Plathological

"There is a light that never goes out" (The Smiths)

Today I woke up at eight-twenty. It will be a busy day. Right after I finish this hair-raisingly strong coffee, I will don my nitrile-gum, acid and oil resistant boots. To, you know protect me from the rain. And yes, I’ve been monumentally depressed. Yes, I can’t remember being this depressed in a while. Yes, I feel restless, angry, confused, displaced, song-weeping, and everything I eat has been making me feel like the most worthless scumbag lately. Yes, I am trying to cope. Yes, I am sorry. For not being myself, even though I don‘t know what that is anymore and it sickens me to admit to and write about anything so emotional. I am sorry. Directly or indirectly, to whomever. I have a deep, terrible need for something and I’m running around for miles and miles inside myself trying to find out what the fuck that is. WHAT THE FUCK IS IT?? WHAT DO I WANT? WHAT DOES SHE WANT?? WHAT DO I FUCKING WANT?? I will be wearing a green turtleneck, thick weave.

accidents, vancouver

what sells/what is on that bed is still my life

I'm Not Collecting

I think it was the black devil angel, but it may have been the tight-assed cop, who said it best at the gay bar last night: Gay karma will kill you.

Methods

So the WSU is actually having a BAKE SALE to raise money for the lit mag. I wish it were possible for me to find an adequate way to state how embarrassed this BAKE SALE makes me. I can’t believe I’m part of this organization. I can’t believe this is the way a GROUP OF YOUNG, VITAL WRITERS decides to raise money for their endeavours. Can they be any less relevant to who we are and what we stand for? Or, is that just me? Do the rest of us walk, skip and jump across the our carpets, wearing smeared aprons, greasing our baking pans?? Xavier suggested a drink-off, with bets. Not that he’s not a genius, but it hardly takes a genius to come up with methods of raising money that are at the very least, one iota more congruous to belonging to A WRITERS’ GROUP. I’m not on the editorial team this year. If I was, I think I would be throwing muffins and oatmeal cookies at everyone’s head and repeating everything they said at meetings in the most obnoxious, high pitched and strained voice.

I'm sorry, but I just can’t handle not being a bitch anymore. It’s no longer only about who do they think they are? but: who do I think I am?

"JONATHON FISK SPEAKS WITH HIS FIST"!!! (Spooooooonnnn)

Last night, in an effort to combat my pre-menstrual syndromes and somewhat stabilize my hormones which had plummeted me into under-the-covers-at-nine-PM depression, I drank a litre of soy and ate various soy products, along with my usual crystallized ginger and went to the gay bar in an obscenely bloated state, with Matt. We made a pact to be ludicrously excessive with our usual high fives that night, and we were, even after Matthew nearly took my eye out with his hand. We altered our method of high fives after I lost my contact: NOTHING ABOVE THE WAIST. Conclusion: safer, all told, and just as enthusiastic. Before the bar, right after we smoked our first joint, a guy was crossing Douglas and he said, “BLOOD ON MY DICK OR BLOOD ON MY KNIFE. YOU DECIDE.” At which point, I turned to Matt and made a face I don’t think I’ll ever be able to replicate. Ever again. In case you were wondering about the cryptic contents of the previous entry.

Anyway, Matt is a doll, my brother, my brother’s doll, and altogether a brilliant formation.
Moreover, I am thinking, incredibly difficult to synthesize into fictional form. Though not impossible. I have An Idea. A pretty little idea. Here comes the prose. Over and under layers of vocals and sound. ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥!

Keep it on TEH LowDown

Doze hah fizes ill make youz bline, beetch!

EYE CHEWS YR NIFE! I CHEWS MY LIFE!

Through Me

Everything talks to me, the back of my cereal box. It tells me to “be” the best I can be. Yes, it uses inverted commas. Find my inner Zen, outlines what Asian cultures have been doing for thousands of years for enhanced hearts. The fine print tells me that I’m itchy all over and pens cover my floor. The guilt the back of my cereal box brings me is insurmountable. Here I have been for the past two days, out of commission. Though not completely turned around. Just incapacitated. Eclectic, arguing about elephant coat hangers, telling my mother I’m moving four days before I move. She took it incredibly well, not even under the circumstances. She says I’m more mature and a lot less naïve than she was at my age. I was always such a Good Person, she says, more than a hint of disdain in her tone.

