Plathological

devil's hand

holyshit: I'm heartbroken.
i just fainted.

"Call me morbid, call me pale" the smiths

"Yes, but does this Rocko, my supposed Italian loveboat motorbike escape fantasy, read? Is he . . .a reader??" I ask. Right before laughing at myself.
"That's all women care about: reading & textures," Matt says.
"No, they just think about the wave of some guy's hair while masturbating," says Xavier. "Anyway, he'll have read Howl, and think that makes him deep---you'll find this amusing."
"Right. Thanks: FOR CONSTRUCTING MY FANTASY LIFE," I say, right before silently confirming that all this is very true and fabricated.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Today, I have discovered that the smoke detector in my apartment rings at high A, like an energy chime--nurtures your mind, with great thoughts. Also, if you slap your knee with a tuning fork, it too, is high A. Fuck, mechanical laughter, the sound of your reflexes bouncing off the walls of the room--it's like waking up, on your own, in an alternate universe, every day. There is another world. And it's filled with the low pitch of light, unopened Christmas presents, leftover olives packed in acidic water, and various dips. If I have a child, I am raising him or her on The Smiths, probably exclusively. He or she can find the eclectic span on his or her own, I'll give her the handlebars, it must be this way. I will also raise her on reversed concept of time by making her to be entirely nocturnal, like a cat, rabbit, or desert animal. Daylight will tire her. Babygirl will sleep on the loveseat under parted curtains, or, often, in a burrow, or den. Her hearing will be impeccable, for sensory compensation. She will eventually move past my nurture and command and just remain nocturnal all her life, simply to escape daytime heat. She'll always carry a flashlight, aim with intent to see. All her babysitters will be gay men, who threaten to fondle her ironically to which she'll only be able to laugh, saying, between hysterics, but I don't have any breasts!! My mother gave me a stereo--INSTEAD!! mon dieu. The sitters will then get very flustered when they look in the cupboard and discover she's once again devoured all the Lucky Charms and Cocopuffs, leaving them, with none. In return for these favourable interactions, she will teach them how to locate objects blindly using high bounced sounds: as the only flying mammal, a bat, does: navigate this, asshole!!. Then she'll hand them the can opener, and they'll dip into her preserves. Fuck, my child will be amazing. She'll be able to listen to Joy Division without blinking, without getting messed up or getting the urge to steal many, many packets of orange marmalade from diners while experiencing the hangover of her life. She'll write to you--often, saying But I don't want a lover, I just want to be seen in the back of your car. A friendship sadly lost? Well, this is true . . .and yet, it's false; she'll have seconds to spare.

Xavier's Up Do

Last night was Xavier's birthday party. It was held in the upstairs lounge of Paul's Motor INN. 120 people came, thirty over capacity of the space. Keywords: catered, (brilliant, astute --as always) DJ (Bradley K. of Ghosts/Mousetrap fame), really well dressed people. I drank a mickey of Southern Comfort, about five beer, a gin/tonic, and "whatever else I could get my hands on"--change the pronouns and that's a direct quote from Matt. I was told I looked "very Nico," which was a great compliment. Most of us went to Lucky in a massive throng after twelve-thirty or so, for some (pre-planned) Solid dancing. I had the best possible time. Even though I thought I'd lost my camera (fucking. idiot) when we were in the process of leaving for Lucky, when, in reality (fucking. psycho), I had given it to Jaxon to take home with him earlier because he decided he wasn't up to dancing at Solid ("But I love you too much, Jaxon, too much. Here. Take this camera. Home. With you. But I love you too much." Cough. Sway. Sway). I blacked out and couldn't remember handing it over to him. So I kind of panicked, and was kind of angry. But (!) other than those few moments of frantically and systemically turning coats over and desperately stuffing salami into my face to (somewhat instinctively) stabalize my bloodsugar levels with the protein at hand (thank you, MATT, for picking the humus or whateverthefuckitwas, out of my hair): THE EVENING WAS FUCKING PERFECT. Before the event, Matt came over to use my blender and made more humus than this world has seen with its own eyes--Deep.Blender.Power. Deep. Thank god I live above the Mediterranean food store, we didn't have to carry those two cans of 2.84 litres of chickpeas very far. Matt spent thirty dollars on olives alone, madness. After Lucky, a few of us went to Xavier's for joints and music and fell asleep there. I had my own personal two hour dance party with my headphones in Xavier's courtward/alley thing and thus I fell asleep last, in the closet. OK. Thank you for the time, dear Xavier. Here's to you. I fucking love you. Your present=soon. !!! I've kind of been getting myself worked up about it--it has to be precious, you mean so much to me.

