Plathological

In my spare time I enjoy waiting around in creepy silence for hidden tracks on CDs, forming relationships with text by making an endless and rather sick web of inside jokes with the wank I read, & killing you.

Sociopath You are 71% Rational, 42% Extroverted, 71% Brutal, and 85% Arrogant.

You are the Sociopath! As a result of your cold, calculating rationality, your introversion (and ability to keep quiet), your brutality, and your arrogance, you would make a very cunning serial killer. You care very little for the feelings of others, possibly because you are not a very emotional person. You are also very calculating and intelligent, making you a perfect criminal mastermind. Also, you are a very arrogant person, tending to see yourself as better than others, providing you a strong ability to perceive others as weak little animals, thus making it easier to kill them. In short, your personality defect is the fact that you could easily be a sociopath, because you are calculating, unemotional, brutal, and arrogant. Please don't kill me for writing mean things about you! To put it less negatively: 1. You are more RATIONAL than intuitive. 2. You are more INTROVERTED than extroverted. 3. You are more BRUTAL than gentle. 4. You are more ARROGANT than humble. Compatibility: Your exact opposite is the Hippie. Other personalities you would probably get along with are the Spiteful Loner, the Smartass, and the Capitalist Pig. * * If you scored near fifty percent for a certain trait (42%-58%), you could very well go either way. For example, someone with 42% Extroversion is slightly leaning towards being an introvert, but is close enough to being an extrovert to be classified that way as well. Below is a list of the other personality types so that you can determine which other possible categories you may fill if you scored near fifty percent for certain traits. The other personality types: The Emo Kid: Intuitive, Introverted, Gentle, Humble. The Starving Artist: Intuitive, Introverted, Gentle, Arrogant. The Bitch-Slap: Intuitive, Introverted, Brutal, Humble. The Brute: Intuitive, Introverted, Brutal, Arrogant. The Hippie: Intuitive, Extroverted, Gentle, Humble. The Televangelist: Intuitive, Extroverted, Gentle, Arrogant. The Schoolyard Bully: Intuitive, Extroverted, Brutal, Humble. The Class Clown: Intuitive, Extroverted, Brutal, Arrogant. The Robot: Rational, Introverted, Gentle, Humble. The Haughty Intellectual: Rational, Introverted, Gentle, Arrogant. The Spiteful Loner: Rational, Introverted, Brutal, Humble. The Sociopath: Rational, Introverted, Brutal, Arrogant. The Hand-Raiser: Rational, Extroverted, Gentle, Humble. The Braggart: Rational, Extroverted, Gentle, Arrogant. The Capitalist Pig: Rational, Extroverted, Brutal, Humble. The Smartass: Rational, Extroverted, Brutal, Arrogant.

“I don’t look at myself in the mirror cause I’m a narcissist, I simply like to watch myself exist.” [Sage Francis]

GOT THE HAIR CUT. CUT THE HAIR. THE HAIR HAS BEEN CUT, BITCHES.

mister-mister

Hey, you (!!):

and you:

I got your voicemail when I got home and broke down in tiny tears, darlings. Thank you for thinking of me. Big hugs all round. I felt a lot better today. & bought some fancy shampoo. Am going to Vancouver March 1st for a show (v. excited) & miss you too like hell. Freezing Point has been revised: yr lyrics damn near end it, Matt and it's all the better for it. xoxoxo & xoxoxo

intake

Christ, someone has to do something about this ennui problem; it's the weak bladder of western society. Depressed all day and no explanation for what’s wrong—it’s harsh: I can barely get words out. My veins and pulse scanned under ultrasound--curled with motion sickness, it's a small, greyscaled version of me on a medical screen, an echoed resemblance to myself--it has straight teeth, fair warning, a month by month definition of the seasons: February--hollow noise in the hand like a baby rattle, shaking, imported plastic. It tries to catch my eye, its lids formed and unglued since the last check-up. And me, the belly down here on these off-blue sheets tucked around the stretcher: living off grilled eggplant stuffed with provolone, Turkish figs, halved green peppers—marinated and stuffed with rice, vegetables. I think sardines can save me: this apartment doesn’t get direct light; it faces the inside of the building and gets strange urban diffused light and I look at the can of sardines and it says 110% of recommended daily value of vitamin D is inside. This apartment shuts the world out. It doesn’t face the noisy main street, makes me think the world doesn’t exit. With its high ceilings and diffused light, it makes me feel like I'm in a sub-wing of a cathedral. Well fuck, Cat Power can’t save me. Altering my clothes can’t save me, though I have a pair of nicely sharp blades. I need a haircut. I need to book a haircut. I need a new carrying case for my laptop.

