When will it end? When will I attract the normal and the kind? When will I stop being a magnet for the absurd?
I was sexually harassed at a cafe yesterday, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon. My faith in humanity has plummeted. I was never touched but the stupid fucking horror of those five minutes is not something anyone should have to endure. A few months back, after I was nearly raped/attacked while on my way home, saved only by a passing taxi, I stopped going out by myself at night and I'm cautious of anyone who walks too close to me - now I have to remain on guard at a cafe in the middle of the day, when all I'm trying to do is write? Fucking bullshit.
Writing retreat is tomorrow. I can't wait for writing and drinking and walking by the lake! Scrabble may be played, and I hear I'm expected to make sushi.
A fun, light sort of day, filled with workshopping poems, drinking tea, standing in the sunshine, and feeling good about stuff.
I had the privilege of attending a lecture by Tim Lilburn in the afternoon. I despise poetry, and this man actually made me want to jump out of the classroom and find a bench somewhere to sit and write a poem at. He was astounding, so funny and intelligent. He was described somewhere as one of Canada's modern poetry "greats," and now I'm itching to get my hands on one of his books. (Of course I had to ruin everything by having a growly stomach during the lecture, which I'm sure half the room could hear. That always happens to me. I coughed excessively when I heard Margaret Atwood read. I was frightened she would have me thrown from the building.)
In the late afternoon I had dinner and drinks with some of the writers crew. Among them Emily, always classy, who today blew me away by signalling for another glass of wine by pointing at her empty glass and winking. I think I want to be her.
Sofia Coppola won a Golden Globe for best screenplay! Hurrah! Also "Lost in Translation" won best Comedy Film, and Bill Murray snared the Best Actor in a Comedy Film. This means Sofia has a good shot at being nominated for a Best Director Oscar. And if she wins she will be the first woman to do so. Only 2 other women have even been nominated - Jane Campion, and some German 1970's lady. The announcement will be made tomorrow morning.
I had a breast exam at the doctor's today. Always such a surreal experience. On the one hand, I am in a professional setting undergoing a routine gynecological examination; on the other, I am flat on my back staring up at a funny poster taped to the ceiling while a strange man is exploring every inch of my breasts and nipples with his hands. Weird, that. I think it will make its way into the novella ... Also something that happened to me during my last Pap Smear (to the squeamish - read no further). I had gone in to have the Pap and then afterwards I was going to discuss some birth control stuff with the doctor. So my legs are up in that weird straddle thing and there's this painful metal tube stuck inside me, and swabs are being poked in, and I'm gritting my teeth and staring at the funny poster, and the doctor says, "So, what did you want to ask about birth control?" !! So we had the whole discussion with me in that crazy position. No eye contact even.
Grrrr. I'm drinking my hangover beer. Warm. Not feeling better yet, though.
The parties last night were interesting. I convinced a woman to taste her menstrual blood ("Don't be scared of your femininity!"), and got hit on by a cute girl with a black tank top. Matt shotgunned beer for the first time and this other girl cracked a beer can on her head. Felt disturbingly like the Okanagan. (I shotgunned my first beer in the Okanagan, at a house party in Enderby. I think it's on film somewhere. Lots of things were on film that night.) I really want some belts. I don't have a single one.
Wrote my proposal for directed studies yesterday. It took forever. Apparently I'll be writing about a filmmaker/coffeehouse girl making a documentary about homeless people while trying to cope with her fast-food restaurant heir lover. Wow! I can't wait.
Is there any greater experience than a Nut Burger and Cuba Libres at the Mint? Not in Joy's world.
Party hopping tonight. No idea what to expect. Not a big fan of house parties, as we all know, but then I am chock-full of Canadian rye and lookin for fun. One of the parties is at Steph's house, and she said to bring our drinkin boots. Rawr.
Writing is going so-so. Have to decide to commit. Being a writer is like being a girlfriend! (or boyfriend) You have to work to make things last. But then, you can't really have sex with a keyboard, can you. Actually no one comment on that, please.