To give you an idea, this is where the party was held. I actually didn't sit in one of those chairs once, I was running around so much the whole night:

natural disasters

now you tell me how i'm supposed to keep these people alive

year, year, ____: "Don't you know? You're out cold./Don't you know? It's our dance floor!"

I am forcing time to be an endless, damp body, blackout, sunken ship standing on end, nothing left to navigate. I am stretching it out to the slotted weight of decimal point and fitting it into the confinement of bathroom stalls & birthmarks through sleeplessness and documentation, your imitation of my voice as reference point--gender, & regular phone calls, locked away. Lately, the base, hungry aesthetic: I am always squinting my eyes for ice-clear perception, lifting my bottom lids, thinning the room. My mind is one in a series. You know when you have this vision, and you couldn't imagine your life without its hot edges and it's all you've ever wanted, and all you ever will want and you could never want anything other than this constantly all-consuming vision? I have this vision; it rarely, if ever, leaves me. It goes something like this: picture a blank page, hallways at all hours, not having a need to speak through lyrics, though the option is always there, the present tense, going days without adding something to the room--letting the environment sink in, before another light hits it, an axis behind your back, saying, as it tilts & glints, "I thought you knew: there isn't a set time; this is just a light." Only one of these things I can hold in my hand, to mouth. It's the only thing I can live with in a tangible reality--& it's constructed--recorded parallax, for YOU, the other things are dreams, by default, but also because of all the properties that make them dreams: density level, steam, peculiar off-hours of recognition. It's taking a desperately long time for my apple tea to cool. I am permitting myself one month of real, true, fully felt, unsuppressed emotion: my mouth could be stained red with timing. Starting now. I'm going soft for awhile, closer to the heart. I am liable to cry at any time, and, when I do, I expect you to be good to me. The word go makes my body take a peculiar shape. This bitch has needs, an emdashed brotherhood: clearly written dates, the sheets, documentation of eyecolour, the public service, relevance, put your headphones on, PUT YOUR FUCKING HEADPHONES ON (again---I'm outta time, I'm outta fuckin time, I'm a gasoline gut with a vaseline mind but, Wanna disco? Wanna see me disco? Let me hear you depoliticise my rhyme):

"Dance, dance revolution/ all we're gonna get/ unless it falls apart/ so I say: go go go/ let it fall down/ I'm ready for the end" (john vanderslice) :**

"This is why the ranchers have it made, Caroline--they have the ponies. That's why they can make all the records, and we can't. Caroline, let's relocate, immediately, to Saskatchewan," Matt says.

Dear My Mister & Misses Diary,

Tonight, Matt brought many different hamburgers and we ate those hamburgers. Then, we got stoned, drank readymade vodka mixes and listened to music that was perfectly tuned, sonically and lyrically, to my present life. I went off about how all our love should go towards Saskatchewan, to give you a bit of context. Then I started to wax about Saskatchewan in the context or non-context of post-modernism (it wasn't post-colonial, if you're wondering. It was more metaphysical, or, alternately, meta///physical) to which Matt said, "ou sound like an essay! This is what your charts-&-graphs state is like--it's more verbal. We also drew you a picture (in my real life diary--spooky), together, in tandem--it became something else, through process (see, above, and below, for a looser example of our love for all things concerned= ♥ sk, & ♥ sk & one, two, three, four=yes, go, another centreology/parting the wheat as you walk, everything below you, nothing above you). Who can find the all mighty pig? as in born in the year of, motherfucker. Hint: the final stage.

love,

caro, ks, ks, ks.

