With Gusto

To Do

~ Get $$$ from the Work Place (done)

~ Organize courses for next semester (done)

~ Cat Fud (done)

~ Tan (done)

Just bumped into H. on the way home. He's moving to Pender Island for the summer and doing summer school. He's living right near the lake. I wouldn't mind living in the country for the summer, although FernHood is nice.

Work asked me to cash my cheque on Monday, but I said I needed cat food, so I got paid half in cash and half in cheque. Not bad. I need to pay off my VIS@. That bitch is at an all time high, which sucks because in March it was at an all time low. The cost of fun. Oh well. I have loans out the wazzoooOOO000LOOO.

A Fish is a fish isn't a Phish

I suntanned naked today. A first. I'm unsure if the neighbors saw me, but who gives a damn. I taught J. how to bongo and we jammed out for awhile, then I baked in the sun. The sun cooked the coconut sunscreen out of my pores and into the air, and the shadows from the heatwaves coming off my body rippled on my stomach. When I got out of the chair there was a huge mark of my ass on it, which evaporated quickly. My ass's sweat mark shrinking like water ontop of a wood stove and the ass-mark shadows liquifying the chair.

??? ???

I made it through April with five dollars to spare. Whoo wee. I get paid tomorrow and will be cleared by more than that. This job saves my ass every month.

I feel like a battery

A car picked J. and I up and we went to the beach with new friends. Everybody is so pretty at the beach. Perfect bodies everywhere, playing sports and having fun. I played guitar with my shirt off, dozing about, letting time burn my shoulder pink.
People were drunk here last night. I was quiet, sipping FAXE and Holsten beer, tired from the feast the night prior.

The sun can sap all strength from me, but it also feels like a massage.

Word Trippin'

Felicita's at 5pm, our house sometime later, then over to R. and R.'s place for some food. We were pretty hungry and ate a lot of mushrooms, then watched R.'s older animations.
This strange woman came over. Jodi. She said she was high on vodka, but apparantly that's what she always says. I don't like being around strange women when I'm not expecting them. I feel like an idiot for just sitting on a couch, but then don't really know what to say in return. Then she left. I came home when it was light out and then later that day made the best potatoes of the century. Mashed Yukons with mustard powder, crushed garlic and peppercorns, milk, butter, dill, steamed brocoli and mushrooms.

Last night my Japanese bowl was smashed to smithereens by a stranger's 40 of OE. I was discussing traditional Japanese eating ware and there was an entourage around the plate, and then it died.
Material possessions mean nothing to me. I could have made him feel terrible. The drunk.

Today was a resting up day because there's some people who may be coming over tonight.

Track listing, mp3 player, piles of change (mostly pennies)

Congratulations to me! I was visitor 998, 999, 1000, 1001, and 1002.

I'm thinking about the last film I did, and how much I wish I didn't do it. There was some interesting stuff going on, but so much coordination and etc. goes into making one that when the end result doesn't feel worth it, I get ANGRY! I want to bite, and snither, and snap around at an empty room. Or, in the case of making this last one, to my film partner in the editing lab chalk-full of other people.
Since the beginning of the project I had doubts. Lots and lots of doubts.
But that was last semester. And it does make sense in way that not every film I make will receive the same attention.
Looking back on the school year, I decided that it was successful. There was a huge volume of responsibilities, and I managed to keep most of them. Maybe I'll add up the casualties.

P 211 -- Dropped
W 320 -- End product -- unsatisfying
W 336 -- Didn't do final assignment, worth 30 per cent

A lot of my school suffered from playing music. But at least my music didn't suffer from playing school.

Last Night

The Pixies played at the Curling Club. Frank Black looked like this strange emperor slug type of human with a knack for screaming. He had his guitar slung underneath his gut and his fat head jiggled when he barked into the mic. Kim Deal's voice felt like it was going to make my head explode. Was it the mixing, or just her voice? Joey Santiago played a guitar solo with his ass, but tastefully. It looked more out of convenience than anything else. And even though I'm a drummer, I didn't see much of buddy on drums.
I went and drank at J-tron's house, with my J., S-L and J-tron's big cats. One cat kept on smelling my armpit, and I remember being too giddy over the fact that they were sniffing my discarded t-shirt.

Old Memories Don't Pay the Liquor Bill

Wired on caffeine right now. Today is a day where I will see the Pixies. I also plan on mailing some stuff out. I hate mailing.
I'm reading Anais Nin's diary and it's amazing how many letters they send to each other. And how much they like it. When it comes to me, I'd rather not mail anyone anything.
Plan on going to Second Story today to write. Fill up some pages. I need to get some ideas for some stories. I have the ideas, but I never research. I should research something.

