Plathological

see spot, fear phone

Technically, I’ve been able to bare children since the age of eleven. Someone, please throw me a Rapid-Development party; I’m wanted by Shakespeare. My kind are more likely to acquire ovarian cancer, due, in most part, to our speed, our bodies’ need to house the next in line as quickly as possible. Move along. Out of the picture.

In other news, I was quite uncouthly terrorized last night, by a psychotic ghost from my recent past. I was terrified. I turned off all my lights and then denied turning off all my lights. I couldn't sleep until well into the dawn. I’m sorry, but hearing the phrase, I’m outside your house is probably one of the freakiest things I’ve heard in my short life.

But (!) Bulford’s prank calls to my ex’s house at three AM are nothing, but nothing short of brilliant. I’m actually in love with the fact that he just does them, on his own volition. I mean, I don’t even have to ask, and then I find out, almost a week later that he left this message, in his mock escort girl voice, saying his name was Tanya and that he can’t see my ex on such and such a date, because Tanya will be getting herself cleaned on that day! ahahaha! I don’t know where he gets it from. And I have to say again that I love how it’s this automatic (automaton!) reflex now to dial up Caroline’s Ex, randomly, and while drunk, and leave obscene messages. I don’t think I would have lasted the night without having that message played to me last night. Bulford, you’re a gem. The really freaky thing is, The Ex was CONVINCED that I had left the damn message (yeah, I wish I had that sort of effing gumption), because the voice sounded so much like me. And, it actually did sound almost, but almost exactly like me---tho, not quite! hahaha! There's something innately disturbing about this vocal correlation . . .but I haven't figured it all out yet. The man without a face, the woman without a voice . . .help me out.

Or maybe I did ask him to leave a message? I really hope not, it ruins the hilarity for me if I had. At the end of the message:

Xavier: "Come back to bed, Tanya!"
Bulford: "Stop beating me, Jim! Stop beating me!"

I was in a terrible mood until I had the opportunity to type all the brilliance out. I need to make a zine of these, well recorded.

Oh, god. Is there anything better than acting your age?

EDIT:

Wait. Wait now. I now think I MUST have asked for him to make that call. I mean, we had been dancing outside the parliament buildings earlier and I had been half making-out with some girl outside the gay bar. I think that warrants my being drunk enough to have the desire and wherewithal to actually request any sort of contact with that useless mother fuck.

Run After Run, Maryjane!

I work for a madman! This huge, fully loaded printshop in Chinatown. The type of job interview where you realize you’re sort of carbon copies of one another, only one of you, to your envy, is older, more established and, if possible, more mad. We spent an hour and a half drinking blackcurrant tea, and talking about the artist laws of Franch, Diane di Prima, Gregory Corso, Arthur Rimbaud and bill bissett. He’s made t-shirts for bill bissett. He’s made Rimbaud shirts. We talked about the exact photo; we exchanged quotes.

Actually, the first question he asked me was, “you’ve done readings with bill bissett?”

“Yeah! He calls me Princess Caroline!”

Before I run through our similarities, I need to point out:

THERE’S A PROFESSIONAL DARKROOM AND PHOTOGRAPHY STUDIO BELOW THE PRINTSHOP.

OK. The breath comes easier now. It was beautiful. Gorgeous black and white prints hanging, still slightly damp, two enlargers, trays upon trays. Glee. The actual photography studio is what I imagine heaven would look like if I will be so permitted to enter, passing by its softbox & umbrella, tapping my way across its scuffed hardwood. Endless windows. & burgundy sheets to cover them.

So, back to it: we’re both the only children of immigrant parents. He was born in Latvia. We spent a lot of time talking about oppression, the various and quite specific ways in which Starbucks was usurping the heartbeat of his home. He has a degree in English from the university of Michigan and seems to take most things as A POLITICAL ACT. I’ll leave two chocolates in the box. A massive left winger. Revolution this and revolution that. I have a hunch we’ll get along well this summer. I mean, considering I myself AM a revolution! haha!

I really want to meet the photographer from downstairs. His work was intimidating in its goodness, use of light, range. From his space, he seemed quite neat and productive as rapidfire.

There’s also this fantastic gravel and plant roof-top that you can just walk out onto from the third floor printshop. A great view up there. Such a cozy death-drop.

Looks like I'll be using a lot of spinning clamps.

Why It's Better For Me To Live Alone

Getting up from my chair a few moments earlier, I proclaimed:

“Soft! Something is---missing. Or so, the process has been . .mislaid!”

I said this aloud, to myself.

I've been unwrapping tiny chocolate all morning. Sure, I mean sure, I'm happy as a freakshow now, but fully expect me to sugar-crash come workshop. Sorry, you guys! I'm so sorry! I am unable to maintain the workings of my own body. I rather like propelling it.

In much less substantial news, I've written a poem, and as I've coyly said behind the new shrub on my smoking stoop (!I have branches to look at now when I exhale!) a few moments ago, "gee, my poems are becoming so . . feminist!