It's Time To Return To The Bargaining Table

Love Letter

Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just tow me an inch, no-
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter-
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chiseled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,

But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.
And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.

I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

-- Sylvia Plath

"And Now I Know How Joan of Arc Felt" (the smiths)

Crumbs on the floor, raisins and the belly of the beast. I’ll spend ten dollars to make you happy, another eight to make me miserable. Now you need cold water on your hand. I’m mixing my pronouns, they're grieving like this is the vacuum, this is the coalmine has too many elements of your name, linguistically. Anything can leave the stomach, a smile, or through it, a playing card with this figure. Saturday was late night sushi in a booth. We all sat cross-legged and ordered a Lover’s Boat to share at arms’ length. The service asked us if we could please keep the door open, and I’m sure we could have, but the act left me with less to lean my back against. Later some of us danced at a second choice. I took it fairly seriously and ended the night by sticking a plastic juice bottle in my mouth. I said I was pretending it was a penis. You can dress her up, but you can’t take her out, Bulford said. The bottle was empty, fat twelve year old--and still it was both my legs dangling from the chair. I spent some time expressing myself. Sunday was old timer’s hockey. We were surrounded by families and retards. Retards and families. Afterward we took the bus back into town and knocked on a door. In the doorway, I got a gift and was very touched and inspired, in a way comparable to the feeling I’d get leaning against my locker in junior high, peering into my lunch box, and someone breezing by, using the balls of their feet for direction, like hopping on riverstones to the opposite shore, and swiftly switching their juicebox, crust and jam for whatever it was I had just been peering straight through. Someone random. That’s key, starting with my hair and how it was worn then. Someone random who looks nothing like me. And if I’m totally honest, some of it comes from this summer and stuff I meant to have on my answering machine, outgoing. Project. Project. Project. Don't disturb me it's peeking out from the wings. We then watched a film I love very, very much. I had watched it long enough ago that I was able to relish in forgetting the outcome of some scenes. Cough. You know, this is where my character says to your character, I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing with you. Yesterday, I wrote an email to someone that ended with: what people do as they wait. Things they fill up, trays. This has become a mission for me again, being related. Or disposing of your body parts gradually from my freezer.

In The Wings

We secured our desired place today. Paid the damage deposit. We’re moving into a building I’ve wanted to live in for two years. It’s on Douglas, in town. We can’t move in until November 4th, which is when the landlord will be finished painting the place and putting in new carpet. I am relieved. Though also, I am slightly ill. I think it’s from stress and having the blood drained from me yesterday evening. I’m also excited about THREE new projects, all of which are currently in the making. I have also just finished drinking my second cup of ginger tea. Boyfriend is over, and after this is posted, we’re going to head downstairs, where I will make us soup. Something is wrong with his left leg. To the doctor’s on Tuesday--for him, I myself shall survive on dissolvable supplements and sleeping under three blankets.

& Also: Michael is So Getting A Puppy. (!) :D

Roger Corman Your film will be 39% romantic, 31% comedy, 61% complex plot, and a $ 33 million budget.

An action-complex tale about a complex character that is you. Corman was responsible for a very early Jack Nicholson film, 1963's The Terror (Francis Coppola was associate producer), filmed in three days! The actor who plays you will emote complexity like Jack ... maybe Christian Slater or Gwyneth Paltrow. Also, Roger filmed the original Little Shop of Horrors film -- which in the 1980s was the basis for a hit Broadway musical and another film. All his films were shot for mere thousands of dollars, sometimes completed within the week. Roger knows talent, and knows how to keep costs down with complex stories such as your life story. His versions of Edgar Allen Poe stories are considered classics (The Raven, The Pit and the Pendulum), and also directed Deathsport and Bloody Mama in the 1970s. Oh, yeah, man, this guy will make your film a cult classic!

I'm Not Sure If These Results Are Good or Not. It Is 3 AM, Mind.

the noise

oh god I am so sexually charged.

plans for November:

--grow hair out, longer.

--rock the cowboy boots.

--the night kills?

--find a waking time.

--shake the ribcage

--find a little sister,

--as a result, drink more milk

--trash & heat

--heat & trash

pls post your suggestions in the comment link below.
I want to see what I’m up for. I have a hunch it’s most anything.