Ugh. The mornings can bring such promise, but by noon, everybody has gone into their daily personas and hardly anyone looks like a real person. Most people look like citizens, and angry, selfish fuckers at that.

I've been waking up all sweaty of late (again!), with no memories of my dreams or what would cause me to wake up, startled and sweaty. There were droplets on my arm and my neck was moist, which means I'm lying perfectly still, sweating away in my sleep then waking up and being alert, mildly scared and confused. Why why why the fuck. And what does this mean?

Let the Elephants Dance: Postcard Story

It was when the elephants danced that Tony looked over at Bette and loved her from within. Bette was a horrible creatue to most, but she loved the circus, and so did he.
Tony himself was ugly: Stout, short, bristly, high-voiced, small-footed. Bette was much the same.
"What is there past the circus?" he said.
"The circus itself," Bette responded, and giggled.
Tony was unsure if it was because of the elephant standing on her hind legs, or his comment. The crowd is sparse. A few children, some parents, bored carnies. The show's routine presented itself.
"You like routine?" he asked Bette, who picked at her green frock and said, "Wearing underwear is as formal as I ever hope to get."
"I hate it too."
At this sort of statement, Tony would have wanted to pull down his pants and moon his petit pieds-escaliers. Instead he did what felt appropiate and touched her elbow, masked behind her frock.

My "Friend" Maruca: Postcard Story

Maruca took me to Father's place. We stood on the porch, staring around at the patio, at nothing waiting for The Man to open the door for us. I was in no mood to talk. Since I met Maruca four days ago, my pronounciation of his name got worse and worse.
I few days earlier, Maruca asked me to meet his family.
"Sure thing, bub," I replied.
"My name is Maruca. Now say it."
"Umm. . . Marh-a-uker."

As we waited in front of the door to Maruca's Father's house, I realized that Maruca had no other friends. Probably due to his constant sweating, even when the weather was brisk. His brown shoes and sweatshorts didn't help, as khaki shorts and red shoes were in season.
"What kind of Maruca are you!" I shouted, and he, caught between two responses, paused, then rang the doorbell a second time.

Bloody, unconscious, and on the moon

I'm tired of waking up tired. Maybe I should eat more.
M.R.'s mom came with us to rehersal, and we were doing our regular thing, which was weird in front of a mom.
But we're adults now. Not kids.
Hah.
They still see us that way. I don't even know what it's like to be 25 years old. They do.
The album plays non-stop. I think I'm obsessed with it. The more I listen to it the more faults I hear, but I'm letting them slide. Just remembering never to do them again. But there are hardly any faults. The faults only musicians would notice. Except for some of those tambourine moments. Most of it sounds better than expected to me.

I was supposed to go to a birthday party last night, but I forgot that I had to rehearse. I operate in two time modes. One mode has all the time in the world for scheduling music, the other mode has to drink at other people's houses. So I end up in all these conflicting commitments that I try to juggle around, and in the end, I let everything smash to the ground except for my music ball. Then I go play music.
Bad Me. Because J. usually ends up with NEW, UNFORSEEN PLANS that she might not have wanted. Like being alone. I do like being warmed up on the kit though. The simplest things even simpler. My mind doesn't tell the body what to do, it just does it. The small accomplishments. I can't be counting on money from this enterprise. It's all about the confidence it brings to my ballsack, and how my fingers never stop twitching into strange beats that eventually get played on J. who eventually slaps my fingers away, angry at the the plans I made with her and then left to go drumming. "I'm the last person you should be drumming on, sir."
Then there's the understanding.

A Hundred Miles

I just ate an open faced bagel. One side had spiced gouda, tomato, and a fried egg. The other side had smoked gouda, tomato, and a fried egg. And I won a donut today. Thank you snotroh mit.
The album plays on my stereo. The new album that J.D. and the R. recorded last weekend. There's some good stuff there. I'm at the point where I just want to deal with volume, getting as much done as possible without thinking of serious faults or getting lost with indecision and compromise. That is to say, approach the art with vigor and confidence. A second recording is not going to be flawless. I like listening to what I'm doing this time around as opposed to the MSR. I'm not sure what sucks about the album yet. There's a tambourine part that I'm not too impressed with. As well as a crash cymbal part that doesn't come off well.

Why do we have to market ourselves as "used to be in the MSR." It's not like we had the people of the town screaming, "MSR, MSR," whenever we went anywhere. We didn't even tour, or sell all of our CDs. Why not let the band die and never come back is my question. Move on. Move on.