Saw "Donnie Darko" last night. So many great movies out there that never gain critical acclaim so we never hear of them! Apparently DD didn't even receive a theatrical release in Canada. CBC swine. A great cast, including the luscious Drew Barrymore, Noah Wylie, Patrick Swazee, plus that guy who looks like Tobey Maguire and was in "Lovely and Amazing." I highly recommend. Some great dysfunctional family moments around the dinner table. ("Did you just call me an ass-fuck?") Oh so good.
There are certain times in a girl's life when she just has to say, "Fuck it all" and then drink herself into a stupor that will last for days. It's such a great way to cope with disappointment ... Why didn't I know of this when I was a child! The petty sulk-fits and childish squabbles that could have been avoided if only I'd been provided with regular rye and cokes ... I blame my parents for everything. What were they thinking? And those sweaters they used to make me wear ...
I just spent ten minutes raging to my cat about writing frustrations while I waited for the tea to steep. That's unhealthy. Well not the tea part I guess. And she's spent the better part of the afternoon raging to me about her new cat food, which she refuses to eat. Refuses! She keeps trying very hard, but before a piece is fully chewed she spits it out and glares at me. I know this because, yes, I've spent a lot of time sitting on the floor beside her gold-rimmed crystal dishes, watching her. God I'm going insane.
A sad and terrible illness has struck me. The entire right side of my face feels doomed - one ear is completely blocked by something inside, and my lymph node has swollen to the size of a ping pong ball. The agony! I have spent my day drinking tea and reading the crazed and brilliant non-fiction of Virginia Woolf. I had to skip my poetry workshop. I hate doing that. In my 4 years of UVic I have skipped 4 workshops - twice for physical illness, once for emotional illness, and once to march down the streets of Victoria hoisting a sign and shouting "Fuck the government!" with thousands of others. Good reasons all, but workshops are not designed to be skipped.
I ventured outside briefly, to buy comfort food: grapes, a mango, curly fries, and ice cream. They made the swelling worse but the comfort was oh so good.
A dinner party and Mike and Devon's house on Monday night - I am always so amazed at the generosity of people throwing dinner parties! Plates and plates of sushi, home-brew rot-gut apparently concocted by Nelly Furtado's uncle, and spinach dip everywhere. It was so nice. I feel like bringing them a present.
Last night there was a very cool writer's session in my kitchen. Me, Ben, Steph, Genevieve, Emily, and Matt. The creative energy in a room filled with writers! Even if we don't write that much it's tangible. I love it. Wine was consumed and as usual I brought out the baby carrots. Steph brought tea. Some of us planned a very exciting writer-themed adventure for reading break, the details of which will be kept secret so that I can write about it after it happens, but I am so excited! Ben is actually writing up a manifesto with all the rules and plans we have. It will be divine. It will be documented on black and white film, too.
Oh, the pain. I have tried to escape into napping, but the horribly neglected dog across the way has been barking all afternoon. I should offer to walk her and then maybe she'll shut up.
I just read "America" by Allen Ginsberg. He is, and always has been, my favourite poet. ("America why are your libraries full of tears? America when will you send your eggs to India? I'm sick of your insane demands.")
Fiona, my aunt, stopped by for a little bit last night. She asked what we were up to, and I said, "A party and then Big Bad John's." She looked disgusted and said,
"Big Bad John's? Haven't you grown out of that yet?" Fiona rocks. She was also scandalized by the poster in the kitchen, a promo thing for SUBterrain magazine with a collage of men scrunching their stomach fat. She was fascinated and appalled, but my cousin Luke, who is 7, was less impressed and wanted only to leave. "Let's away," I wanted him to say, but he didn't.
The party was quite interesting, hosted by a friend of Matt's from his poetry workshop. We had forgotten the address and prowled for a while in people's backyards, looking in windows and such. Matt had an opened bottle of wine, and we were caught by a trio of homeowners at one point. ("Can we help you?") They didn't get angry, though. I would have. I would have released the hounds, or some such. "Get em, boys!" Sambuca should be a hound. But yes, fun party, very interesting little Fernwood house with nooks and crannies and inscence and candles and beautiful intellectual people (plus there was me, of course, drunk on rye before we even got there and then getting loud and over-sincere off Rickard's Red), and there were 2 cats and I smoked cigarettes perched on a high balcony, and it reminded me of the Bible story where Stephen perched on a high balcony, although he was not smoking, and fell asleep and tumbled to his death, although he was then raised from the dead. Was that Stephen? It was someone of note, anyway. I left at about 11, and went home, not to BBJ's, and fell into my bed while an internal voice shrieked, "Get up and have water! Get up and have water!" but I was paralyzed from the drink and could only move enough to turn on the radio, after which I listened to Coast to Coast AM until oblivion overtook me. Now it is Sunday and I feel toxic, and I've been lounging about reading Allen Ginsberg and Germaine Greer and Derk Wynand, making various unreasonable demands and snacking restlessly.