This Seems Like a Relevant Place To Stop (posting these quiz results)

Albert Camus Your Literary Style Is 83% Realistic, 83% Philosophical, and 66% Psychological!

Your literary style most resembles Albert Camus'. Camus was a French writer who was heavily influenced by existential philosophy. All of his work is very philosophical and concerned with existential issues such as the meaning of life and the possibility of morals without God. Camus was also a very cerebral writer, examining the thoughts and feelings of his characters in order to bring out his existential philosophy. His characters frequently ponder their situations and the absurdity of their lives, making them very vivid psychological portraits. Unlike most philosophical writers, of course, Camus' style is also very realistic and tends to avoid allegories or symbolism in favor of a true representation of existence through a study of a character's psyche. Your literary style is similar to his because your stories are realistic, psychological studies which emphasize intellectual issues in philosophy. Some stories you may enjoy: The Stranger, The Plague, and The Fall. The other literary styles: Edgar Allan Poe / Jose Luis Borges / Franz Kafka / F. Scott Fitzgerald / Fyodor Dostoevsky / Herman Melville / George Orwell

I May or May Not Be Killing Time. But Never Wasting. Oh No, Not Wasting.

Fashionista 45% Tastefulness, 75% Originality, 67% Deliberateness, 43% Sexiness

[Tasteful Original Deliberate Prissy] One is certain: you have great taste and plenty of ideas. You have clearly defined beliefs about what's good and what's bad in fashion but they are far from banal. Stylish and imaginative, you prefer to inspire admiration than to shock and you mostly succeed. Even if sometimes you'd like to have more courage to put on something absolutely outrageous you do great job in creating a unique look that others look up to. There is a possibility that you work in the fashion industry. If you don't, perhaps you should. The opposite style from yours is Bar Cruiser [Flamboyant Conventional Random Sexy]. All the categories: Fashion Enemy Bar Cruiser Kid Next Door Sex Bomb Hippie Kid Fashion Rebel Fashion Artist Catwalk God(ess) Librarian Sporty Hottie Office Master Uptown Girl/ Boy Brainy Student Movie Star Fashionista Glamorous Soul

pet for life

God, it’s such a conscious grabbing, isn’t it?

This is all so . . . . Szpakian

Genghis Khunt Random Brutal Sex Master (RBSMf) We almost called you Brutus the Uterus and attached this picture: But we figured you wouldn't understand, and rightly so. We don't understand either. So you are Genghis Khunt: master of man, bringer of pain--riding your way to conquest after conquest. Your sexual avarice is legendary. You've already had an unusually high amount of experience, and, still you look for more. You intimidate many. You make no apologies. Your exact opposite: The Sonnet Deliberate Gentle Love Dreamer Personality-wise, you're carefree and relatively easy-going. You don't plan things out ahead of time; you tend to live in the moment. Of course, this can cause some damage when the moment happens to include a screaming orgasm with his younger brother. Hence the 'brutal' tag we've given you. But you know what, take five seconds to lock the doors, and you'll be fine. There's nothing wrong with a little sex, or a whole lot. AVOID: The Slow Dancer CONSIDER: The 5-Night Stand, The Hornivore, The Playboy Link: The 32-Type Dating Test.

shetland

everyday I cry because I don’t have a pony,
like when a hand touches a building
I keep dropping bowls.
pretty soon I’ll be knocking them over.
can it tell? because down they go,
not a crack on them, ready to pick up
limpbrain, recordstores, & an address
becomes an old one. before you touch the new walls.

I feel unloved only for the reason that there's been no sleep
and my skin will start reminding me of a certain music soon,
start picking among the inanimate hiding place of animals
you fight back with boiling water down the drain.

asexual mannequins

day too long,
timebomb.

& This is From The Summer Where I Talked To my Shrink for Four hours A Day Over The Phone. If You Can't Tell.

So I’m wearing a wool peacoat in the middle of summer, unable to leave my house, barely able to enter my backyard. And here I am now, developing theories about anti-pregnancy fuzz. How times have changed.

