else I know (who seem to also fall to pieces every September). I listen. I reassure. Everyone vents. I nod at all the right places, say all the things I'm supposed to say. I don't mind it. Listening comes natural. It's what I do. I listen. I empathise. I look for logical solutions, give a viewpoint. I've been doing it since I was a kid. Even when I was a teenager I was in the centre of my parents marriage, listening, trying to counsel. (A terrible place to put your kids, by the way, I don't recommend it.)
A long time ago a man told me he fell in love with me while watching me listen to a troubled friend and comfort her. He said he had never seen anyone focus so much attention on another person and he knew then that he needed me in his life. I've heard some version of this a few times. I've been called intense, passionate, and a bunch of other stuff. But what they all really mean is that they want to be listened to like that, so intently. That's all. I mean, who doesn't want somebody to listen? To have someone's undivided attention and genuine interest in what you've got to say . . . that's what everyone wants.
Even me.
I will write again.
This is the story of my life
And I write it everyday
I know it isn't black and white
And it's anything but gray
I know that no, I'm not alright
But I'll be OK ‘cause
Anything can, everything can happen
That's the story of my life
-- JBJ
Mood: headachy
Drinking: coffee spiked with brandy (or is it brandy with a splash of coffee?)
Listening To: Bon Jovi, Who Says You Can't Go Home
Hair: hiding my face
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Gotcha!
I may or may not have a sinus infection. I'm feeling kinda crappy and have been for a few days. I've got that pain around my eyes sinus type thing going on . . . and I am prone to infection, especially this time of the year. I probably could do with an antibiotic but I've opted for a home remedy instead and picked up some brandy today. Wish me luck knocking this out of me, whatever it is.
In other news . . .
Bon Jovi tickets for Air Canada Centre in Toronto . . .
Internet pre-sale started this morning . . .
AND I'M GOING!! Got two tickets for me and my girl Stacy. So it's official, we'll be heading to our old stomping grounds come January. We may even take the train for old times sake.
Mood: foggy
Drinking: not yet, but some brandy is in order
Listening To: Bon Jovi, Last Cigarette
Hair: greasy
In other news . . .
Bon Jovi tickets for Air Canada Centre in Toronto . . .
Internet pre-sale started this morning . . .
AND I'M GOING!! Got two tickets for me and my girl Stacy. So it's official, we'll be heading to our old stomping grounds come January. We may even take the train for old times sake.
Mood: foggy
Drinking: not yet, but some brandy is in order
Listening To: Bon Jovi, Last Cigarette
Hair: greasy
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Welcome to Wherever You Are
Maybe we're all different but we're still the same
We all got the blood of Eden running through our veins
I know sometimes it's hard for you to see
You're caught between just who you are and who you want to be
If you feel alone and lost and need a friend
Remember every new beginning is some beginning's end
Welcome to wherever you are
This is your life; you made it this far
Welcome, you got to believe
That right here, right now
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
Welcome to wherever you are
When everybody's in and you're left out
And you feel you're drowning in the shadow of a doubt
Everyone's a miracle in their own way
Just listen to yourself, not what other people say
When it seems you're lost, alone and feeling down
Remember everybody's different; just take a look around
Welcome to wherever you are
This is your life; you made it this far
Welcome, you got to believe
Right here, right now
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
Be who you want to be
Be who you are
Everyone's a hero
Everyone's a star
When you want to give up and your heart's about to break
Remember that you're perfect; God makes no mistakes
Welcome to wherever you are
This is your life; you made it this far
Welcome, you got to believe
Right here, right now
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
And I say welcome…
I say welcome…
Welcome…
-- Bon Jovi, Have a Nice Day
We all got the blood of Eden running through our veins
I know sometimes it's hard for you to see
You're caught between just who you are and who you want to be
If you feel alone and lost and need a friend
Remember every new beginning is some beginning's end
Welcome to wherever you are
This is your life; you made it this far
Welcome, you got to believe
That right here, right now
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
Welcome to wherever you are
When everybody's in and you're left out
And you feel you're drowning in the shadow of a doubt
Everyone's a miracle in their own way
Just listen to yourself, not what other people say
When it seems you're lost, alone and feeling down
Remember everybody's different; just take a look around
Welcome to wherever you are
This is your life; you made it this far
Welcome, you got to believe
Right here, right now
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
Be who you want to be
Be who you are
Everyone's a hero
Everyone's a star
When you want to give up and your heart's about to break
Remember that you're perfect; God makes no mistakes
Welcome to wherever you are
This is your life; you made it this far
Welcome, you got to believe
Right here, right now
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
And I say welcome…
I say welcome…
Welcome…
-- Bon Jovi, Have a Nice Day
Monday, September 26, 2005
Speechless
I appear to have nothing more to say. Aren't you glad?