"Lovely and Amazing," a quote: "I have two daughters. One of them is a fuck-up, and the other one's not married."
I'm looking forward to aging. I'm going to be unattractive, because I'm 60, and I shall have a garden and a wealth of wisdom that nobody will ask for. Perhaps I'll take up painting. Watercolour.
Weekend was good - a film on Sunday, with Morgan and Ryan Steele - "The Human Stain." An alright story, with good performances by Anthony Hopkins and Gary Sinise. But I find it physically painful to watch anything with Nicole Kidman in it. I'm not making fun of eating disorders, or trying to belittle the seriousness of such a disease, but my God, somebody give her some pizza with extra cheese! I feel badly for her, because her life must be one of constant hunger pangs, headaches, and low energy, but I'm also angry at her - as someone in the public eye I think she has a reponsibility, however slight, to be a good role model for younger women and girls - starving oneself and becoming a megastar in exchange seems morally wrong. Not that she is the only one guilty - I was shocked to read that Renee Zellwegger was "getting fat" for her role in the second Briget Jones movie, gaining twenty pounds in fact - which will bring her up to something like 125. How tragic that 125 pounds is considered fat! And how tragic too that being fat is considered bad. The sexiest film stars of the early 20th century were routinely 200 pounds or more. Ah me; the old days.
Anyhow, after the movie, mimosas and nachos at Maud's. Bliss. Although I got home at 11 and passed out, a little drunk, only to awaken after midnight in order to do a rush job on some women studies homework. Tough, that. That was tough.
On Monday we did the writing thang in the evening, with a new addition to our circle - Steph. She's working on an intriguing story. I wrote a poem and some more of the Little Pink Plum epic, and there was tea and scotch and baby carrots.
Has anybody ever heard of the literary journal Ploughshares? I have to write a mini-paper on it and I can't find a copy of it, anywhere.
Reading a great book right now, by the author of "Chocolat" - "Five Quarters of the Orange." Exquisite. Normally I don't like British authors, but this one, Joanne Harris, is fantastic. (Also half-French - maybe that's why.)
Mmmm. A rye and coke on an empty stomach definitely hits the spot. But I'm having a hard time organizing my thoughts. Where to begin, where? Shall I arrange things chronologically or thematically? Or in a sexy sort of no-punctuation stream-of-consiousness?
Well ... I suppose we'll begin at Big Bad John's Saturday night. A great table of people, and dreamy moments of cigarettes out on the sidewalk, shots of rye in a bathroom stall, and loving, loving discussion about everything that is important. (mainly it was writing I talked about - such passion I had that night! Such a brilliant flame!) Bumped into Steve-O outside at one point, on his way to the Sticky Wicket, and told him he should go into BBJ's to say hi to Matt. He said something like, "But ... I don't go into Big Bad John's!" Good ol' Steve. And later, in an act of drunken generosity (so different from my other, much-documented acts of drunken stinginess and suspicion), I gave an elderly homeless man A LOT of money, only to have him try to kiss me! (I'm sorry, but I always assumed transactions like that took place the other way around. Felt ugly.) All in all an enchanting evening, which I paid for - dearly! at what cost, man! - the next morning and afternoon.
That will be all for now. I feel I must have a shower, IMMEDIATELY. Or a bath - I bought more bath bubbles, finally.
A rather stunning morning at work yesterday. I was hungover, and stunned. I think Michael described me as "harried," though it might have been "harry." Everything was blurry and jagged.