La la la (comma) la la la la la la la

The strangest parts of my body are falling apart--certain areas of my mouth's inner lining are now sizable flaps. Confession (or reiteration): I hate Metric. I find them embarrassing. I think they're trying to be a super dance pop version of Cat Power. Think about it. I especially take offence to the use of the word remodel in the song Dead Disco--YEAH, REMODEL, YOU STUPID, AFFECTED, WANNABE BITCH. THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE CLEARLY AND DESPERATELY TRYING TO DO AND YOU'RE MAKING WHAT YOU THINK IS SOME SORT OF CATTY, CLEVER AND IRONIC STATEMENT ABOUT IT. Well, holy fuck, way to set up your own downfall: IN THE CHORUS. I will also say that I could easily see the first verse of that song being sung by Modest Mouse. So, hopefully, enough said on that matter. I could go on about other lyrics in other songs, I won't at length: I'll just say that I find them, for lack of a better term, try-hard--they're shooting for something poetic, but they're not quite obscure enough (see, ladytron, cLOUDDEAD, cocorosie) or political enough (see, le tigre, M.I.A.) to reach what seems to be their desired affect. "Cold as numbers," is easy poetry, and that's a problem in this case--it's actually trying to be poetry. The metaphor sucks, it's a cliche now. B minus. Writing song lyrics is very different from writing actual poems. Song lyrics should be song lyrics and, for the most part, it takes a different type of honesty to make song lyrics poetic (I'm thinking of The Knife and Siouxsie & the Banshees as exceptions--many of their lyrics could quite possibly work as poems on their own). It seems Interpol knows this. The lyrics of Evil are a very, very good example of what I'm saying here: they don't struggle to go beyond themselves, and are comfortable in and with themselves, while at the same time still being incredibly rich, full, and loaded. They don't strain, affectedly, against the music that carries them, that much is clear. ONE OF METRIC'S SONGS IS CALLED POSTER OF A GIRL. What. The. Fuck. Her voice is like Nico's, if Nico had been trained in a choir. The only song I "like" is Monster Hospital, and that's mostly because 1) her voice seems less constrained for the most part and 2) the first bam-chic-a-bam riff at the very start is actually pretty fucking awesome: I love the distortion . .everything in that song is OK, all well and good, until we reach "I fought the war and [guess what] the war won." Then it's like Brittney Spears making "indie" (whatever--shut the hell up) music: "I fought the war, and THE WAR WON TOXIC GUN, TOXIC GUN//I'M SLIPPING UNDER. I also just love how she PUTS HER OWN RECORD ONTO THE PLAYER AT THE START OF THAT VIDEO: "Oh, what could THIS be? A Record?!!?! Oh, my! IT'S MY RECORD! I MADE THIS RECORD WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS! I know! oh, oh: I KNOW! Let's be supertastic meta and I'll put MY OWN RECORD ON IN MY OWN BLACK AND WHITE VIDEO." Though, I'm listening to them right now (quite possibly to solidify my opinion), and am laughing to myself. Which more than likely makes me seem like an asshole, but what else is new over here in Caroland? You were a little girl, you really liked Swanlake, you'd dance around in your bedroom. Your mother bought you the princess, fairy tutu you always wanted--YOU'RE LIKE A YOUNG KAREN KAIN!

london tea, heavy label

another hit

I am slow cooking my food so it senses the air that forms it, I am falling apart, opening and closing like a cashbox, only for very particular exchanges. I stay awake all night and sleep all day so I won't have to face the bright cold of daylight, or leaving my house. It's ok, though; I'll just change the music: it's killing me. That's as far as I'll go. Douglas Coupland sounds like a good idea, actually-- thanks.

& then: I said I feel like every cell in the air is a peeping tom, ready to part the curtains. Look at me. This is not bad, not good: I feel like an unwritten sex-diary.

Matt has just defined our current condition as: Urban Stress Ennui. How very exact. I'm either so excited I don’t know which way to look, or so bored I feel like puking. Again: apt, exact. Then we discussed how Christmas was freaking us out (we’re intellectualising our gifts too much), and followed it with an analysis of what a Douglas Coupland character would do during Christmas: abuse of prescription drugs, more abuse of prescription drugs to combat the affects of the first round, vapidity, fashion, pregnancy, then, finally, the voice of God in a Jacuzzi, concluding with, "Yeah, that pretty much sounds like my life." i.e.: You look like David Bowie, but you've nothing new to show me. Xavier-Mom has advised me to take a long walk, take a bath and imbibe much hot liquid. The panacea. I will do so, now. Thank you, boys: that was swift. & Apt.