Mood: dark
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Our Lady Peace, Clumsy
Hair: bushy
Mood: dark
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Our Lady Peace, Clumsy
Hair: bushy
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Little Ditty Bout ...
Queen & Roncesvalles
Ancient house looks like it might collapse in mild gust of wind, boards falling off, covered in grime. Cindy's new home with Donnie, the eldest birdseed brother of Newfoundland. Not the one with the wavy blonde hair to his shoulders that I have secret (or not so secret) crush on, quiet David of the honest living that I sneak away with under a bridge on the Lakeshore for shy handholding walk. But the other one with black hair and curling mustache, who knows how to make a good gravy but danger to turn back on him when alone in the kitchen.
This house is rotting, boarded up, is it even legal to live here? The stairwell is dark but Donnie meets us with a flashlight, shines the light at our feet so we won't fall through the holes in the steps as others have. All the way to the top, attic-like, turn left and into too bright room lit by bare 100 watt bulb dangling from ceiling. One room. Two double mattresses side by side on the floor. For sleeping? For sitting? They are unmade, naked, stained with spilled drinks and . . . ? A half dozen two-fours Ex opened in varying stages of emptiness, three seagrams forties uncapped, no glasses, excuse the backwash. A cardboard box with Cindy's clothes. I see the yellow sweatshirt, aqua gym pants that used to be part of my laundry, fringed jacket that hitchhiked all the way from North Bay, almost safely. No bathroom. No running water. What did I expect? No jobs.
Cindy perches on the edge of one mattress, an unlit cigarette clenched in her huge smile, twitching, "Gotta light?" A scuzzy guy on either side of her, hair greasy with dirt, eyes circled in darkness, fingers and palms stained yellow, hands touching her thighs, arms draped around her behind. Familiar. She laughs in that hollow throaty way she does when she's been partying for weeks, flipping her long blonde hair like Cher but looking more like Goldie with those big blue eyes and full lips. Smoke thickens the air, hazing the room that smells of beer, cheap perfume, hash, body odor, cocaine cigarettes, decomposing Pizza Pizza slices. Is this love? Whitesnake on cassette in silver ghetto blaster with black speakers.
I feel overly concerned about the legality of this space, ironically, given leather jackets layered with bricks. None of my business. Cindy notices me and tries to get up for greeting but legs won't straighten, won't strengthen. I scoot scuzzy guys who ogle me but don't touch, settle into the mattress with Cindy, hugging her, swigging from a forty, smiling, singing, whispering . . . don't need to stay, bed is still empty, come home with me, listen to me Cindy Lou, listen . . . she can't hear me, but Donnie can or senses, comes to sit beside me, a little too close, filling in a D & C sandwich, protecting his investment. If I push he'll beat the crap out of her again tonight, he'll probably do it anyway, but we've come alone, outnumbered, for money matters not humanitarian crises. It's none of my business. So we drink and I smooth her hair and we laugh and when I can I whisper and look for a spark in dull eyes.
We leave as we came, just the three of us, Cindy's phony laugh trailing us down the stairs.
Three weeks later Donnie bursts into our house looking for Cindy. She's run away (again). He can't find her anywhere. I don't know where she is and he won't believe me, runs through all the rooms looking for clues, for a hiding girl in a closet. I really don't know where she is. "I'll kill her!" And he's serious, I believe him. He's got it all figured out, the how-to part. Through the neighborhood I learn she ran away with one of his friends (one of the scuzzy men at the apt?), someone with a trade, job prospects, the ability to make an honest living and take care of her, who doesn't beat women. I smile.
