Plathological

Who Else is Coming?

Legs Stretched

At twenty-two, you sleep in yellow, have minor misconceptions about married life, what swimsuits and plane rides mean to it, and constantly forget who or what your closets friends were named after. One of them is blonde. She wears her hair up, mostly. Says that with her hair tied like that, it's probable that no one can tell it’s curly. You’re sitting across from one another. It’s still sunny enough to sit on concrete; she stretches her legs in the direction yours are pointing and she says, “I always thought the second half of your name was insignificant. It’s good that you’re changing it.” She says, “It never brought anything to mind.”

"The confusion between authenticity and pose — between earnestness and irony"/"It’s just a bunch of pathetic old pieces of shit intellectualizing the fact that they want to fuck everyone and can’t deal with the consequences."

Numbers are imported. So: I talked to Sheika for ninety-three minutes today on the phone. If I were to name one of the few people who're almost entirely on my wavelength she would pretty much be at the top of the list, even though I only participate in list making in dirty-passion-as-for-play and I would probably have to find a word to replace “wavelength”--since its associations destroy my stomach lining. The girl says stuff like, “I’ve been having these dreams about . . . .but that’s only because I’ve been doing a lot of speed again . . .” Why we synergize so well. How to explain? Here’s a shot in the wavelength dark: within the first three minutes of our conversation, we were discussing why, from time to time, it is difficult to masturbate.

At one point we laughed for a good five minutes over the happenings of the previous New Years we spent together in Calgary at the Green Fool’s masquerade ball, during which I nearly broke my nose because I stag-leaped into a glass wall some asshole had closed in the inner entrance, for some reason. The sad part was: I wasn’t even that drunk at that point, I just took my glasses off because they had fogged up entirely when I came inside to the heat from the cold smoking pit and I couldn’t see. The surreal part was when Sheika, wearing army pants and a tank-top, dragged me through the masked and sequined crowd, all the way into the one-person woman’s washroom and we proceeded to sit on the cold, concrete ground, laughing our asses off behind the closed door, while massive amounts of blood trailed from my nose onto, well, everything. It got even better when some of the sequined, female party goers that had been waiting for the washroom started to tap on the locked bathroom door while saying, “Is she all right?? There’s blood on the door.” And Sheika, barely breathing from laughter, opened the door, discretely poking her head out to say, “yes, she’s . . . .fine.” After slamming the door shut again she reported that there were “two perfectly parallel streams of blood" left by my two nostrils, from the door handle to the floor. She described these with her hands. We are both looking forward to this coming New Years.

I brought up one of the current Vice articles: The Vice Guide to Killing Your Parents. I reiterated for the millionth time that the perpetuation of political correctness is a hypocritical asslicking stronghold of the previous generation and it’s one of the main reasons why we’re so brainwashed into thinking we have no culture of our own. Sheika, dearest Sheika, responded with the following quote that I loved so much I just had to devote an entire paragraph to recording it: “Yeah. I mean, if I’m not doing something that’s shocking you, then I think I’m doing something wrong.”

And though I agree with most everything the article has to say, I still exist in an endless whirling pool of ironic subjectivity (to uhh self identify) and over extended metaphors that forever confuse the purpose and original intent of my everyday wardrobe so at the same time I also see the hypocrisy and inherent irony of the article’s existence/basic concept. Do I need to explain this? If you read this blog and need me to explain that particular concept to you then you probably shouldn’t be reading this at all. Not that I’m trying to be exclusive, I’m just telling you not to waste your time. Stop analysing me. Not that it can’t be done, it’s too easy to do, in fact, the thing is is that there’s just no point. Unless you are fucking me or have great aims to fuck me in the future. Then and only then should you waste your time in such a circular way. Trust me, it's worth it. I don't deal in entendres. & simmer, strike out.

_________________________________________________________________

From the article, I specifically and most fully agreed with the following. Mostly because I dated the fuckwad I dated for three years and had living, constant, day-to-day proof of it all, point by point:

INFIDELITY
They started that whole “free love” thing because the men were really horny and wanted to put their dinks in everything. Then, for some reason, they got married—but they wanted to fuck more so they invented wife swapping and swinging. Or they just cheated. When you’re rich, spoiled, and horny, cheating isn’t even a question. It’s just what you do.

POSTMODERN CRITICAL THEORY
What the fuck do they teach in college these days anyway? Education used to be about science and math and, if you were feeling really artsy, maybe English. Then the boomers got into Marx and Che and being a fucking loser and now it’s all about new math and critical theory, which is really all about making up a fancy new language that makes everyone who didn’t go to college feel dumb.

Back when boomers were in college, engineers were literally harassed by potential employers in the hallway. Even people with English degrees could start at $65K editing memos. Today a college degree means less than a high school degree did 20 years ago. No wonder. College is a joke.

