Plathological

but for real: one of those dark moods again. I need a break from myself. before I find it difficult to leave my bed again. because of a few exceptional kindnesses.

for example, I hate myself when at parties, I pull
aside one of my girlfriend’s boyfriends and say,
excuse me, can we talk about your hair now?

a-ha-gah!

but, I kind of love
myself when I’m
the odd straight-girl
in a group of three
at the beach; that always
makes so much
sense to me.

knock over the coffee
cup as well as I can
with the rocks I have.

please pop some plot into me.
three-hundred words and things
are scant. plop!plop!
patiently yours,

try-and-try-again.

Dear tta,

there’s half a mickey of gin
on top of your fridge.
it's a good limit,
in my humble opinion.

also, don't forget
to buy some soap,
a little mental note,
k?

love,

lord.

ps,

you look hot
in that hairclip.

--------------------------------

HE COMES THROUGH!
HE COMES THROUGH
FOR ME!

It's like seeing everything at once, then sorting through it as you go, or after the fact. Do you get that, ever? har-har. I'm the sort of girl that double-bags her garbage and her tea. Amazing correlation, I know.

I swear to god I'm not trying to be clever. You know when Lorrie Moore writes this in How to Become a Writer:

Possible plot? A woman gets on a bus.

Well, I swear to god.

Also:

I JUST FOUND MY POINT OF VIEW! I KNEW if I stayed up long enough it would come to me. One I actually haven’t tried before. Feel like there’s a checkmark above my algebra and moreover, beside it.

ps,

Rock n roll is the only way out now.

Intense dancing, with intermissions of smoke and bathroom breaks. During one said bathroom break, Bulford perched on the counter of the girl’s washroom, saying, “I’m so ugly!” (haha! he’s a pretty boy, but I mean, yeah, I get it, haha!). Some other girl in there with us, not really knowing how to handle it. Maybe not knowing what to do when those words aren’t coming out of her mouth. All told, woman tend to say stuff like that a lot. I know I do. I think my reaction was laughter, but most of my gin was gone by that point and then we proceeded to finish the final drops of the Fireball.

Spent night on Bulford’s and Xavier’s sofabed. Something about Xavier in the bathtub because he was sick, Bulford going to the store at two-thirty in the morning to get him some neo-citron. Then, after the stirring and giving of citron, waking me up from a really good sex dream to step onto the balcony with him and smoke. I whined and whined and Bulford had to practically drag me off the sofabed. I was already asleep and so, smoked with him sleeping.

DAY AFTER V-DAY WAS SENSORY OVERLOAD:

--Woke up an hour or so before the boys. Woke up to Big Light from outside. Sat in bed while flipping through a fantastic Japanese fashion magazine.

--Breakfast with Bulford, Xavier and Melissa at John’s place. Leaving some Jesus-bent note with our rather poor tip. Hoping our doodles and sudden Christian love leanings would make amends for our poverty.

--Xavier asking me to do his band photos! I, accepting!

--Going to The Bay with Bulford. Bought himself a Swiss coffee maker with a milk frother.

--Coffee at Italian café on Government with Bulford, Xavier, and Xavier’s mum, who was on the last day of her visit from Ottawa.

--To the tobacconist shop by the Wharf with Bulford, (after Xavier went with his mum to walk her back to her hotel &tc.). Biggest revelation of my life: THAT STORE HAS EVERYTHING I NEED TO LIVE. I stopped counting how many orgasms I had, & just quivered: cigarette cases (of which, Bulford bought one), cigars, cigar clippers, chess boards, Zippos, the most gorgeous flasks, and (!) imported cigarettes. After some consultation with Bulford, I bought a pack of Calumé (the peaceful taste), German cigarettes. I love them, but think I prefer the French ones, since I’m partial to clove, and intense clove at that.

--Condom shop with Bulford! Nothing bought, but many things found!

--Bean Around the World! Had a cup each over a shared cigar, ran into a couple of people we know (Lucas and Kyle, a linguistics’ student whom I first met in Calgary at an art show at Bushido, the tattoo place) and drank with them, and eventually, Xavier trotting over, his mum flying back to the nation’s capital now.

--To Value Village! All four of us. I snagged Updike’s Couples for seventy-five pennies! A hot pink cover! Ran into Erin by the jeans. While Xavier was dancing to Madonna, I found a tie that was made for him.

--To the Noodle Box for dinner with Bulford, Xavier and Erin. Flipping through a Latin Heat magazine until our orders were ready. I had the delicious black bean, Erin the spicy peanut, Xavier the spring rolls, and Bulford some curry.

--The Mediterranean and Middle Eastern Foods store, Blair Mart. Picked up 200 grams of Turkish Delight. The guy who owns the store makes blocks of it himself. He let all of us try a slice each to hook us. Too late for me, though. I’ve been disgustingly addicted to Turkish Delight since I was about seventeen. Bulford got some marble Halva. Was surprised that I was crazy about Halva myself. But ah, so many things people don’t know about the Polacks and how we sustain ourselves.