Some good news! Both Ben and I have had short stories accepted by This Side of West. It's tentative, as stuff can always get eliminated in the layout process, but if all goes well they will both appear in the book, which is due out in mid-March. Also, Matt has a poem that has been accepted. I am part of a successful literary community! Those Monday nights of booze and unheathy snacks, and token writing, have paid off!
Went out for drinks at Suze last night with Ben, Michael, and their friend B, who has a wonderful tinkling laugh. I wish I could collect nice laughs, as the male lead in Amelie did. Laughs are beautiful! Trev had a great laugh, too. (I never forget a laugh - I never forget a drink - I never forget an Oola.)
Today is a day of writing, Women's Studies homework, more writing, cleaning, and then BBJ's in the evening with some kids from SUBtext.
For some reason I have just consumed the majority of a mickey of Wiser's. Why? Only the wind will tell! At least it is not the half-26-an-evening of old. Back when I thought I had a drinking problem I tallied my average weekly beverage total - 60! So tonight feels like a big dose of okay.
Just watched a movie called "Heathers." Brilliant, and so profound. I bought it for $3 at a thrift store. But Christian Slater is in it, and he looks so much like River Phoenix? Very trippy. IS HE River Phoenix? Only the wind will tell!
I need new mugs. I have now broken or lost all three of my beautiful yellow matching mugs. Such tragedy. I am a CLUMSY OAF on some days, most days I suppose.
You know how people are all scared and alienated from religion? Well! (okay, first, some background - I was raised a Pentecostal Christian, and then in my mid-teens had an alarming development which left me LEFT-WING, FEMINIST, and OUTSPOKEN. Despite this, I still call myself a Christian in casual conversation, even though I'm oh so aware of the general conflict this causes, and have "issues" [pronounced the way it's written, as in the style of Kids in the Hall's David Foley - "ISS-SUES!"] with some "fundamental" Christian beliefs, most notably the views of being gay, or being a woman, perceived as some sort of moral FLAW. Anyway, for Christmas my parents gave me (and my lover, a non-Christian) copies of "The Message," which is a modern-language traslantion of the New Testament. I am fascinated by it! I think everyone should read it - not just Christians, who will be thrilled with the all-new insights to passages we read in Old English as children, but also non-Christians who simply wish to learn more about religion, particulary the teachings (conspicuoulsy non-religious) of Jesus Christ. So yeah, I recommend. And if anyone knows of modern translations of the Koran or the Buddhist Bible (name escapes me at the moment), I'd love to read those, too.
Disturbing news. There was a 'mad cow' man on Coast to Coast AM last night, discussing the disease and the ramifications, etc. (Apparently a lot of people who have Alzheimer's actually have mad cow! And after they die doctors won't perform autopsies to make sure because they're scared of touching mad cow brains.) So, I was feeling a little vegetarian smug-ness, though I was crushed by talk of the cows eating feed that has both other cows AND cow feces in it. It's doubly creepy cuz cows are natural herbivores; they are not designed to eat any meat at all, let alone engage in cannibalism. Other things in cow feed: roadkill, and dogs and cats that have been euthenized. I knew of this before, from Eric Schlosser's great book Fast Food Nation, but it's still so sad to hear. Then the man (I wish I could remember his name; he called himself 'The Mad Cowboy,' I think) said that sometimes our pets have the same sort of thing in their feed, too! I have read the ingredients on Sambuca's food before, so I wasn't concerned, but then he said that if the ingredients list 'animal digest,' that is just evil-man-talk for FECES. It was 1 in the morning but I jumped out of bed and checked; sure enough, Sambuca is eating literal shit every day. I was so upset, because I'm very careful about what I eat, but with Sam I really haven't paid too much attention. So tomorrow I'm going to go to a pet store and buy her a huge bag of organic, vegetarian cat food (They actually make that! It has plant protein in it). Anyway. What a creepy night. (Morgan - check Bro's food!)
It snowed again.
I received a Christmas card from my brother Clint yesterday. It contained Christmas money with naughty scribbles on the Queen's portrait, as well as a photo of my three beautiful and intelligent neices: Sarah, Jillian, and Laura. The picture is up on my fridge and I marvel at it every time I need to get food.