The world: went for a walk at two in the morning in my black peacoat and boots and there was a homeless guy in the Dairy Queen parking lot. He was standing under the lit awning of the ice store; he was wearing a fuzzy green bathrobe and dolling toothpaste on his toothbrush, gingerly. Bedtime for bums. In a word, he asked me for change, “Change?” Dunno, buddy-- have some mouthwash in my shoulderbag, though.

You know. It’s all those drunken groups of fat frat guys in wide shorts at two in the morning. They’re so drunk that they walk into storefront windows while gabbing into their cell phones and I keep thinking Girls don’t like you, girls don’t like you, girls don’t like you. I keep thinking. Where are your women? Is that your grey area? I'm so bored I actually start to notice you're there. In the same blink I remember tax season is coming up, forms to fill out.

In darkness,
the city is a basement. We hunch in its hallways
like Goya's cats, low to the ground and brindled
with enigmatic rashes, stiff in the joints.
Glued together with rye, or blow, or glue,
we are a regular family.
[Karen Solie, "The Vandal Confesses"]

caro, better than sex, the sound of the future

Your Candy Heart Says "Get Real"

You're a bit of a cynic when it comes to love. You don't lose your head, and hardly anyone penetrates your heart. Your ideal Valentine's Day date: is all about the person you're seeing (with no mentions of v-day!) Your flirting style: honest and even slightly sarcastic What turns you off: romantic expectations and "greeting card" holidays Why you're hot: you don't just play hard to get - you are hard to get

a big "by the way" to me: If all goes well, in a few months, I'll have a university degree. Right. OK. I think that's really fucking me up. I don't know if a feel any smarter, per say. If anything, I feel hardened. Like: gun barrel metaphors would work here. I do think my ability to express my thoughts more precisely has increased, as has my frame of reference. I'm not sure if that equals smarter. For example:

Caro, coming out of the bathroom a few minutes ago: Your pants are in the bathroom.

Jaxon: Really???

Caro: Yeah. They're just chillin on the floor there. You may want to do something about that.

See? Fuck. Communication is radtastic.

TIES EVERYWERE.
TIES EVERYWERE.
TIES EVERYWERE.
TIES EVERYWERE.
TIES EVERYWERE.
[IN MY CLOSET]

"I haven't worn a skirt that short since I was in junior high--she must be one of those mature, high class escorts. But the diamond bracelets aren't real." (me)

After many martinis and dancing to jazz last night at swans, Joy and I drank rum and tried to write a letter of complaint about an elusive thumbnail cat video on a website: WHERE IS THE CAT POUNCING TODDLER IN BACKROADS VIDEO?? FALSE ADVERTISEMENT!! WE’VE BEEN MISLEAD. But, even after we made the effort to register with a false email address, age, name, and sex, the supposed “contact” link on the site was non-existent/suspiciously non-functional. Humor, my ass. More folly: I tried to call J & G later, like I said I would, but, that didn’t work either. Now, because I fried my old laptop and the computer people have not finished extracting all my old files onto disc yet, I have to spend a good fucking part of the day not only re-writing, but re-typing 4000 words and more. At least I type at the speed of light. There’s one thing in my favor. Otherwise, it was good to get out of the house and drink last night. I haven’t drank in two weeks. The waitress rolled her eyes at me (highlight) because I had the gall to correct her about the presentation of one of my martinis. I think I politely suggested that what I ordered was clearly not what she brought to the table (where's the cherry? where's the chocolate rim?) and the obvious solution would be to either bring me what I ordered or knock that drink off the bill. She didn't like that very much. It was cool though: the fat woman was dancing, and she took up half the dance floor, motherfuckers. Where's your precious b-r-e-a-t-h-i-n-g r-o-o-m now, huh?