Anyway, today way great. Matt got me, Lucas and Xavier started on a shimmering vitamin program that’s specifically designed for recovering heroin addicts. Also, me and Matt and Lucas went to the Moka House. We sat on the heated patio for hours and unconsciously talked in newage post-pomo speech with shit-eating grins never quite reaching our faces. We played panel games and mapped out theories as words/concepts into algebra and spoke of the shape/construct of my heart. Later, me, Matt, Lucas & Xavier went to Value Village, where I bought a splendid long, long shirt. & then me and Xavier trotted off into the slight chill for takeout sushi and a rented movie from Xanavision, which ended up being Sideways. Pleasantly difficult to watch, even with canned mussels on crackers. We were torn, but not in a bad way.

Things That Are --Funny-- To Me:

--I have 34 dollars in library fines at the u of v.

--If I don’t do laundry this week then I’m a failure in life. My hamper is barely visible beneath the clothes.

--I was supposed to GO FOR A LATE DINNER with boyfriend, but I fell asleep and the phone was beyond me.

--I’ve been up since three in the morning, not breathing and thinking about security boxes. Meaning: safes with combination locks. But only while remaining in bed. The thoughts stopped when I pulled the covers back and proclaimed myself an absolute maniac.

--OK. Let’s get crazy.

Survey From Mariko & Another Photo From Yonder Because *I'm Not Over It* Yet.

A is for age
22

B is for booze of choice
(Authentic) Absinthe, rum & coke, gin & tonic, vodka soda, Caesar when I’m pacing.

C is for career
writer-- fiction, poetry, fine arts maniac, to be continued.

D is for your dad's name
Stanislaw (Stan)

E is for essential items to bring to a party
eyeliner, notebook, pack of smokes

F is for favourite song at the moment
(I'm really sorry about this, like: in advance):
“Fancy Claps,” & “You Are a Runner And I Am My Father’s Son," by Wolf Parade
“Teen Age Riot,” & “The Sprawl,” by Sonic Youth
“Enjoy the Silence,” & "Shake the Disease," & "Blue Dress," & "Just Can't Get Enough," by Depeche Mode
"Galang," & "Bucky Done Gun," by M.I.A.
"Me and My Man," & “Needy Girl,” by Chromeo
"John, I'm Only Dancing," & "Fame," & "Sound and Vision," by David Bowie
“Sexy Results,” & "Pull Out," by Death From Above 1979

G is for favourite game
Gimme fiction.

H is for hometown
Victoria? Calgary?

I is for instruments you play
DOES FUCK YOU SOUND SIMPLE ENOUGH?
:**
:****
Does cadence count??

J is for jam or jelly you like
plum, orange

K is for kids?
great to use for portrait photography, but difficult to write from a first person perspective.

L is for living arrangements
I’m moving into a one-bedroom with my boyfriend on November 1st. Presently, I live in a massive garret with coved ceilings, French doors/balcony and a clawfoot bathtub in the middle of the room.

M is for mum's name
Ivona

N is for name of your crush
I have this thing where I have the biggest crush in the world on whomever I am talking to at the moment. This helps me breathe in a way that allows lines, or concepts to glimmer through.

O is for overnight hospital stays
the mental institution in Calgary.

P is for phobias
anti-depressant drugs, pregnancy, diving headfirst into water.

Q is for quotes
surfacing, by Atwood

R is for relationship that lasted the longest
Trevor, 3 yrs. :/ :/ :/

S is for sexual preference
thin people with clear skin and a moment’s notice.

T is for time you wake up
any time between 7:30 and noon (at the latest) and under normal circumstances.

U is for underwear
panties: striped or solid, uni-coloured, usually bright or plain white. COTTON.

V is for vegetables you love
tomatoes, black beans, eggplant, jalapeno peppers, asparagus, garlic, yams, shitake mushrooms.

W is for weekend plans
editing, living to write, running over me.

X is for x-rays you've had
I’ve had none.

Y is for yummy food you make
crepes, fruit perogies.

Z is for zodiac sign
cancer.

_______________________________________________________________

I FIXED MY MOTHERFUCKING PHONE!! It works and I can call people once again. Ah.

A Time Ago. I Said Last Night That I Really Miss Taking Photos of Myself. So Much To Document. I Mean, This Will **Never Be Again**:

"I want my hair back," is what I am saying in the bottom photo. Or, it's quite possible that I had just vomited three litres of food a few moments before. I can't exactly remember: SO YOUNG AND SO COLD!. God, how I wanted my fucking hair back during that time. Self portraits have always been the hardest and most frustrating thing in terms of photos.