One time I was in school and we were talking about Hemingway and The Sun Also Rises and I go, “But I just read an interview with him about that book and he said he didn’t intend that at all. He said the book was about how boring and shallow that whole scene was,” and the professor says, get this, “It doesn’t matter what the author thought. Our analysis goes through the author.” What? Now Hemingway doesn’t know shit about Hemingway? Another professor we had was literally the head of the Canadian Communist Party and he told us that it was OK to have an abortion, are you ready for this? “Up until a year after the baby is born.” Apparently monkeys have more human characteristics than 11-month old-babies, ergo the babies aren’t really human so fuck it—kill them. The fact that humans are human didn’t seem to be a factor.

College today is little more than a boomer soapbox. Interest in math and engineering has plummeted so far since the 70s that we’re now on equal footing with Eastern European losers like Lithuania. Shit, the only people we’re still beating are South Africa and Cyprus.

JACK NICHOLSON
Where Something’s Gotta Give sums up what the boomers think of themselves today, Five Easy Pieces shows us where they got it. This is the movie where Jack Nicholson is a cool working-class tough guy who’s secretly posh and can play piano real well. This is what they’re all about. Boomers are rich white college kids that hate rich white people and wish everyone was down with the oppressed. The really revealing thing about this movie is the tangent it goes off on following Nicholson’s libido. This is what they really care about—their genitals. Like all shameless and greedy idiots, the hero wants to fuck the pretty girl and ignores the fact that she’s his brother’s wife. She doesn’t seem to care either. They never do. Just like that other movie he did a year later with Art Garfunkel where they are both secretly fucking Candice Bergen. Shit, all boomer movies are about infidelity. Look at Woody Allen. It’s just a bunch of pathetic old pieces of shit intellectualizing the fact that they want to fuck everyone and can’t deal with the consequences.

MARX
Last year we told you how the German Marxists taught boomers to yell “Nazi” and “racist” anytime they’re losing an argument but do you know why they were so easily brainwashed by this Marxist propaganda? Because it made their parents really fucking angry. The pre-boomer generation were covered in blisters from digging and scraping their way out of the working class and understandably went ballistic when their affluent and unemployed offspring told them what it is the working man goes through. No spoiled brat can resist making steam come out of his father’s ears, hence an entire generation of incredibly wealthy capitalists teaching the world the merits of socialism. As Andy Milonakis says, “You gotta be rich to hate money.” Of course to dare to point this out means you are secretly in cahoots with Republicans. No, we hate you both equally. The Left is too stupid and the Right is too uptight. Today there is no difference between neocons and liberals. They are all one thing: baby boomers.

"Friends Come in All Sizes"

So, I obviously have to write about this, considering I was laughing about it the whole way home:

I’m crossing the street at Yates and Douglas after watching Death to Smoochie at Matt & Xavier’s. It’s raining and I’m avoiding the puddles with my usual death-squad stride. I’m wearing a US Army jacket, tightish black pants, and Mary Janes that are strategically cut so my feet won’t bleed into my socks. High above my head, I hold a black patio umbrella that’s obviously stolen from the Laurel Point Inn: that may be why this tragedy occurred.

I look to my left and there’s a blond girl. She’s crossing onto Douglas kiddie-corner to me. She’s wearing this tight, white zip-up lulu lemon type sweat shirt (uhh “urban Zen workout gear”?). Anyway, her bangs are great, have this feathery effect without actual shagging. She’s standing in the middle of the intersection, holding this tight white shirt over her head--to, you know, protect her blondness from the raindrops, or something.

By this time, I’ve crossed to the other side of Yates and am now making my way past the Shoppers Drug Mart along Douglas, when all of a sudden, Blondie and her friend are upon me.

“Excuse me, do you have any . . . .weed?” She asks me.
“What?” I say.
“Do you have any . . . . .weed. To like sell?”
(I think I may have stared at this point until it was a bit uncomfortable--for her.)
“Uhh. No. No I don’t,” I say, pointing gaily in the direction of ghetto slice. “But you may want to try one of them. There’s a psycho guy just there who usually has some.”
“Thanks!!!!” Scamper away, little girl. Scamper.

I mean. I’m assuming he has pot. He usually has a veritable cornucopia of uppers (not that I’ve bought off him, but we’ve talked before) so he must have pot . . .to like sell. Fuck. What really got to me, apart from the obvious, was the Excuse me, do you have any . . .. I think I’ll try the polite, multi-syllabic approach to buying next time I feel the like, need to like “get high.” Victoria: a place where I’ve been mistaken a countless number of times for a hooker, a drug dealer, a high class escort girl, a Native with Status, someone you probably had a drunken orgy with, but never for a person who’s going to KICK YOUR FUCKING ASS. Coming soon. Soon. Like the book says: birth is imminent or: Me. a Brand of One--I have to work on my product positioning (Positioning: “developing a marketing strategy aimed at influencing how a particular market segment perceives a product or service as being differentiated in comparison to the competition.” And you thought I didn’t have it in me. Marketing! Marketing! No, really: fuck you. I can make money. I just prefer to give blow jobs. On a regular basis)/go the slut shirt I bought today! Its cut says to you: fondle me. go ahead. I’m ripe. Ripe and filled with nicotine and luke-warm tea.

Most ironic statement of the night: “Szpak,” Bulford says, “do you have a well developed sense of irony?”

