Over a week of not updating, but living on foodbank peanut butter and frozen bread and simply, but simply not being here, but everywhere else. A week of drunken, freeforall Scrabble with Joy at the house of Lindsay in Oak bay (Thursday, 24th), being kicked out of the gay bar with a heart anxious Bulford (Friday, 25th)---falling into alcoholic coma for three to four hours after said expunging (oh, absinthe & fireball, the marriage of blackout), the launch of the student lit mag at Lucky bar (Saturday, 26), and after the launch: a night of music after music (everyone there living with the ability to make sudden song) with Mel & Bulford at the Gladstone house-behind-a-house. Strangely enough, I was serenaded, classic bluegrass style by a special guest. I think I felt slightly enraged to hear my name dropped into a song, verse after verse. The reason for that-- I am still lukewarm on. I think it had to do with familiarity; it was like having my eardrums, not to mention The Core of My Soul, raped, from across the room. Though, there was singing and strumming of Cohen’s Suzanne, and that defies genre, and quite possibly, serenade as well. I hadn’t drunk a drop all night, serenader folding a blanket over me when my eyes finally closed for the night from the pot cookie I had. Sunday the 27th was a dinner party at Joy’s: seafood pasta & garlic bread, served with a cute side order of Ben and Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. I've obviously left a hell of a lot out; feel free to spank me for omission, if there's any sort of problem, regarding. I HURT MYSELF ON THE OUTSIDE TO DEAL WITH THE PAIN ON THE INSIDE (“That’s not funny,” Bulford would say. Yes it is; look at the scars on my arm, bitch. It’s fucking gut-wrenching). So: can you hear the drums, Fernando? Help me out here. Bring the oar.
I fully realize that people who google “spank” and “help me” are now going to stumble upon this site. Stumble and leave me comments. Comments that I will somehow add to one of my short stories, with fragmented, manic glee. GLEE.
THEN ON MONDAY I CONTRACTED THE MONSTER FLU AND SPENT ALL DAY IN BED.
ON TUESDAY I RAN OUT OF POETRY WORKSHOP TO VOMIT IN THE WOMEN’S WASHROOM, AFTER WHICH, I WENT HOME DURING THE MIDDLE OF CLASS AND SLEPT FOR THE REST OF THE DAY.
ON TUESDAY NIGHT I DEVELOPED A DEBILITATING EARACHE WHICH MADE ME LOSE MY WILL TO LIVE: HOW MUCH CAN ONE WOMAN TAKE?!!!?? I CRIED. I SOMEHOW FELL ASLEEP (THREE AM) AND THE EARACHE WAS GONE IN THE MORNING, BUT I COULDN’T HEAR OUT OF THAT EAR BECAUSE IT WAS SO PLUGGED AND STUFFED AND WHATNOT.
So, after one of the best office hour meetings with a prof ever (my sublimely intelligent poetry prof gets a big checkmark of glowing approval!), I WENT TO SEE A DOCTOR. “Your ear is pretty red,” Doctor said. “You have an ear infection. I’m prescribing you an antibiotic.” I went downtown to fill my prescription, but didn’t have any money to pay for it until the next day. I was convinced I would go deaf by then, on account of my dire poverty. Insurance only paid for half the medication.
And, since glorious Thursday, I’ve been taking three antibiotic capsules a day at regularly spaced intervals like the good little authority following girl I am. In any case, the redyellow capsules have helped me discover the phrase, this isn't even cynicism, it's pure bionics, all ON MY OWN. FUCK YOU, SHAKE & BAKE.
Today was actually fantastic: I made myself the best omelette ever (and I pride myself on my ability to make omelettes), drank pot after pot of tea, listened to Chopin all day and wrote. That is the life I love. That is the life I want to lead. I have said it once and I will say it again: I never feel so balanced as I do when I spend all day on my own with plenty of time and a story in front of me. And my ear is slowly unplugging itself. I was very worried about it for a while there since it took me nearly forty-eight hours to get any sort of medication into it.
I missed Woolly Mammoth tonight, because of this illness. Someone, please make it up to me. I hurt, on the inside. With peel-off butterflies on my cabinetry. I wait for the flutter.
In other news: why am I receiving unsolicited snippets of air-fairy internet advice from people I've never met? Oh, yeah, because apparently, blogs somehow magically represent The Whole Person at all times and every moment of the day. Oh, realism, you kill me, you really do. Let me pinch your cheeks for being such a newagey irritation. NB: Fuck Off, & thanks for the dimestore. Because really: I haven’t been that offended in a long, long time. & I'm a pretty hard person to offend.