Now for the play-by-play: I’ve drawn a bath. The Velvet underground are playing. Time to soak. Ha, ha--these are so fucking darling/how am I not myself?/you're such a wonderful person, but you've got problems:

I think it is a positive sign that she didn’t upchuck last night.

This is from Joy. The instructions are as follows: google “(Caroline) needs” using your own name and the quotes and see what you get. What I got is a solution to all my life’s problems. Second to last is my new official Life Goal, because I owe them:

Caroline needs at least ten frogs from each location.
Caroline needs to calculate an hourly heat input rate for her natural gas.
Caroline needs the money but is reluctant to take from a child.
Caroline needs many buddies, and even more prayers.
Caroline needs a car to get to the supermarket.
Caroline needs an MRI every year for the rest of her life.
Caroline needs to find a central London location for the event.
Caroline needs help coving a bedroom ceiling.
Caroline needs other people for almost every thing and is surprised when she doesn’t get her way.
Caroline needs to find a way to begin to make amends for what she has done.
Caroline needs to be able to trust her heart.
Caroline needs to be mocked for saying this.
Caroline needs to be more sexy.
Caroline needs to learn to express her opinion even if it's not flattering before she finds herself caught up in a lie.
Caroline needs a reference group that is familiar with the context in Central Asia.
Caroline needs some work on her teeth.
Caroline needs you to sponsor her.
Caroline needs fluids, and we worry (probably unnecessarily) that she isn't getting enough.
Caroline needs a kiss.
Caroline needs my full attention and energy. I think it is a positive sign that she didn’t upchuck last night.
Caroline needs help to deliver food and medicine to the starving Cheyenne people, to whom she owes her life.
Caroline needs to learn, roses really smell like poo poo.

I am Pure Evil

Mum phoned, she was soaking in the hot springs for awhile. After the new year, Ralph Klein is sending all Alberta residents a cheque for 400 dollars. He’s also looking into the possibility of two years of free tuition. I’m not looking smug. Not like I deserve it or anything. I’m just highly involved in raping the landscape, and free money is my reward. Sinister, sinister, the family business, dirty kind of homeland love. I mean hey, a massive surplus is a massive surplus. Give me urban, give me leggings, plucked brows, the importance of keeping your assigned number close to heart, reachable by hand, JUST A PHONE CALL AWAY.

The bottom line is that there’s a fat, grizzled, alcoholic cowboy throwing money at my face. And I will sure to put it down the front of my pants. "Give me my money back, I want my money back, you bitch." OK. Now I'm laughing.

Yes. Thank you. This is all Life is for Me--When I say "Vessel," or Mention Religion. Urban, Manmade Knoll.

INTERVIEWER

You have said at various times that, for you, literature is like a game. In what ways?

[JULIO] CORTAZAR

For me, literature is a form of play. But I’ve always added that there are two forms of play: football, for example, which is basically a game, and then games that are very profound and serious. When children play, though they’re amusing themselves, they take it very seriously. It’s important. It’s just as serious for them now as love will be ten years from now. I remember when I was little and my parents used to say, “Okay, you’ve played enough, come take a bath now.” I found that completely idiotic, because, for me, the bath was a silly matter. It had no importance whatsoever, while playing with my friends was something serious. Literature is like that–it’s a game, but it’s a game one can put one’s life into. One can do everything for that game.

(from the Paris Review, Issue 93, Fall 1984)
_________________________________________________________________

Though I'm sure people who play football for a living would probably disagree with part of that statement, I am loath to point out. I’m too primitive not to.

If my grip loosened, flesh-toned, and the coffee cooled.

Belongs to a Movement, or: Accidental Photo

My horoscope is right: I’m looking in the mirror, I’m giggling. My hair is as much wavy as it is romantic, the back staircase--there's a recipe on that can, just flip the label, cook over medium heat: I've never been and never will be a soprano, though the note moves up, bounces. There's this urgency, now. i.e.: a life of refills, top-ups, tell-me-agains. Reading books for all the wrong reasons.