Nervous Breakdown?

Strangest party tonight. High lighting, Fernwood anxiety, pastiche. Homemade Hot Hot Heat finger puppets doing naughty things with mirrors and baking soda. I went out on the back steps of the apartment at one point to have a smoke and all of a sudden I started praying and crying and not breathing very well at all and then Xavier came out of nowhere so I quickly stopped. I was so thankful. I am so sad, so sick and so thankful. Nothing makes sense right now.

“I’m terrified,” I said. “I’m so fucking terrified.”
“Of what?” Xavier asked.
“The next step. This time next year. I can’t visualize it at all.”
“ . . . .cultivate culture. This is a time to cultivate culture.”

I almost started crying dumbly all over again. Of course. This is what you do when you can’t see ahead: you look around you. So the sadness. Hence. I mean: train rides-- no one else knows where you’ll be getting off but you’ll come home eventually, when the feeling strikes. I’m actually grateful to God. I don’t know where I’d be without everyone that’s in my life right now. Thank you. This is a bit of a strange time for me. It’s often now that I feel as if I can’t see two feet in front of me. So I just jump on my bike and go. Ride until I’m so lost that I’m actually scared to keep going straight. Usually at night. In a neighbourhood I thought I knew. Proving myself wrong is one of the few things I've kept from earlier times.

"Does 'Fuck You' Sound Simple Enough?"

School. I swear to god. It's bumming me out, you guys. In an: I'm so dark, fuck you. Hemmingway. kind of way.

It’s interesting to note that as soon as school gets going all my hyper interest in text, the same one I had been nourishing, page after page, all summer, dissipates entirely. For some reason: I am suddenly reading nothing. I have no urge to go to the library. Aren’t we getting a bit old for this? I mean: Group work? Final exams? Motherfucking Midterms?? Just take me down to your slum quarters and I’ll more than happily do your laundry there. Rearrange our wine glasses for off-putting symmetry. I'll hum to myself the entire time. I'll work on making that outgoing message sound a bit more cordial this time.

(I’m not including workshops in the above qualifications. Writing workshops are a different and much appreciated animal. Other departments should catch on to this method. Otherwise, I sit in class and think: this is what you have to offer me? This isn’t good enough. This is mono.)

Applications? Passports? Submissions? Textbooks? LATE FEES? Fuck me. Once again life is back and forth-- I’m starting to feel like a ping-pong ball. Again. School. Home. School. Home. School. Home. Where does walking down the freeway fit into all of this? Stupidly endless cycle of existential crisis. Where are we again? How am I still doing this? Is this it? And, strangely enough: how can things get any better if they're already This Good? Strange. I know. I'm not exactly bitching, so much as expressing Utter Confusion at My . . .Life? . . .LEAF? . . ."one day a big wind will come and . . ."

So. I’m moving in with the boyfriend. We’re looking for a new place for November first. I’m starting to think that living with The Boyfriend will be a Very Good Idea, for me. I think he’s starting to see how utterly useless I am at organizing/planning anything at all, so he seems more than happy to take care of the searching and phoning around for me. The thing about me: I’m a control freak who just can’t handle it, apparently. It’s my excuse for everything. My main sources of inspiration are quite the little binary. If I didn't have my friends right now I would probably lose it. If I didn't have solitary time right now I would lose it even more. I need someone to put my name at the start of every sentence. It's one of the few ways remaining that will get me to listen because it's something I really need to hear right now. It has nothing to do with phoning at the appointed time.

"Fear of intimacy," Xavier says. And he’s right. Is that the faucet dripping? I wonder what my parents truly think of me. My father seems so proud. Why? How? I think it's his only saving grace. Sometimes I honestly think that and I want to apologise for every time I hated him for being so drunk and terrifying (to me) before I knew what being that drunk meant-- because it all worked out, didn't it? I mean didn't it work out anyway? I mean, did he or did he not take me on a special trip to the liquorstore when he was visiting Victoria in July just to buy me some strong, imported beer? I think he did. I think he told me to go home and get drunk. And I listened to him for once. The irony. I think my father's fucking incredible. I would have no appreciation of what it means to be this working class, this trashy without him. I mean, sometimes I pluck my eyebrows in public. Without his influence, I would be boring, moderate, have no concept of excess, blacking out, endurance. I would just experience a situation and not have the ability to think about it as it's happening. I wouldn't be able to experience a situation and stand outside it, analysing it at the same time. There would be no duality to me. I wouldn’t know what it means to survive. -----(Photo of him behind the link below).-----

Serves Four

The backyard is so dark I can’t even see the clothesline, though I know there are still some hanging cottons on the wire. I’ve been staying up, looking for adequate stirfry recipes. Trying to visualize what an ounce looks like. Sorry, I get like this sometimes. i.e.: my patterns always say that I’ll probably be doing the same thing I was doing half an hour ago. I’m very easy to track down like that. Casual mentions of swears or outlandish colours in songs keep me listening. I’m hyper-attracted to talking in songs, must have its roots in my love for Cohen, cooing a home and office number.

sounds

Things that count as small gestures-- what untangled hair is to illness and white tongues. For example: this water surrounding the places where benches are, what purpose does it serve? I mean, we've taken to keeping things we’ve burned, giving them as gifts to those who were there. The rest just hear about it afterward, no charred token to keep under the desk; it’s what floods or fashion are to most people.