I love these tests--they're always so pleasantly accurate

Your sloan type is SCUEI:

not afraid of doing the wrong things, does not value rules and regulations, prefers unpredictable to organized, does not accomplish work on time, needs to maintain high levels of excitement, out for own personal gain, not afraid to draw attention to self, more pleasure seeking than responsible, not bothered by disorder, retaliatory, thrives on the rush of risk taking, unpredictable, asks questions that nobody else does, often does not know what they are doing, spontaneous, first to act, not easily hurt, not apprehensive about new encounters, does not readily admit mistakes, not a perfectionist, not apologetic, disorganized, socially comfortable, outgoing, calm in crisis, fearless, atheist/agnostic tendencies, good at getting people to have fun, opinionated, not easily moved to tears, sexually immodest, adventurous, unconventional, aggressive, often late, high energy level, likes the spotlight, ambivalent about the needs of others, worry free, acts without thinking or planning, bad at saving money, selfish

Your primary type is Inquisitive:

more interested in intellectual pursuits than relationships or family, detaches to analyze factors from multiple perspectives, regularly uses ideas and tools to transform understanding, enjoys playing with random interconnections between ideas and patterns, would describe self as a nerd in high school, likes science fiction, introspective, good at fixing things, more comfortable around adults as a child, feels both special and defective, knows the darkside of life well, is not bothered by going long periods without speaking with people, more intellectual than sensual, can be bitter, problem solver, relys on mind more than on others, driven by curiousity, feels best when working, minimalist

the shoe fits

What does your handwriting say about YOU?

The results of your analysis say:

You plan ahead, and are interested in beauty, design, outward appearance, and symmetry.
You are a shy, idealistic person who does not find it easy to have relationships, especially intimate ones.
You are diplomatic, objective, and live in the present.
You are a talkative person, maybe even a busybody!
You enjoy life in your own way and do not depend on the opinions of others.

a photo of my leg under my coat, at matt & xavier's place (photo by xavier)

an eye for an eye.

daily dares

edge

my friends blend into their environment:

Matt

Hey Mami

expoexpo

Xavier Ft. A Joint:

Xavier is a Postmodern Romantic:

Xavier Ft. Hair:

Xavier Ft. Internal Thought Process:

Matt & Random Street Parrot:

Random Street Parrot II:

Random Street Parrot I:

Matt, Xavier (in my sunglasses), and Jonathan, Yesterday:

Matt, As I See Him:

Xavier

Xavier from back:

the king & I

levels

oh, parkades:

This one breaks my heart:

en-why-see

my boys

So combat, so furniture:

First Base! Second Base!

oh, above:

More of Yesterday:

Xavier & Matt, Yesterday:

Xavier With Tape Recorder, Yesterday:

Xavier, Yesterday:

Matt, Last Night Before Going To The 50/50 To See Blackavar:

Matt, Sake, Indoor Light:

&, Earlier This Week, Here I Sat on My Couch

With Some Sake, at my Apartment:

Today, In My Courtyard--The End

courtyard go!

yet another:

more courtyard, Matt & Xavier:

Today, In My Courtyard, Xavier:

what I mean, meant

substitutions--nobag

1) "If I had no feelings, I could become the most intelligent woman on earth. As soon as I am cool, my vision becomes acid and scathing." (Anais Nin)

2) "The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart." (Anais Nin)