Bad Nut

I almost ate a Californian bee! From Paramount Farms! Not two moments ago! I've cradled it back into the halved shell, for coffin. God, my entire life is ritual, minus routine. It's this Random Holiness, and not in the abstract. Just sort of happens.

In other news, I think I fell into a coma last night, while watching a French film. It wasn’t so much a matter of focusing on and attempting to read the subtitles, so much as trying to focus the images on the screen. I think we all fell into a coma--I remember waking up at one point, the clock told me it was three in the morning, the TV was all grey static, the tree lamp still burning its underwater yellow glow. What the fuck, what the fuck was in that pot? Since when does a third of a joint knock you on your ass? I don't understand this. It was like codeine.

lined up

I finished the story. How did that happen?: more and more writing is becoming like sex to me. I mean, oh, I guess I'm done . . . . ."done"??, &tc. I seriously feel the need to wink at you all in the most disgusting way right about now. And it's an impossible need, really. Unless I give you a little bit of: ;) . . .which is pretty fucking great in and of itself.

artistic screaming of the world

If your main goal in life is to eat more protein, then I can certainly help you. I have a giant bag of nuts. I feel like a fucking squirrel. OH GOD I HAVE A VERY APPROPRIATE LINE OF DIALOGUE BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO INSERT IT. I'm going to roll these shells around inside my mouth until a solution presents itself through salt. Anyone have a better idea? Flower dances don't count. Becoming an alcoholic is invalid, but only because the liquor stores are closed by now.

"Because when you learn/you know what makes the world turn."

So much writing, you guys. I got so much writing done today. I have a vague idea of how to end this story. My phone has been turned off all day and will remain turned off for the rest of the night. Apologies to anyone who tried to call me. It would be impossible to talk to me right now. Time for another scene. I have literarily been writing prose and eating massive amounts of fish and jam while listening to Depeche Mode all day. Welcome, oh life.:

"I don’t want to start any blasphemous rumours
But I think that god’s got a sick sense of humour
And when I die I expect to find him laughing."

"These signals will be followed by an announcement explaining the nature of the emergency."

That is all about the weekend for now, blaze a blaze galang a lang a lang lang. There’s a whole other day and a half to write about. I drew the bird’s-eye bloody toilet pictured above on the ferry on the way back and am posting it now to show you how depraved I am and how much you love me for it. hey little girl . . .. fully substantiated.

"Words are very / unnecessary" (DM)

Oh my god. I’m writing like a maniac. And I’m sorry (?), Xavier, but you’ve somehow found your way into my story. I really don’t mean to satirize you. That’s not my intention. Your face (person?) just happened to be at the forefront of my mind when one of my characters started to emerge. I think it's because I've had a lot of emotionally intense moments with you lately--which have been making me think about the essentials (when I said this is hard for me &tc.). I’m not sure if I should be apologising or what here? Since it’s never really “the actual person”--or it can never be, in fiction. hahaha! Oh my god, this is the freakish, unrelenting and totally inappropriate power I constantly live in fear of. But oh my god: I’ve forgotten how good it felt to write something structured like this. I mean, I knew it felt good, but I’d almost entirely forgotten how fucking good it was. Anyway. One thing’s for certain. I’m getting a cocker spaniel, maybe a whippet. I’m naming it Candy Darling. Go fish:

“Polish cuisine is very hearty, traditionally people eat a lot and consume a lot of meat, preferably with a vodka shot.”

I’m stupidly listening to Wolf Parade and am already weeping for Polish Christmas eve, Wigilia. It’s the dinner table, mostly. Being forced to eat whatever’s put in front of me. I miss home. So fucking much. Just as long as I know I’m crying for an actual reason and that plane tickets exist. It’s scary when it’s nothing. I haven't been back for almost ten months. That's the longest I've ever gone. That length gives me this distinct feeling of a definitive line being engraved between my childhood and whatever the hell this is supposed to be. I feel sugary. I had sprats for dinner--deboned, fried and covered in tomato sauce. Thank god you’re not here. Thank god you weren’t. Home is the white space on the page, between the text. And it’s such a comfort. Haha, I made art today. Ha. Ha.

"run still on me"

You want to dance to this.

Proportion has something to say for itself.