Rehearsed earlier today with J.D. and the R. We had a guitar jam. Sometimes it's good to kick back and forget about rehearsing songs. Later tonight I'm rehearsing with S-L.
I only made twenty bucks from the show the other night! Pisses me off. We were supposed to get the whole door but apparantly we had to pay the door girl and the sound guy. So the people who support the people who make it all happen make more money than the people who make it all happen. "All" is a little strong. We should've brought in more people. Unfortunately, that seems to be a problem lately.

Watched Martha Inc. last night at C.'s house with my J. and C. Actually funny. There's a chunk of the movie that's utterly boring. But towards the end I had myself believing that Martha Stewart was the only artist of our time. Then I got a hold of my ass and slammed a bunch of whiskey into it at a party afterwards. S-L picked J. and I up the white van and off we went.
As soon as I see a room filled with funky young people with large sun glasses and indie rock t-shirts I tend to end up on the patio couch with a big, strong drink in my hand and an eye for the trees and my friends.

Then there was Paul's Motor Inn for a grim veggie burger and grim fries. I ran into a person from workshop and she berrated me with guilt. "Where were you last night? You should've been there," she said.
I said something about Pierre Trudeau and a documentary. She said something along the lines of. . . "You were probably too stoned and forgot." So I gave her the finger and walked away. Someone from the white van asked me what that was about, so I said (loud enough for her to hear), "Apparantly I was supposed to party with Catholics." She came and sort of apologized later, said that the party was indeed weak. Catholics only know how to do one thing well, and I don't want to go to a Catholic party it that's how they plan on spending their evening. I'm talking about blowjobs. I'd feel dirty if a Catholic girl gave me head, even if I wasn't in a committed relationship.

Welcome to the JunkyHood
Apparantly the woman who lives in the basement suite had her car broken into last night.

Junky Tip of the Week: Remember kids, junkies are so skinny they'll slip through the cracks of your house at night when you are asleep.

You Are

All of the Romantic Languages are Based on Latin

I'm not sure if that title is grammatically correct. The 'on' eludes me. I'm trying to quote here. Think of it as dialogue without the tag.

The good ol' time of the show last night. Performance is becoming less and less of the peak of the evening. It's the hours spent dozing around and then getting wasted after the show. Not really. But sometimes, that's all there is to look foreward to. Which, in the end, is good.
Although 'good' has its own limitations. 'Good' sounds too complacent to me. . . Don't box me in here. I'm not part of your herd of slaves! Never have been.

I woke up late this afternoon and then went out for a massive free lunch at the L.P. with my mother. Sweet and sour soyballs galore. Good to wake up to that. Then I took her to the D.R. cliffs and we walked through the Dog Park.
My student said today: I wish I could start over from September.
So I've decided to amp up the lessons. I've been very relaxed about planning my lessons. Mainly due to his total lack of desire to learn anything on his own. Today though, I changed my mind. My plan is to introduce a new grammar concept each class, more vocab and more writing. Sort of ambitious, especially because it's only an after school tutor sort of thing, but I'm entirely too bored of talking at length to a sixteen year old who doesn't really know how to speak the language.

J.'s found this book of images, and she plans on hanging and pasting them around the house. We've discussed about hanging them on the walls, but the walls are sloped, and we'd have these old celebritities gazing down on us.

Twas a weekend of drumming

Listening to the Amps right now with a couple of fried eggs and a bagel in my stomach.
I'm in that space between semesters, when there's nothing to do because Kazaa doesn't want to download the right Sims patch that I need. I'm getting a little bored of Vice City. You can only kill so many people before things get redundant. And forget about the plot!

T.M. recorded Jay, Ryan and I this past weekend and hopefully by the end of May we'll have a full-length studio album on our hands. On the second day of recording I was waiting outside the studio with T.M. when Jay pulled up in his Datsun. I pointed up towards a tree and said, "There's a plastic bag up in that Garry Oak."
Jay looked up and a white plastic bag was rustling in the branches about fifty feet above us.
"The eyes of a hawk," T.M. said.
"Is that a hawk?" I said. And it was. A hawk flew above the plastic bag.
"Just gotta ask," T.M. said.
"A sea of dew," someone said. "A virgin's ear." We all started making strange requests.
The rest of the day went fine. Twas a weekend of drumming.
After the first day of recording I took J. out to a party where I drummed the shit out of a little hand held drum. Then after the second day of recording I rehearsed with S-L, the other band.
It's Wednesday and I'm still feeling tired. But I'll be getting out of that soon. It's time to wake up, but all I want to do is watch the clouds go by and create strange realities on the Sims.