I better get mounds of feminist glee come next week. I've been reading The Women for a month now. i.e.: I should like to see you at home. In your own culture.

(oh yes, And I think Debbie is fantastic. That girl makes me laugh a pastel-streak, intelligently!) :))))

We're Harmed

I’m far enough away from it now. I’m listening to Bitches Brew, after finishing with Birth of Cool. Time to do damage control (ala fem), finally. What my last relationship did to me:

---Made me forget how much I lived for jazz. I stopped thinking in 2-4-4. This is bloodletting.
---Made me forget I wasn’t a high-class call girl.
---Made me forget there were times when I didn’t want to be touched. Yes, sure as if I don't have a comfort zone, as if I don't have boundaries. As if I should feel guilty for knowing how I feel physically, at the time. Fucker.
---Somehow made me forget to keep a sketchbook.
---Made me forget I actually have valid points to make in an argument.
---Made me forget how to just flirt, without having sex in mind as an end result.
---Made me forget how to cry. He would pretend I didn’t exist when I cried.
---Made me forget I was actually considering a career in the theatre for most of my life. Not that I want one now, what with my writing and all, but it made me forget how I lived for theatre: going to it, as well as doing it.
---Made me forget that I actually had a right to be angry. Made me forget to see through manipulation, twisting of facts.
---Made me forget to know how to trust myself.
--- Oh yeah, and all this apart from the fact that I had taken to vomiting five, six times a day. I think, now, that I did it because I NEEDED TO FEEL AS IF I HAD CONTROL OVER SOMETHING.

Holy shit. I mean: holy shit.
Sheri-D had been right all along; he was way too old for me.
I used to think that for a man of his age to actually have the gumption to go for an 18 year old was rather gutsy, brave, and anti-establishment, now I just think it’s almost perverted and god Damnit it enrages me. I shouldn’t have stayed in it for so long; that was my fault in the situation. Sure, going into it at first was all clearly well and fitting with my passionate and rebellious character, but I also have staying power and a grand level of endurance: that skill led me into horrible things in this instance. I should have left when I had the chance. Holy shit. When you finally start to see things from the other side. How everyone else saw the situation all along.

& about the argument thing. It’s near impossible to win an argument with someone that’s over forty years your senior since people that old are so set in their ways; it’s impossible to get them to SEE YOUR SIDE, understand it, even. Just to get him to SEE WHY I was upset over something, god, GOD, I remember how flustered I felt inside. There were things he did that nearly broke my fucking heart and I remember desperately trying to explain how I felt from every possible angle and still: nothing. There was not an inch of movement in my direction. It made me feel like everything I felt was wrong and totally irrelevant to real life. I fucking well lost my base as a person. I fucking well hope I never have to see him again.

Fuck, I wish I had kept his letters so I could actually show you how horrible it was. I shouldn't have thrown them out. They were gems.

But it made me ill to even know I had them stored on my computer, where MY WRITING WAS STORED. I wasn't about to have things so tainted.

I don't have a bathtub

Mother sent me two cutting mats. It’s as if she knew I had been cutting my meats on my green kitchen counter for eight months, carefully and without leaving a trace of a knife, but still. A large package: pate, Westfalian ham &tc., to remind me how much I love meat. And I do: I could live off smoked meat and purple grapes, tea in between for warmth. Also: a white stuffed farmer bunny for Easter. Again, it’s as if she knew the lady at the pawnshop had said, “do you have ID?”
“I’m twenty-one.” I wasn’t wearing my eyeliner.
“You look 16.”
And now she knows me by name.
“I wish I was twenty-one,” she said. “Heck, I wish I was thirty-nine!”
“I wish I was eight.”

As if mother knew I’d said that, pawned. I’m not sure what to do with this stuffed toy. It sort of prompted me to decorate for Easter. I’ve hung pink ribbons and flowery plastic necklaces on my curtain rods, giant wicker pastel eggs, stuffed with tea and chocolate. Easter has always been my favourite holiday; it was the only time of year I liked going to church--- priest sprinkling the top of my head with water from the palm, the lace of my basket pulled back, held in front, resting against my patterned dress.

The theatre last night (FIND Festival). First time in about a year. It’s strange for me, nearly heartbreaking: to have your life, almost from birth, revolve around the stage, and then all of a sudden, losing your ability to suspend your disbelief. Or at least: too terrified to go to see if you have. I’m being open here; my last relationship----it sort of turned me into something else. He took me to the symphony regularly, the opera: we had season’s tickets, but whenever I wanted to go to the theatre, all he said was, “I can’t. I’ve never been able to suspend my disbelief.” And I guess I adopted that into myself. And I didn’t bother going on my own, even though that’s what I used to do, all the time, my whole life. I never used to take anyone with me to see a staged production---well, maybe once or twice---it’s always been too sacred for me. I always cry at the end. I always used to cry whenever I did monologues as well. And, without fail, I cried, well, wept last night after the last show. I had to pull myself together because I realized I was walking through a darkened campus, a cold one.

I HADN’T CRIED IN MONTHS. I CAN’T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME I CRIED.