EDIT:

The waitress knew exactly what I ordered. After I pointed at Ben's drink, Joy said to her, "Yes. She'll have a raspberry chocolate martini." At which point, the waitress repeated the order back to me before heading off to get it.

same result for years

_____________________________________________________________________

as a " spouse," I am a "mindmate." hahaha!

it's asking a lot of us

. second skin.

. as long as there's something happening.

. hostage site.

. via negativa.

. jan zwicky says devoting time to writing, just sitting there counts.

. I've never been in a car with a lazy driver.

. the guy upstairs is a total douche.

. sweated limbs through a fever last night.

. have to rewrite everything.

. things are getting kind of crazy here in terms of workload.

. have become sort of anti-social again.

. want to zero in.

. I associate synthesizers with friendship, though it's hardly appropriate.

. I love my friends.

. I miss my friends.

. I miss (browned eyed drinking with) my friends.

. my packages have arrived:

. a month late.

. they blamed the lateness on my mother,

. to my face.

. you've done enough, canada post (you so gangsta).

____________________________________________________________

proprioception

hostage:

a person seized or held as security
for the fulfillment of a condition

this is ground control

I remember being in Vancouver this fall to see m.i.a. One night while there I was coming off mushrooms that matt had bought off the street after the show. It was bedtime and I was on a couch, a blanket over me, an ashtray on the table to my right. There was a record player behind my head, under the window that faced the street. I don't know how many times I moved the needle back, and back, and back again to the same place, listening to that one side of changes one bowie. I didn't do much about volume. The whole house space oddity for hours. I didn't fall asleep until it was seven in the morning and overcast. I don't sleep when I'm left to myself. I was thinking of this today. Me and Xavier high on shrooms and playing with masks in an empty house. we found them hanging from the rafters, though most were in plastic bags at our feet. doubling over from our compositions, laughter a half noise through masks. distance, distance, thank you for calling home, home: you see--loose phrase when you're re-phrasing, but i'm not thinking of words right now. caroland: who could argue with your definition of me, the land between. still i dreamt last night that everyone was writing about me, deepsea dive, streams of breath through currents. i am as vulnerable as you make me out to be: my mother phones and phones this morning to ask what the weather has or has not done to me--was there a branch that fell on my head? was i knocked out? two of my cousins in poland are getting married this spring. am i trying to write about space or system here? these past few days i've been trying to figure out what comes from what. all i can come up with are loops, feeding. they want me to write poems. they want me to rearrange the elements. it's like i'm spending my life configuring the micro, but my perspective is so spanning--they're implying you can't have one without the other, they're implying that i want what everyone else wants, and this is true: i think all those equations are at the heart of my frustration, zeroed in and sung to sleep.

i'm the kind of person that when you catch me alone, i'm a dustbowl--i'll tell you anything, my face will melt quoting, no matter who you are. that's why i write. that's why writing comes naturally to me--it's because i always want to be truthful and i know i'm as deeply flawed as anyone i interact with. you come at me from any angle and i'm confessional, candid as all that love when setting is important enough to say you will keep this memory like a burning house surrounded by statistics, like an aftermath.

what's your name?

the rules: list five songs that you are currently loving. It doesn't matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they're any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying right now. (ok. cool. i can do that):

1. Drunken Butterfly, Sonic Youth
2. Digital, Joy Division
3. Grass, Animal Collective
4. Crank Heart, Xiu Xiu
5. Doomsday, Combat Furniture

white on the outside

killed my old laptop a couple days ago so bought an ibook G4 in winds that threatened to knock us all down yesterday. thankfully the store was down the street. New machine & am happy happy. Jaxon is becoming a total klepto. Yesterday it was dried cranberries covered in dark chocolate, a few days before it was something else. So busy. Other than buying this wonderful new machine and watching Broken Flowers while eating said cranberries and yogurt covered almonds, I've been working straight through the week. Writing and editing, doing load after load of laundry (endless)--waking to reading these great texts and spouting about them over tea. I�m off to the bookstore now. Research is the key word here. But also pleasure.

September only