To Calm Down

Oh, God. The warmth and reinforcement of potted tea poured into a cup with my own hand, borrowed artrock, closet doors ajar that waft the wardrobe into the room, raiding the produce section, reconstructing the immune system with juice: malleable like heated plastic pitchers with all that kindling at hand. Learning to say yes again, wear a backpack, both shoulders covered by straps.

Need

"If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite." (William Blake)

It’s what I meant to say to Matt on the stairs behind Lucky when I started to speak of futility. Or rather, I phrased it differently, but essentially got the same thing out. Dear Zeno, &tc., along that line.

BIKE BIKE BIKE!!

I would just like everyone to know that I bought a new (cruiser) bike last night an hour before closing time:

1) As a result: I love everybody.

2) It makes me love everybody.

3) I love everybody because I’m a materialist at heart. I’m also a minimalist though, so there’s a healthy balance.

4) My bike is black. It has flames on it.

5) Its back tire is fatter than my head.

6) I wanted it all summer and now it was on sale: 60% off!

7) It’s hideous in a full body tattoo kind of way. Perhaps in a dawn-is-fast-approaching-and-I-just-got-out-of-prison-and-I’m-going-to-get-some-Mr. Tubesteak-and-then-rape-you-with-a-cigarette-hanging-out-of-the-side-of-my-face, kind of way.

8) It's a machine! I'm a machine!

9) Impulse buying that can hardly be considered an impulse.

Drinking wine by the river in Esquimalt last night. Magic ensues with random Polish people, corrugated punk screaming and the unreal land whose only purpose is to divide people going in opposite directions. The thought of flipping my body into a cartwheel still freaks me out. After the gay bar where there was a sizable group of fancy red&white polkadot people, I watched a movie about male prostitutes in California while eating beefy cheese and a carebear cookie with the boys. I didn't go to bed until five in the morning.

Why-- Look Who it is! And he’s eating the other half of my burrito.

I’ve started to smoke inside sometimes. Because I’m such a little rebel and I’m juvenile and have my hate on for my landlady and this is my way of showing it. However, I do it with the windows open, so I’m still a cocksucking pansy. Not that that’s a bad thing to be, especially since I sleep in two layers of clothes. Then I drink so much coffee in the morning that I spend all day shitting and (as a result) avoid doing my homework. I'm willing to bet no one I know shits as much as I do. I’m just too smart to bother altering my habits. And fuck. I’m out of soap, deodorant and contact fluid. Everything that prevents me from being (this) smelly and blind.

Sexually Political Reggae

Tonight was a myopic gravelpit, crunching underfoot and spitting pellets at passing chrome everywhere. Full-length, dreadlocked bullshit. Some DJs are so obviously addicted to meth/are chemistry majors with kittens named Mojo or Furscare that they’re not even worth mentioning. Ok, so we forgot to take our Ritalin, that doesn’t mean you have to torture us with music tailormade in granolaland for two-second-wonders. SPLOOOCH. Not only is it like watching a farmer rape a sheep, it’s like listening to a farmer rape a sheep. I’m not sure which is worse. BLLLLEEEEETTTT.

When you’re first starting out as an aspiring DJ, you should probably ask yourself the following question: Does my music sound like a semi-erect gray-toned penis that is trying to jerk off in everyone’s face? If the answer is yes, do not pass the turntable, do not collect a cut of the door.

Moreover, an HOUR of Reggae?? Why don’t you play something that’s ALIVE TODAY? Something that is relevant to us: how we walk and move because of what is happening and HOW it is happening? Not that I don’t respect it, I just don’t breathe it (I can think and chill to something I respect, I can dance to something I breathe). And no, remixing it into breaks does not make it more applicable. Nor does it make it more danceable. I mean, I'm sorry, I totally forgot that black people stopped making political music after the 70s.--My big bad bad. I felt as if Mr. DJ was silencing their now voice because he was too ignorant a fuck to see what’s going on now. Too scared, maybe? And the white vegan kid with dreadlocks has NOTHING TO DO WITH BOB MARLEY-- he is Far Removed. So is the puffy-pink jock who, for some reason has his shirt off, but his KHAKI pants on: that's just a general equation for assholes, top to bottom. There’s a sort of equilibrium to them, isn’t there? I’ll give them that much. Anything else will take great sums. Fuckface. Just: FUCKFACE. I'm not offended so much as disgusted. What are you perpetuating this city into?