--Back to Bulford and Xavier’s place on Cook. Smoked some of Erin’s pot, which was a god send of sorts, since I had the biggest craving for pot the entire day . . . . and . . . . .:

!!!

and:

while eating almond cookies and the figs that Xavier picked up from Blair Mart, the four of us actually watched THE BEST MOVIE EVER. It’s a Japanese film, called: Tampopo, about noodles. For real. A scene with a high class whore and her customer where they orgasmically transfer the raw innards of an egg from her mouth to his. It didn't break until she came. Tantric. Sex with live, desperately flipping shrimp. I honestly was reeling after it was over. We didn’t want it to end. Also: funny! Also: stylish! Also: incredibly smart!

Four of us tromped over to Value Village, where Bulford and I bought a stack of books each. I spent another three dollars of the camera money on the Selected Short Stories of Henry James, Steinbeck’s East of Eden, and (!) The Aristos, by John Fowles. Haha! I hate John Fowles! Or so, the journals he published last year really had an adverse affect on my view of him! I mean, rightly or wrongly. But honestly, how can I ever read him the same way again after I read, and re-read something like this in total amazement??

But for real though, you should all read it. If you don’t, there’s probably a certain ring of disparagement in your lives. A hint of something . . .never . .found.

Several hours at Bulford’s, after a walk there. Majority of time kept with the setting down of a spoken word track from one of my poems with keyboard, mic and laptop. The poem being: Among the Serious at the Hospital. For some reason, it’s actually quite sexy. Though obviously, the reason for sex is quite clear, and that being Bulford’s singing in the background and our total and complete misappropriation of certain ball-kicking feminist phrases, which are looped, believe me. We know of what we loop. We’re making a spoken word CD. Yes.

Then, the crowning glory for the camera money: a divided mickey of gin, which I transferred into a much more than half-emptied club soda bottle (sorry, tonic is just too sticky for me these days, has been for over a month now). Bulford poured his half into 7-Up, with lime, natch. We eyeballed our bottles with dread. Dread because the stench of liquor was so strong that it made me feel like a clichéd, Slavic version of myself, and of course, Bulford has that uncanny ability to see a few seconds into the future, so you know, the curled face.

Carted covert him & her gin over to the Visual Arts building, where Bulford’s Xavier was fronting The Raygun for a VASA (!!!) event! There should be grander typographical allowances for more exclamation marks here, I mean, really, how to slot more in without it looking grotesquely silly? And moreover: Valentine’s Day! A Valentine’s Day event.

Highlights included:

Bulford needing to pee on our way through the back woods to the building. Trotting off to the bush, saying, “this is wooded enough! No it’s not! But THIS is!” Proceeding to pee. Oh, urinary indecision.

Boy in pink dress. I believe he won some award.

A knife. In a wall. A knife stabbed into a wall. Not that I had like anything to do with it, or anything. Don’t even try to ask me about it; I’m just too traumatized.

The Raygun’s special Valentine’s Day song. The key lyrics being: DOWN WITH LOVE! God! God! Lyrical perfection! My little bum was shaking its thing.

When something was set on fire by a certain someone in the men’s washroom, where I was peeing, because I was asked to pee in there. A quick blaze.

Bulford saying (to me), “want a beer? I’ll buy you a beer.” Then, promptly turning to the beer selling madam, “hi. I’ll have three beers!” And at that moment, I knew I’d never again witness a guy buy me “a beer” in a more apt way. When you know me, you really know me.

And, of course, The Raygun was BRILLIANT. Meaning: when I got home, I was too horny to even masturbate. So, I slept. Slept quite well, with only one interruption.

Like when you’re dancing to really bad house music with a girl named m_____ a couple of nights before, or she happens to be there very much like you happen to be there & instead of dancing you just want to grab her & hug her for a very long time but can’t really, because she doesn’t know that you know what happened. So you keep dancing, and don’t really say anything to anybody. Kind of like today. But less heavy. Because today, you weren’t drinking something called a cape cod and all the while having no idea what it was. Since there was so much cranberry, & so little____ of anything to discern.

The artist’s plight! I really do wonder if he was being facetious. Lets not wonder for long. I mean, who among us hasn’t been that self deprecating? Cut to the chase: we’re all writers here. Meaning, sort of like people, but not really. Our parents’ main role, as Steinbeck said later on, is to get us out of jail, nourish us just past the point of starvation.

Been listening to Mazzy Star all evening to compensate for all this awful sun. I find it so abrasive. It intrudes. I mean, I’m sorry, but I use words (such as) bereft in regular conversation. This weather just doesn’t go well with my vocabulary. And idle engines bother me when they’re in parked cars. and sometimes, I want a cigarette for no reason; good place to say: so fuck off. please god, let the mist last past the night. I'll set my alarm for luck(!)