_________________________________________________________________

a pack of cards--shuffled earlier, a rolled tube of shoeglue, just the graphics: syringe as exclamation point, the number one stuck to my wall--a neon green digit that used to be part of a rather high price, removed from the windshield of a car waiting to be sold. Spending a bit of time lowering the boiling point of water. I’m at a stage in my life where people who can‘t spell are no longer charming, or even infantile--pasta absorbing to weakness, sliding down the sides of the pot. I find overcooked noodles pleasant when they’re served with nothing, memories of broken transmission. Hot, soft food. My favourite desert is wild rice pudding, or something with caramelised pears and some sort of nut. My favourite main courses all contain ginger, or an obliterating spiciness, my favourite come ons subtle and dangerously precise, untouchable. I like making conscious decisions about what to do, what to say. It makes life so much more calculating, by default, deference. Like: I make the decision to make leather suspenders from this object. I make the decision to wear them home under my coat. Or, rather, my laziness does. I make the decision to suddenly be all into suspenders because they remind me that I actually have breasts by trailing over top of them. I’ve come to the decision that if you’re not hot enough to pull off suspenders, then you’re not really hot. Suspenders, I feel, are the ultimate test of one's true hotness. We're scientists. I mean that coldly, with volume control, intimate, and sometimes awkward, lyrics.

Oh, and fucking Matt. You cunt! Putting a beautifully remixed version of my favourite Smiths’ song onto a mixed CD and cunningly calling it Track five (unless it's actually called "Track Five," which is not only a let-down, but outright retarded, I'm sorry). Did I even tell you that was my favourite song by them? If not, then: (I feel) it encompasses how I feel on a daily basis, christ/twelvesideddie. My hate for you consumes me. Anyway, to illustrate: I listened to it when I got home and had a good time weeping. And I do mean good time, weeping.

A (rather self-reflexive) Year In Review (meme from Mariko)

Take the first sentence(s) from the first post of every month in 2005!

January: Find the body parts I'm able to wash with all my clothes still on.

February: I keep running straight into his forearm, huge piece, piece past my senses, skip-a-day slices.

March: I've become a bistro bitch.

April: Over a week of not updating, but living on foodbank peanut butter and frozen bread and simply, but simply not being here, but everywhere else.

May: This morning, at around ten, I was chastised by the landlady who shuffles on the hardwood downstairs, for quote-on-quote "entertaining men in my room at night." Men, plural.

June: Of course, take me there; we'll love the phrase real Jew.

July: Here's some more photos of a few of us hanging out in the parking lot in front of Matt's place.

August: After Woolly Mammoth at Lucky (with Matt & Xavier), a drunken walk home & sex, Jaxon (that's how his name is spelled, I've since learned) is naked and extended, his whole side toward me, against the bed. "What do you think of me," he asks.

September: 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.

October: 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.

November: Stoning our animals to flesh.

December: My fiction prof made me weep yesterday--on the floor of the handicap washroom and later, in front of him (oh, God).

Giving In

The reason I've finally become comfortable with how I've stopped caring, and by that I mean: wringing my hands in my previous all consuming existential manner is: you can't take the postmodern out of the girl. You simply can't. Not even close to entirely. This would be a feat of the ages, and I doubt anyone is truly up to that. Though I welcome the following: (the honing and existence of) craft, accessibility, the pursuit of knowledge, the irony of intent, the double-edged, multi-layered futility of my basic existence, what my emotions mean (to me) in reference, context, and decimal point. Tomorrow I am looking forward to (1) having a shower, (2) editing others' work, for fun. Then I can start digging myself again. Today, after I released myself from my (now) opus of a story, I swayed all over the poles of the bus, upon exodus. Spewing music everywhere, you were telling me how, this ain't no rodeo town. At least I got off at the right stop, this time. Bonus points to Xavier. He gets top prize for waking me up with the most phone calls [at times by (vicious) accident, at times requesting edits of his work] while I was feverish and quite ill, trying to sleep/block out the cold world on my couch. Only I myself could be so subtly and inadvertently cruel. My love for you consumes me. It's like a day and night thing. Oh, grace & poise. xoxox

daybyday

So, I guess giving up in the small hours of last night was the right idea: I spent the day revising, with a couple of breaks for eating, and one for taking out the rather smelly garbage, followed by a walk. Basically changed everything around, added another 1500 1700 words, clarified metaphors, hopefully infused the story with a greater sense of intent and emotion. I hope it suffices, since I don't know how Q will factor into my GPA. Engrossed, I managed to fling my body into a fever by evening so I had to take another two hour break for a nap and chicken soup and a raid of the fruitbowl. I'm still surprised at how, at the end of every semester, my body gets very overwhelmed and upset and starts to argue with me by shutting down, giving up. It really shouldn't shock me, since it happens every time, but it does. I find any sort of regularity or pattern impressive. I still feel a bit off, but hopefully I'll cool down by morning, when it's time for close edits, mechanics. These posts may not be very exciting for you, but, guess what: fuck you. I don't give a shit. That's all there is to my life, when you get right down to it. And I sincerely hope that you do.