Sometimes I get so frustrated that I don’t even want anyone to touch/look at me. I flip my hood up. I start acting like my ex-girlfriend. But I don't care as much as she did (about things), never did. Outcomes don't seem to bother me at all these days-- i.e.: so the rest of the Bloc Party’s album is actually quite weak. So what? I really never gave a shit. SHOULD I?? I’m very responsive to smells, the looks people give and do not give me. I've already long ago gotten used to some, if not most of the things that happen to me on a regular basis that my boyfriend has not yet had the chance to cope with. By "cope with" I of course mean "not even notice." It's like a second skin for me, or at least it causes me to put one on.

ps,

when I'm left to my own devices and poorly sized shoes, I tend to brood. Though it's nowhere near as hysterical as it once was. More of a calm, level stare, straight ahead.

Plus, I’m starting to wear socks to bed-- not only because it’s fucking freezing out and I live in a garret from the Victorian ice-age, but because I’m finding it otherwise difficult to keep up with all the lameness around me. So . .yeah, basically because I’m cold and I’m a big fat pussy who gets hypothermia whenever anyone opens a fucking window.

Old (Calgary Airport)

My eyeliner is slowly taking over my whole face. Good for it. Good. For. It.

A few thoughts to sum up my current existence:

and, in case you were wondering:

also, just because you're kind-of a whore and would probably blow me for money for free:

and, for Xavier, so he can take it as he will, implied or otherwise:

and, for a select few who are like me in that they hate both proper grammer and bathing:

Because David Shrigley makes art that is humanly impossible to supersede in its correlation with my life:

And, of course (in the ass):

The Practical Applications of a Sullen Valleygirl

I’ve spent all day thinking about threesomes with dirtbags. There has to be a culture for Dirtbag Threesomes, men who leave scars on my face with their stubble. Is there a society I can join? With a regular newsletter, sans serif, delivered to my doorstep with waterstaines and tracklists scented with instant coffee? Please Daddy, Helvetica & grease. Daddy, can we be sober for this? Can be we sober for this again? Can we be sober for this with pinstripes, tight pants and found wardrobes?

_________________________________________________________

I also miss my short hair, almost in a desperate way. Thank thefaceofgod there are no adequate scissors around right now. SNIP:

Because Bedtime & Joe Dallesandro Left Me Cold and Wet

Genius is all around me. I am happy to sit around watching cult films while eating salsa.

Also, if life were PERFECTLY in synch with my sexuality, I cd have my ultimate threesome. starting now.

lost & found

writing on the wall

"Real People, Real Decisions"

First I drink some milk, then I put on a sweater, and lastly go to bed. I could have done these things in any order, if you count dreaming about them.

Merry Ezcema/The Great Wonder It Is It Diagonal

This makes me cream my pants almost as much as Joe's ass does.

This meta(photo)graph, for one example. But please do look at ALL the photos and illustrations and send me long and detailed emails about how each one in turn made you ejaculate just a little bit further than the last. You'll hate yourself if you don't.

& also, an Anti-Smack Ribbon:

My Astrological Chart (ah huh)

Sign: Power (Rank)/ Percent -

Sagittarius: 121.3 ( 1) / 14.8%
Cancer: 106.0 ( 2) / 13.0%
Libra: 98.4 ( 3) / 12.0%
Gemini: 79.2 ( 4) / 9.7%
Taurus: 68.0 ( 5) / 8.3%
Aquarius: 66.3 ( 6) / 8.1%
Virgo: 61.0 ( 7) / 7.5%
Capricorn: 59.0 ( 8) / 7.2%
Leo: 57.1 ( 9) / 7.0%
Pisces: 45.9 (10) / 5.6%
Scorpio: 31.6 (11) / 3.9%
Aries: 24.3 (12) / 3.0%

Rising Sign is in 08 Degrees Sagittarius
You are known for being open, frank, outgoing and honest. At times, though, you are also blunt and quite indiscreet. Others have to learn not to take everything you say personally, because you usually do not mean any harm. You appreciate living your life in a straightforward and simple manner -- you dislike social niceties and consider them to be hindrances to real communication. You have lots and lots of energy and tend to become quite restless if you feel confined. You demand the freedom to do as you choose -- you must be self- directed or you feel trapped and anxious. With your abundant energy, you enjoy being outdoors, and you should be attracted to physical exercise or to those forms of sport which can help you burn off some of that excess energy. Very gregarious, you love to socialize -- your innate enthusiasm livens up any gathering.

Sun is in 13 Degrees Cancer.
Very emotional and sensitive, you have an intuitive understanding of the "vibes" around you. You tend to be quite generous, giving, loving and caring, but only when your own needs for emotional support, love and security have been met. If they are not met, you tend to withdraw into yourself and become very insecure and selfish. Your home and family (especially your mother or the person who played that role for you early on) represent security for you and thus assume a larger-than-life importance. Very sentimental, you have vivid and long- enduring memories of the past. No matter how well adjusted you are, you will always need a secret quiet place of your own in order to feel at peace. Feeding others can give you great pleasure you would enjoy being part of a large family.

Moon is in 08 Degrees Taurus.
Warmth, comfort, security and familiar surroundings are necessary for you to feel at ease. Very loving and affectionate, you prefer a steady, patterned way of life. Patient, calm and steadfast, you are not easily upset. Others look to you for support. You tend to be a slow starter and a slow mover -- others may try to rush you, but they will never succeed. Emotionally, you are quite stubborn -- your attitudes about people and things were firmly set in your youth and will change very little as an adult. You are also very cautious and conservative about spending money. It is not that you are selfish, you just need to feel secure. Beware of a tendency to become overly complacent and too self-satisfied.