The Monday night thing was a gong-show. Drunk all day, watching movies and relaxing. I wrote from the point of view of a puppet's shadow being cast against a wall. I haven't been the same since.

It has a melody, both happy and sad.

Spent the morning drinking coffee on the patio with J. watching the cherry blossoms float down by the hundreds like static in the air. I'm deliberating whether or not I should return my parasol, as I don't really need it but it will probably come in handy during those hot mornings with stagnant air.
We sipped coffee and mildly argued about the films we saw last night at the Roxy - Cold Mountain and Master and Commander. Both equally shitty, but one was funnier and the other was more. . . seaworthy. Hollywood bugs me but there's something about going to the cheap movie theatre just to watch bad movies, rather than waiting waiting waiting for that perfect film to come around. Renee Zellweger was cool, so was Mr. White.

I now know how the lottery makes it's money. Old ladies like their lottos. I was standing behind an old lady at the grocery store and she probably took five minutes organizing her requests -- Single with a yes, single with a no, six quick picks, personal number accounts, handling the money, serving the food. So there wasn't any food being served. But -- the lady took her time, and I saw her inner self gnarling away at the possibilities that she's just purchased. Everything purchased these days seems to be a possibility. Wafers. They're all wafers. Answering services I don't own, a place to live that I don't own. . . owning costs.

I probably should write a poem today. I feel like cancelling class. My students were being a little bratty yesterday and I don't want to see them on a sunny Friday. Also, I need to buy a workbook for the morning pages. I plan on this summer being a summer of writing (what I want) and music.

Tomorrow I step into the studio to record a new album. A second CD. Should be good. I'll be recording another CD later this month with S-L.

I feel like posting a poem

World War One Stock Footage Projected Onto An Apartment Building Across The Street

From the sidewalk, across the street: us three watch a battleship lapse into the Atlantic; grainy pillars – puffy like cotton: the smoke out of its ass. And near the billow’s top, below where our frame ends: a window: stained with television. Beyond that – an easy chair? A hiss of grain on blue glass. Our message may be getting through.

………

She walks her dog under our projection: unaware of three men and the building slapped with the past. The woman, and us: staring away: the what’s-beyond of the window, that space where our projection fades: sitcoms, cans of beer, slipping by.

Yonder Fisheries: Take Ye Time

Just finished reading Gaiman's "Coraline". Pretty good.

I've been gnashing my teeth and popping mental bubbles today by revising poems. Not bad. Pretty absurd to grumble over an idea, unexpressed, improper. But it's like figuring out a chord progression, or a finger picking melody.
It takes almost a whole day of finger picking to finalize the melody I had in mind. Poetry is the same way, except I spend time wondering if glark or grok is the right word choice. Then those words get flung to the abstractions where they came from (thesaurus.com) and from the resources I get things like timed and heard. Oh -- the complexities. Single syllable verbs. Where do they come from? How many do I need?
At the end, when the poem is expressed, things feel good. Like a sandcastle with a drawbridge and little fishies governing the throne bearers, who in turn, become addicted to the sun and end up on the patio all day.

One poem down. Five to go.

Postcard Story

Gas pours from the dead fridge, Morgan,

and what I'd like to do is telephone your mother for some advice, but I'll probably go out to the patio until it settles down.
Here I am, on the patio, where it's quite nice -- that elbow of trees that the moon likes to plunge into when we vacation here in autumn, the mountains just high enough to collect the light fuzz of snow. It smells of gas out here. Perhaps I should close the door, but I'll probably go back inside to check on the fridge.
Okay, I just looked at the gas, and it slowed down. I do wish I could find your mother's telephone number, but alas.
Anyways, hope the house is fine. Hi to Enrique.

-- Lindsay

Faction

Just realised that two weeks ago I wrote about a character receiving six, one hundred dollar bills. Then I receive six, one hundred dollar bills.
So I'm thinking, okay. Good thing I wrote that.
But the character loses it all to his mother.
My mother is coming down, soon.

The Effects of Being Tired

Yesterday sure was fun. What happened. . .

Went for a patio breakfast at the Polish Bakery, then found a table, drank beers, went to the Brickyard and kissed a lot there, then rented some films and took them home for the annual Sex Olympics. At about 11:30pm I had to bike across town to jam with JD and the R, then back by 1am.

For today: rehearse at two pm, work on my rewrite (YEAH RIGHT!) and then rehearsal at six pm.

I'm also getting my parasol back.