Eight months later I'm walking to my work when I see Cindy on the street, stop, excited to find her, hugs. She lives in an apartment above a store two doors down from the place I've been working for almost a year. It's a wicked coincidence to find her. She's straight, sober, and working as a cashier at a grocery, still with Donnie's ex-friend. She invites me up for tea though she seems fidgety, nervous. Catch up on old neighborhood gossip. Learn new boyfriend has steady income, works in construction, but they've been on the run from Donnie, a few near misses, and she's thinking of leaving the city altogether, going home, thinking of her dad and the north. As the afternoon stretches toward evening and the return of the boyfriend she practically throws me out. He wouldn't understand me being there, would spook him about Donnie, they'd have to move again and they've just got settled, I have the feeling he is not as non-violent as I've been led to believe. She makes me promise that I will not tell anyone where they are. I promise. I promise. I promise. And we promise to get together again sometime soon for coffee or lunch. A big hug and I'm off to work.
Two weeks later a For Rent sign lives in the window of Cindy's apartment and I never see her again.
Mood: achy
Drinking: tea
Listening To: Whitesnake, Here I Go Again
Hair: perfectly ponied
Ancient house looks like it might collapse in mild gust of wind, boards falling off, covered in grime. Cindy's new home with Donnie, the eldest birdseed brother of Newfoundland. Not the one with the wavy blonde hair to his shoulders that I have secret (or not so secret) crush on, quiet David of the honest living that I sneak away with under a bridge on the Lakeshore for shy handholding walk. But the other one with black hair and curling mustache, who knows how to make a good gravy but danger to turn back on him when alone in the kitchen.
This house is rotting, boarded up, is it even legal to live here? The stairwell is dark but Donnie meets us with a flashlight, shines the light at our feet so we won't fall through the holes in the steps as others have. All the way to the top, attic-like, turn left and into too bright room lit by bare 100 watt bulb dangling from ceiling. One room. Two double mattresses side by side on the floor. For sleeping? For sitting? They are unmade, naked, stained with spilled drinks and . . . ? A half dozen two-fours Ex opened in varying stages of emptiness, three seagrams forties uncapped, no glasses, excuse the backwash. A cardboard box with Cindy's clothes. I see the yellow sweatshirt, aqua gym pants that used to be part of my laundry, fringed jacket that hitchhiked all the way from North Bay, almost safely. No bathroom. No running water. What did I expect? No jobs.
Cindy perches on the edge of one mattress, an unlit cigarette clenched in her huge smile, twitching, "Gotta light?" A scuzzy guy on either side of her, hair greasy with dirt, eyes circled in darkness, fingers and palms stained yellow, hands touching her thighs, arms draped around her behind. Familiar. She laughs in that hollow throaty way she does when she's been partying for weeks, flipping her long blonde hair like Cher but looking more like Goldie with those big blue eyes and full lips. Smoke thickens the air, hazing the room that smells of beer, cheap perfume, hash, body odor, cocaine cigarettes, decomposing Pizza Pizza slices. Is this love? Whitesnake on cassette in silver ghetto blaster with black speakers.
I feel overly concerned about the legality of this space, ironically, given leather jackets layered with bricks. None of my business. Cindy notices me and tries to get up for greeting but legs won't straighten, won't strengthen. I scoot scuzzy guys who ogle me but don't touch, settle into the mattress with Cindy, hugging her, swigging from a forty, smiling, singing, whispering . . . don't need to stay, bed is still empty, come home with me, listen to me Cindy Lou, listen . . . she can't hear me, but Donnie can or senses, comes to sit beside me, a little too close, filling in a D & C sandwich, protecting his investment. If I push he'll beat the crap out of her again tonight, he'll probably do it anyway, but we've come alone, outnumbered, for money matters not humanitarian crises. It's none of my business. So we drink and I smooth her hair and we laugh and when I can I whisper and look for a spark in dull eyes.
We leave as we came, just the three of us, Cindy's phony laugh trailing us down the stairs.
Three weeks later Donnie bursts into our house looking for Cindy. She's run away (again). He can't find her anywhere. I don't know where she is and he won't believe me, runs through all the rooms looking for clues, for a hiding girl in a closet. I really don't know where she is. "I'll kill her!" And he's serious, I believe him. He's got it all figured out, the how-to part. Through the neighborhood I learn she ran away with one of his friends (one of the scuzzy men at the apt?), someone with a trade, job prospects, the ability to make an honest living and take care of her, who doesn't beat women. I smile.