Blackouts & Tweezers

One of Joy-toy’s recent posts just made me realize that all my problems stem from the fact that lately, I’ve been looking and acting like a speed-infested drag queen. I’m really coming into my own here. Anyway. I’m working on a story. I have headphones on and I’m grinding my chair as I write. Rest assured I’ll be deaf by the time I reach word count. I won‘t be able to hear a thing come workshop. But my thighs will look amazing from all this manic chair-dancing. And nothing ever mattered more to me. Except for maybe my I <3 ballet pin. So I've forgotten how to make an actual html heart. So I suck that bad. At least I have a handle on Championship Cheese, gaylord. So you’re thinking, wait a second, she’s just masturbating in her chair! And she’s trying to write while doing it. Like hell. Bitch, please. This is the literary equivalent of Gay Tribal Spiritual Nature Gay Dance Parkade Stoner Party trance. Don’t make me get gender neutral on your ass.

Frico

I just ate an entire brick of Gouda. It was wonderful. I was wondering why I couldn’t stop eating it since devouring the whole thing like that is obviously ridiculous and so I eventually resorted to googling the stupid cheese and discovered that it won the World Championship Cheese Contest (I’m not even kidding you that this exists). Not only was it best in its Edam/Gouda class, but oh, it won best of everything. I feel retribution of the lamest sort. I love the internet. I love the Dutch. They’re going to make my ass as big as the woman’s who made my espresso this afternoon. And justifiable so, you guys. That was some amazing crackhouse cheese I just had. Guess how much of this is satirical. Now it's time to look through some Polish fashion mags and see what my people are up to. It’s strange, but as far as I can see, we’ve always been fairly romantic dressers. Even when the deco creeps in.

"I Just Can't Get Enough"

Tonight, I fucked a man in a bus stop. I mean: I walked home after watching the best film (like, if Flannery O'Connor was alive today and influenced by everything here and now and suddenly decided to make films about it all--that film I saw tonight would be a prime example of something stupendously in her oeuvre) of all time and let my fists do the talking. But not in a bus stop.

In other news: go the person from Regina, Saskatchewan (?) who’s reading my blog via a “blocked referrer.”

You rock because you come up beet red in my tracking system and I’m now going to go and masturbate to you because I have no idea where you came from.***

Come over for some too sweet hot chocolate and Depeche Mode, violator. There’s really no better way for us to get to know one another. Oh no. Yes, I'm talking to you, stealthy. Together, we shall be sonically dramatic and all too anonymous.

***I’m only corny when the circumstances are.

Used

I have no fucking idea.

Mostly because I’ve been putting off creation and that makes me veritably caged and, evidently, homicidal, or something. Matthew wrote something on my hand, but I’ve washed my hand since and it doesn’t matter anyway because everything, even this actual act is a deflection: I have no identity unless I’m a conduit for creation. All my fear, all my avoidance, all my fault, all my deep, deep, deep need to sleep. Simple problem, simple answer. Sure, seems that way at this hour and after all that. or was it the simple fact that I’ve said a hundred times before that red wine specifically turns me into a psycho bitch? You may not have retained this fact, I mean, why would you, but there we have it. It may be seven in the morning, but I still need a lamp to see what the hell it is I’m writing. God Damnit, my biggest wish is to shut up but I can't because I'm not built-----.

it's still cold outside

I’m really sorry.

Logic will break your heart &tc.

"Yes I Said Yes I Will Yes"

Gee mom, thanks for the message and I would love to call you back but it’s nearly six in the morning and I just did three lines of street coke with a core group of people and analysed the fuck outta a long loved Lorca poem and it's really all I ever wanted to do all night. Not that it got me anywhere. But I guess that’s the point. Plus, the walk home came across as a lot faster after coming down. It was so swoosh. Was it raining? Cause I got kinda wet. & also: thanks for giving me the ability to fall for ever moment in time. That’s just double-edged, so fucking killer.

Hearts & kisses,

Caro.

ps,

I do, contrary to popular belief, exist. But what‘s that about?

pps,

all this means is that I discovered that the only way to truly take yourself seriously is to not take yourself seriously. But I really should go to bed, because I'm no longer sure if this is the cocaine talking or if I am, in point of fact, having an actual heartattack. Anyway, it’s good to be “home.” And when will that word stop being in parenthesis? I'm blessed enough with that.