And I’ve realized something about myself: maybe I’m not as sexual as I once thought I was. I have a hunch that what I’m looking for has more to do with intimacy, closeness, rather than raw, physical sex. This is frightening. I’ve always thought of myself as a nympho. All of a sudden, or maybe for the first time: I don’t want sex. I’ve always had sex sort of pushed upon me. And I’ve always went along with it. And now that I consider this, it’s always made me kind of frustrated, always made me feel sort of trapped. What I really need, I’ve realized, is someone to lie with, not exactly cuddling, but someone to sort of breathe into. And touch.

Look, better than a shiny chocolate wrapper:

To occupy a position or place: The lake lies beyond this hill.
To extend: Our land lies between these trees and the river.
To be buried in a specified place.
Law. To be admissible or maintainable.
Archaic. To stay for a night or short while.

AT THE RISK OF SOUNDING CORNY. I know I’m not usually this soft or honestly honest.

I’m being serious. I need to be horizontal with someone. I'm not talking about romance (I'm still not that idealistic or retarded), but closeness and connection. I may be difficult to connect with, or something. I keep going out with guys and they seem frightened of me. This puts me off; it makes me so sad. I'm thinking that there's something wrong with me. I mean: what in God's name do others see when they look at me??? Is my tone too clipped? My mannerisms too brisk????

I remember being eight, kissing someone I really didn't want to kiss, again and again, then being in bed with that person. Not reaching orgasm, but definitely being touched, everywhere. We were the same age.

Pretending to only be in it for the sex is just another shield I've had around myself. One more way for me to keep people away while pretending to be close to them.

It's Our Table

Me and Bulford almost got picked up by the cops after his show at Logan’s on Thursday night. Fucked out of our minds on all-too-decent pot, we took our bottle of Southern Comfort into an empty parking lot. Bulford made sure he grabbed a DETOUR AHEAD road-sign on our way to sit. We sat, we drank, we played I Never with the Southern Comfort. We finished, and as we go to stand, I realize we have lost our lid, the road sign at our feet.

We look for the lid.

We are still looking for the lid when I see, out of the corner of my drunken and pot-paranoid eye, the white nose of a quiet cop car.

I chuck the Southern Comfort bottle, with its last remaining shot, into the bushes beside me, before the car even makes it all the way into the lot.

“What are you doing?” cop asks.

“Nothing, we were just heading home.”

“No you weren't; you were in the bushes.
Were you going to take that sign?” cop asks.

“No, it was there.
We found it.
It was there when we came.
It’s our table.
We were just looking for our lid.
We are heading home to Fisgard.
It's our table.
We were just looking for our lid.
Do you want my postal code?"

I had to space the text out like that because that's exactly how clipped and enthusiastic his speech was: Bulford, being boyishly gay and drunk, gets way too into it. I’m standing beside him by the car window, calmly eating chips out of a large bag. I may have actually pissed myself from laughing later on. He’s a Pisces, idealistic and optimistic, of course. High energy.

The whole time I was munching on these chips, saying to him, “come on. Come on now, let’s go.”

I mean, I really didn’t feel like being arrested again. But, “it was just sitting there. We found it. It’s our table,” would be a pretty fucking funny thing to be arrested for.

shimmy shimmy jimmy

Shit. Now that I have this job, it looks like I’m going to have to like organize my life, and stuff. And maybe like, sleep in my own bed more than twice a week, or something. I need to stop lighting my cigarette backwards. Oh, god, memories of my mother. Drunken mommy and her backwards cigarettes. Rad. Need to stop eating pizza after it has fallen on the ground. Dirty, dirty.

UNDER PRESSURE!

Hooked on a Feeling

I’ve become a bistro bitch. Dress punk and go for one cream coffee. First thing.

All of a sudden, I have this job. I have A Job. This writing job. It doesn’t make much sense, the job itself. Not my having it. Woman named May is throwing all this information at me. & apparently, I don’t understand much of it. Hoping there will be a change there. A change full swing into understanding. Pays well, and I get to write and read for money. For Money.

I have to read some or all of the following:

Gullivers Travels
King Arthur
Huckleberry Finn
Murder on Orient Express
Dr Jekyll & Mr. Hyde
Chasing Windmills/Don Quixote
Roots
The Time Machine

Isn’t that fantastic?? It’s so cute I could die.

As for my reading last night. Well: any takers? What did I actually say. I was drunk like you. A couple of beers and a mickey of Beefeater, which happened to be a dollar off at the liquor store by my house. Scott and I shared a cab home. Unfortunately, we had the only Raping Cabby in Victoria. He looked like the lead singer from the Tragically Hip. Dressed like him, too. And he almost wept when I passed this information onto him. He wouldn’t let me leave the cab!

“I have to go. I really have to pee. I have to go,” I said.

“No, don’t go!”

What now? I seem to remember running upstairs at some point while the cabby was still parked in my driveway. I ran upstairs to google the song that Bowie did with Queen. !

I had to check; it was bothering us so much not to know.