Eight months later I'm walking to my work when I see Cindy on the street, stop, excited to find her, hugs. She lives in an apartment above a store two doors down from the place I've been working for almost a year. It's a wicked coincidence to find her. She's straight, sober, and working as a cashier at a grocery, still with Donnie's ex-friend. She invites me up for tea though she seems fidgety, nervous. Catch up on old neighborhood gossip. Learn new boyfriend has steady income, works in construction, but they've been on the run from Donnie, a few near misses, and she's thinking of leaving the city altogether, going home, thinking of her dad and the north. As the afternoon stretches toward evening and the return of the boyfriend she practically throws me out. He wouldn't understand me being there, would spook him about Donnie, they'd have to move again and they've just got settled, I have the feeling he is not as non-violent as I've been led to believe. She makes me promise that I will not tell anyone where they are. I promise. I promise. I promise. And we promise to get together again sometime soon for coffee or lunch. A big hug and I'm off to work.
Two weeks later a For Rent sign lives in the window of Cindy's apartment and I never see her again.
Mood: achy
Drinking: tea
Listening To: Whitesnake, Here I Go Again
Hair: perfectly ponied
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Time
Bon Jovi's new album drops today. There is no record store in Sackville. Wednesday I go to Moncton for Mighty meetings where I will run to the Highfield Square HMV or whatever it is directly from the bus station and purchase the CD before meeting Mighty crew for supper at as yet undecided location.
Jon will be on Oprah on Wednesday as well, and I'll be scrambling to see that before catching the bus. I have a 15 minute window . . . unless I can find an earlier showing.
And now the fun part begins. The quest for concert tickets. Because I WILL be seeing them this World Tour. There are only two dates announced in Canada so far -- Montreal on December 14th and Toronto on January 23rd . . . but then there's Boston on December 9th . . . mustn't rule that out. Pre-sales and special fan club tickets info is sketchy at this point. It seems like you have to actually line up with I.D. to get fan club tickets, which kinda sucks cuz I can't do that, and you're limited to one. One ticket in the Golden Circle, 100 people right up front by the stage, some will get onstage, some will get backstage . . . but unless they change the rules and make it so you can get the damn things online, I will not be one of them.
Toronto tickets go on sale first, on September 30th through Ticketmaster. I'll be trying to get them . . . and I guess if I come up empty I'll try Montreal the following morning when those tickets go on sale. I've signed up for every sort of email update I could find so I should know right away if they add any dates.
Jon will be on Oprah on Wednesday as well, and I'll be scrambling to see that before catching the bus. I have a 15 minute window . . . unless I can find an earlier showing.
And now the fun part begins. The quest for concert tickets. Because I WILL be seeing them this World Tour. There are only two dates announced in Canada so far -- Montreal on December 14th and Toronto on January 23rd . . . but then there's Boston on December 9th . . . mustn't rule that out. Pre-sales and special fan club tickets info is sketchy at this point. It seems like you have to actually line up with I.D. to get fan club tickets, which kinda sucks cuz I can't do that, and you're limited to one. One ticket in the Golden Circle, 100 people right up front by the stage, some will get onstage, some will get backstage . . . but unless they change the rules and make it so you can get the damn things online, I will not be one of them.
Toronto tickets go on sale first, on September 30th through Ticketmaster. I'll be trying to get them . . . and I guess if I come up empty I'll try Montreal the following morning when those tickets go on sale. I've signed up for every sort of email update I could find so I should know right away if they add any dates.
Monday, September 19, 2005
New Arrivals
See, I told ya I was busy . . . days might go by without a post. No time to slow down and chat now either, I've got to go to the Irving and pick up a parcel. Earlier I picked up my Sears Outlet parcel and tried everything on. Jeans are low-rider, which is a bit unexpected, but they fit okay. They are comfortable, though I might have been able to go a size smaller and get more wear out of them . . . but this was inexpensive shopping spree so it's okay if they don't last forever. Also got hot pink tee (I KNOW! What kind of good mood was I in that day?), the form fitting stretchy kind, with lycra, not even a big old loose cotton tee. Which I will probably never wear unless it is under the black poncho . . . yes, you heard correctly, I've got a poncho and I'm not afraid to wear it. Also in the grab bag were running shoes and undies (with the undies being the most expensive item of the whole purchase). Fedora coming soon as I find one I love.
Mood: hungry
Drinking: diet gingerale
Listening To: a buzzing razor in the driveway . . . one of the boys might be shaving his head
Hair: tousled
Mood: hungry
Drinking: diet gingerale
Listening To: a buzzing razor in the driveway . . . one of the boys might be shaving his head
Hair: tousled
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)