Mercury is in 08 Degrees Cancer.
Your emotions tend to rule your thought processes. You have difficulty seeing life objectively. You have an excellent memory, especially about things to which you have formed an emotional bond. You prefer ideas and thoughts that are known and familiar, and therefore tend to dislike fads or radical ideas. The beliefs and traditions of your family and culture are very important to you. Your thinking becomes quite unclear when you are emotionally shaken -- try not to make major decisions when you are upset. Let things calm down first.

Venus is in 26 Degrees Leo.
You have a striking, regal appearance and demeanor that attracts others to you. Your friendship is highly sought and you tend to take friendships quite seriously -- you remain loyal and true to those to whom you are attached. For you, love is mixed with pride and respect. Relationships are over when you lose respect for your partner. Be careful of a tendency to relate only to those who make you look good -- the powerful, important and influential. This can lead to arrogance and selfishness, and neither of these qualities becomes you.

Mars is in 04 Degrees Cancer.
Your moods are very important to your overall well-being. You are confident and self-assertive when you are feeling upbeat, and you are retiring, irritable and grumpy when you get depressed about anything. Very sensitive, you wear your heart on your sleeve. You are easily angered whenever you think someone has slighted you. It is best for you to show your anger immediately and let it all out, rather than to try to hold it in or to hold grudges for a long time. You're extremely loyal and defensive of your family, neighborhood, community and culture.

Jupiter is in 01 Degrees Sagittarius.
You have a very strong sense of ethics and morality. You are widely read and may also be widely traveled because you are sincerely interested in expanding your knowledge of the world about you. At times, you have an annoying tendency to be self-righteous and preachy about your belief system. You are usually quite idealistic and you demand the right to be able to explore the entire world of experiences yourself. Remember to grant others the similar right -- be tolerant, not dogmatic.

Saturn is in 27 Degrees Libra.
Although you take quite a while to make decisions, you usually consider all sides to a question, all the pros and cons, and the solution you come up with is very often the correct one. You tend to be very reserved and shy, but, once you make a commitment to someone (in either a business or personal relationship), the partnership is forever. You have a strong sense of justice and fair play and greatly respect the laws and institutions by which you are governed. As such, you are outraged when others break laws or show contempt for authority.

Uranus is in 05 Degrees Sagittarius.
You, and most of your peers, have the tendency to think that all ideas, customs and traditions from the past are outmoded and irrelevant. You are attracted to radically new ideas, philosophies and religions that will, hopefully, cause sweeping changes throughout the world.

Neptune is in 27 Degrees Sagittarius.
You, and your entire generation, are heavily involved in investigating and idealizing foreign and exotic intellectual systems and religious philosophies. The most extreme ideals will be pursued with gusto. You will be at the forefront of humanitarian attempts to improve the lot of those who are in need of assistance. You will be comfortable with the concept of the "global village."

Pluto is in 26 Degrees Libra.
For your entire generation, this is a time of radical changes in society's attitude toward marriage and interpersonal relationships. There is a general fear and awe at the power inherent in making emotional or contractual commitments -- they will not be entered into lightly.

N. Node is in 24 Degrees Gemini.
You will consciously seek out many different contacts with others throughout your life. Many of these will be of very short duration, not necessarily because you're fickle, but just because you always seem to be more excited by the prospect of meeting someone new rather than prolonging your present relationships. At any rate, you will learn something new from almost everyone you come across -- intellectual stimulation is what you crave from others. You will be well known to neighbors and relatives, partly due to your curiosity about what they're doing -- you delight in keeping up-to-date about the latest news (and gossip).

Guess Who This Post is For?

Matt & Lucas <3

Why Does This Stupid Photo Creep Me Out So Much?

Ilona After Dark ;)

Crow Crucifix

This Dead Crow Belongs To Kyle. It's Amazing.

Post Church of Hiphop (Lucas, Kyle, Matt)

Kyle With Matt's Future Tattoo

This is Jaxon's Younger Sister (Ilona). She's a Painter.

This is Kyle. I Myself Just Ate Two Bananas

With Children

Conversation while looking at photos of Matthew’s baby nephew (cousin??) last night:

Matthew: Awwwwwwwww! Awwwwwwww!! Xavier, I want children. Caroline, get started, you have mechanism.

Caroline: uhhhh. hmmm. Would you guys half raise it for me?

Xavier: Well, not half raise, we’ll quarter-raise. As long as it’s not on the weekends.

Caroline’s internal thought: this is all getting terrifyingly specific.