I mean, here:

"When it comes to writers being obsessed, I have one notion. Obsession as a state seems so close to the natural condition of a novelist at work on a book, that there may be nothing else to say about it."

--(Don) DeLillo, from the 1979 interview with Tom LeClair.

In Row No. One, They Check Your Dress Size, For Fitting

I'm sitting at my writing desk, my legs are crossed and I'm chain smoking with obvious intent to kill, drinking vegetable juice from a freakin glass goblet I found by the side of the road and being dumbfounded. I am so fucking dumbfounded. Like: I'm supposed to be editing here?? That's the reason I'm still up, isn't it? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck (triple underline dutifully implied). Thus far, I have fixed something that has been flagged as a "mixed metaphor." That's all. Apart from buying vegetable juice that's making me crave Caesars like nothing else, that's ALL I've done today. I'm good at fixing "mixed metaphors," since they've been in my work since I was oh, about thirteen and people have been harassing me about them since I was oh, fifteen. We had a wonderful two year run, mixed metaphors and I, youthful and covert, let's say. Then we were caught out, forced to stare at the screen for hours. And hours. I'm so frustrated. This is going to be what amounts to a complete rewrite, and the extreme prospect of that is changing my breathing patterns to terrible, shallow fluffs. I feel like a mass of fake cotton snow, under the plastic Christmas tree. There are those who are ready to set wrapped boxes of presents right on top of me. And it's not like I don't know what to write. I have two (2) full new scenes planned out in my head and notebook, there's just something about them that's holding me back. That's enough: it's time for pacing. Every story is so much more difficult to write than the last. This doesn't get easier. You just become more and more of a crazed insomniac with the advent of every possible line. Though, verb-tense agreement and dialogue punctuation become something of a second nature--which is . . .a good thing?? What room are we in? Ugh. I'm such a child. This is just like me. The presence of this F-E-A-R is made even more devastating, awful, and pathetically festering by the fact that I have so many wonderfully detailed comments from the prof and they make so much sense to me. The comments are truly inspiring and stated in such a matter-of-fact way that I'm nothing short of grateful. I really have no excuse here, in theory. Though, everything changes once everything else is blocked out--and that's something I'm currently having trouble with--massive ADD-like trouble. Ergo, perhaps it's time for bed and then starting again tomorrow, first thing in the morning.

coming through

Just kissing, the snow is settled in pitiful, balding clumps, the snow isn't something that starts, but remains, like a game of hide & seek, or the word your sister changed her name to, her elbows roadside drift straight to the dinnertable, tirebrowned. Snow suctioned between the blades of grass on the ground like soggy plasticwrap, pulled back from chickenbones--and it's a test result, a shooting range you have a blind date at, more than ever making sure you stand the right way at the right time, finding a place to shoot, barrel pointing away from facility: white flakes as promised result, they make me more domestically productive, perhaps because they remind me so much of home. Damp shirts hang from my door frames like knitted jungle vines, what strippers see backstage. Three loads of laundry, rhythmically folded or hung to synthesizers and electropop, happy as a dried polaroid beside an unoccupied electrical outlet. I finished the night by interior decorating and editing one of Jaxon's poems. It's rather odd (for me) to see that he actually listens to what I tell him in terms of "how to write" and applies it, draft to draft. I'm used to my desperate ideas and comments being lost among the usual plethora and frenzy of workshop--all those mouths and fingers in motion. Who to listen to? What to do? I would make a good teacher, if not only for the reason that I'm fascinated with intervals, rational and irrational numbers, contexts, nouns, the lost and found, free kittens and tom cats that have their price. Whatever, I still have a slight pile of damp clothes on the bed and it's beyond three in the morning and I sort of need to move them before I can sleep without worrying about walking around like a whore in wrinkled rags for the next couple of weeks. The dryer in this building blows (and not dry). I use my handheld for that, supercharged air weakening colours; sometimes I aim it at myself.