Some Evenings

"I will sit right down, waiting for the gift of sound and vision"

After four more cups of coffee:
--dancing to David Bowie (Sound & Vision, What in the World) in my bath towel in the early evening.
--RANDOM ACTS OF FASHION.
--mason jars filled with homemade jam accidentally dropped on Fort St.
--One Whole Chicken, in a can.
--What if the clown's nose was a tomato, and you bit it? What would that look like as a painting?
--back alignments in front of the parliament buildings, arms crossed below the neck like a corpse (“Sometimes I just need to hang from something”--Xavier).
--watching 19 yr old Jean Michel Basquiat in Downtown 81.
(--I would WEEP DAILY FROM JOY if I had Basquiat's work on my walls.)
--RANDOM ACTS OF MOTHERFUCKING FASHION, YOU SHUTTLECOCK.
--Matt getting me out of my momentary spasm of depression by saying I always have the option of dropping out of school, becoming an alcoholic and gaining forty pounds. I like to keep my options open. I can work in the panty section for a living.
--If Matt gained forty pounds I would still be his friend, but I would go Fat People Shopping with him, regularly.

NB: Spasm is a fucking lame word. Drinking is also lame. Fuck drinking. I'm going to stick exclusively to hard drugs from now on. My body will thank me for it--partially because hard drugs can't realistically be done as often as drinking can. I, for one, sure as hell get enough calcium in my diet.

You might not believe me if I told you, but most of the time, me and my friends drink cup after cup of coffee and talk about Religion, Art of all odds and ends, Gender, and the greater meaning, significance, and congruity of everything while smoking cigarette after cigarette. And sometimes we rail speed off of Modesty Blaise under the awning of the British Sweet Shoppe on Yates . . . or I bring cocaine in a white cylindrical waterproof container and we find an urban manmade knoll in Vic West and proceed to cut and snort said cocaine off of Julio Cortazar’s Blow-Up at ten PM. . And sometimes, sometimes one of us asks another one of us if she can female projectile ejaculate. That’s when the jars of jams get dropped, reasoned over.

_____________________________________________________________

PS, these Basquiat tags made me weep. let's keep going as we are &tc.:

SAMO as a neo art form.

SAMO as an end to mindwash religion, nowhere politics and bogus philosophy.

SAMO as an escape clause.

SAMO as an end to playing art.

SAMO as an end to bogus pseudo intellectual. My mouth, therefore an error. Plush safe.. he think.

SAMO as an alternative 2 playing art with the 'radical chic' sect on Daddy's $ funds.

must be the rails, off the record

I’m staring at fucking everything, not that I can’t help myself there’s just something wrong with me.

the title of this post is literal and it was never meant to be anything else-- it bothers me immensely that it came and continues to be so uproariously clever. my breath feels like a soft liquid. please don’t comment on my grammar, it's same old.

The Short Story

From the Paris Review, Issue 158 (2001):

INTERVIEWER

You’re making it sound like the short story is a more artistic form.

[LORRIE] MOORE

Perhaps, in many ways, it’s a more magical form. Who knows sometimes where stories come from? They are perhaps more attached to the author’s emotional life and come more out of inspiration than slogging. You shouldn’t write without inspiration–at least not very often. As I’ve already said, in discussing writing one shouldn’t set the idea of inspiration aside and speak only of hard work. Of course writing is hard work–or a very privileged kind of hard work. A novel is a daily labor over a period of years. A novel is a job. (Story writers working on a novel are typically in pain through the entire thing.) But a story can be like a mad, lovely visitor, with whom you spend a rather exciting weekend.

Look How I Update, Look How Nice

I just walked home, watched a couple scream and fight and moon each other on Government. There was a great distance between them-- literally, I mean: about half a block, or so. I wonder if they even saw each others' butt cheeks?? I've kind of had enough of downtown and the people in it. The details of the walk home are ecstatically terrifying and fantastic. I’m just too emotionally exhausted to recount them at any greater length . . seeing as my head exploded today. Mostly from a slew of interpersonal connections and the bathroom stall next to mine being built so improperly that it didn’t have the ability to close: this was the second sign of the apocalypse (more on that later, briefly).

Once home, I ate two apples. Insignificant, save for the fact that they came to my mouth after having a punch-packed Caesar-and-a-half at the Cherry Bank, getting three signs that the apocalypse is coming tomorrow, and, from my vantage point on top of the pink covers, watching a movie about two young girls stabbing a desperately old lady to death. I haven't seen that movie since I was fourteen, the age of the girls in the film.

Earlier, went to Whitespot with Emily and Bulford and had amazing chocolate cake and amazingly stoned conversation that I can barely remember two strands of (something about a Napkin restaurant--still don't get the allure, but hearing it calmed me and my sketched shakes, at the time). For my sensibilities, Bulford is probably the best and worst person to get stoned with (he fucks with my head and finds it hilarious. Bloody demon child), though such a conceit is most likely a huge compliment anyway considering all our mindmaps (a handful of sweet n low packets, kind of stolen). The death theme of the day may well lead to rebirth. God, I'm shaking and full of the complicity of peeling skin. I'm sure Larry from Saskatchewan is too-- in those cozy Cadillac seats of his. He stroked my face and stroked my face in the smoking room before, after and during the time it took him to tell me I was going to die. Needless to say, going to sleep will feel so fucking good in a few moments.

& it’s true, Xavier: my closets friends are, by default, my idols since I can only truly hang with people I fucking well admire enough that they actually shake me up and out of myself (which you & Bulford do every time I see you)--otherwise, around those who are any less than I am constantly in shock and awe at how little it takes to be this massively impressive Ultra Human Artistic Bitch. And as I’ve mentioned a few times this week apropos the low and basic level of thinking required in my Commerce classes (it hurts my head to state the painfully obvious, point by intricate point), it’s tiring, bloody well exhausting to interact with those who do not stimulate and challenge me. I end up playing up my personality, magnifying my traits (anyone who knows me well and was with me tonight would have witnessed it), just to keep myself interested and entertained. At least until I get past the surface, though it takes so much time and energy to supersede the generic. Yet that’s my inherent function, as a writer. I prefer the mortar metaphor, things you can make from crushed glass, by being this girly (yes, I am): I'm better off, I'm better off, I'm better off. With the consistency of a grindstone, hold your hand under warmer water when you really need to focus, close your French doors against the draft, tell the older from one Nicaragua that your husband or boyfriend is from Denmark. Ask him his name in Spanish, seconds after you ask him, in Spanish, how one would ask what one's name is in Spanish. That's what being that girly is: waking up with stuff all over you face, just the way you left it.

Seven Things

7 things I plan to do before I die:
1) Beat Matthew at Knuckles: once while drunk, once while sober.
2) Loft space, studio space.
3) Publish a short story collection I am mostly satisfied with.
4) Get my MFA.
5) Start a movement.
6) Work for a lit-mag, for pay.
7) Teach writing, officially.

7 things I can do:
1) Convince the bouncer to let five people into the club by presenting him with pennies, a guitar pick, and a lighter.
2) Read between the lines.
3) Inadvertently come up with witty, and entirely too cryptic sayings. (I.e.: is that an acronym, or are you just ghetto?”)
4) Describe what it’s like/was like..
5) Most motherfuckers.
6) Dirty dance low-down.
7) Kiss you until you faint.

7 things I cannot do:
1) Turn my life into a master bedroom.
2) Stop being so manic.
3) Write a plot-based story.
4) Not tell you what I think.
5) Stop writing.
6) Take birth control pills.
7) Have children.

7 things that attract me to others:
1) Elitisms.
2) Integrity, Unity, & Groove.
3) Openness. Humility.
4) Living on the edge, fringe.
5) Cynicism & tight pants.
6) Uncontrolled idealism.
7) Grace and Poise (at all times).

7 things that I say most often:
1) Moreover
2) I’m not drunk yet/I think I drank too much/I can't pee in front of you.
3) Daddy, can we go to the park? Can we go to the park again?
4) Hot.
5) Here’s the thing, . . . .
6) I’m having an existential crisis.
7) That’s so Atwoodian.

7 celebrity crushes:
1) Margaret Atwood.
2) Claire Danes.
3) Bianca and Sierra Casady (cocorosie)
4) Raymond Carver
5) Jack White
6) Jim Carroll
7) Leonard Cohen

7 people I want to do this:

Seriously? Everyone I know that hasn’t yet. or: I don't give a shit, but it would be nice(x7)

This Bitch Has Internet Now

Above is the promised photo I took of my boyfriend, Jax(on). Clearly, I belong in the men's washroom, with a wide-angle lens (oh, to span). I think I have a flair for girly porn. ahem. Moreover, I picked that shirt out for him-- it's kind of sick. Dirty, dirty little Caro. BAD. No . .I mean: YES. I mean-- I need some multigrain toast. Seeing as I have the butter already. Yeah, I’m so fucking complex-- just send me the bill along with the deathtoll when you wake up.

in passing

Long time coming, but as I’ve mentioned to a few already, this summer can be encapsulated in a phrase: after railing E for the first time (who knew it would be such a horrible, horrible anise-explosion in my unsuspecting nasal cavity/brain?), going home at three in the morning to suck on green Fruit Society plums while in the fetal position-- cocorosie playing on loop by my side.

As Mariko said, I couldn’t get more DH Lawrence than that.

Balance Sheet or: Pruning The Deadheads

The only way I was able to survive the first day of my accounting class was to relate the deep and significant meaning of the shimmering terminology to Category A-List: Dating & Relationships. Easy enough: Assets (what does Boyfriend/Potential boyfriend have? & Yourself?), Liability (What does he owe to other people? What do you owe to other people? Equity (who OWNS all this, bitch? . . . personally, I think The Face of God does, but that’s a whole other Hawaiian shirt wearing Pentecostal investment-- which will all probably show up on the Statement of Cash Flow anyway). THERE ARE TWO SIDES TO THIS BALANCE SHEET, BABY!! AND ASSETS TAKE UP A WHOLE SIDE TO THEMSELVES. Other than that, the utter Surreal aspect of finding myself in this situation kept me wide awake until my eyes hurt. The strings only mean that I lovvveeee yooouuuuu.

ps,

I have one more thing for you: bleach-blond, puffy feathered bangs. Ummm hmm.