A bit of frustration - I'm not sure if my class is cancelled today or not. Half of them have been, due to the weather, but no one knows where the instructor is for this one, and if we're still expected to go. I have no problem going, but I hate the idea of braving the elements only to find myself in an empty classroom. What shall I do? What shall I do? I feel like an Alaskan marmot.
I have been asked to write a comic book script! Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine ... Should be fun. I'll have to do research. Should probably buy the Ghost World comic.
Couple of good nights in a row -- hung out with Jon and Co. on Saturday drinking absolutely delicious cocktails made of dark rum and Dr. Pepper. I got to show off my Italian cashmere to an appreciative audience, and listen obsessively to Nirvana.
Sunday a group of us went to my favourite restaurant ever, Japanese Village, and feasted on sushi and tempura. How I adore sushi! It's on my Top 3 list of things that make me happy 100% of the time (the other 2 are Matt and coffee, though Matt is hardly a "thing," which has been discussed to death and does not need to be re-hashed here). Then we "chilled" (such a nicer word than "partied") at Devon and Mike's apartment sipping beverages and having wild and mature discussions. J.P. thinks that cats are controlling our minds through parasites they emit ... Or something. The apartment had artwork on all the walls, very inspiring - I need more artwork on my walls. (Zoidberg - "I'll take one Art, please!")
And today was fantastic - very busy day at work, then my first new class, which is a Women's Health class with the topic 'The Contested Womb.' It's going to be fascinating, and the prof seems super-cool, very interested in literature and film, which should make it more stimulating than other womens studies classes I have taken.
Some problems with the story. Little Pink Plum just leads such a creepy lifestyle. I've been skittish of writing more, for fear of what disgusting and degrading things she will get up to next. Note - there are certain things that leather-bound volumes of Joyce should NOT be used for!
Snow? Snow in Victoria? There should be a complaints board: "Excuse me, I moved here from the Okanagan because I was told there would be no snow, EVER, and now there's three inches on my deck and I'm going blind from the glare, plus my cat is edgy and distraught - she will not play. The cuffs of my jeans are collecting flakes and the wind is oppresive. May I get some sort of refund, please? Snow? Why?"
I seem to have caught The Cold. Yesterday I collapsed twice in the grocery store, once by the organic lemonade, and then later near the pickles. Matt was concerned, but it was nothing serious - I was just giving up. Grocery stores are a huge challenge sometimes. I bought the following things: romaine lettuce, carrots, celery, tomatoes, an avacado, cheese, cashews, banana-apple-pineapple juice, and sourdough bread. Felt somewhat better.
I had also given up earlier in the day, when we went to the Lotus Pond at 2:30 for the 50% off buffet. We waited in line for a very long time, and there was no food left by the time we got to the front. I said softly, "I give up," and got rid of my styrophoam take-out box. I don't think I'll go to the Lotus Pond for the buffet anymore - they serve absolutely fantastic vegan Chinese cuisine, and the atmosphere is nice and Buddhist - flower paintings on the walls, and calming strummy sort of music, but ... The tension and hostility that happens at 2:30 is awful. Every hippie and artist in town shows up for the buffet, and the food usually runs out, so people are jostling and trying to budge in line, and taking more than they should, and freaking out at the cooks ("No spring rolls left? Gaaaaaaaawd" - though it's usually me saying that), and it seems to just defeat the Zenny purpose of the restaurant. I think the staff are pretty unimpressed with the whole thing. We act like starving dogs, and I'm right there with the worst of them. So - no more 2:30 buffets. Sometime soon I'll go there for dinner, which I believe will be soothing and romantic, and I will leave a large tip and smile very big, happy smiles.
I've been working on the pulp sex story. It's very bizarre, but fun to write. The protagonist's name is Little Pink Plum and she lives in a mansion somewhere in Ireland in the 1920's, receiving "lessons" from a much older man, and fucking the furniture. Not quite sure about themes yet, but the details are killer!
So, the first New Year's Eve in adult memory where I have not "partied" (what a stupid word). I was feeling the effects of a month of excess, so Matt and I decided to stay in and watch movies, have conversations, eat an entire $3.69 bag of sun chips (this was not planned), and do a little light drinking. It was a wicked-good time, and the coolest moment was being out on the patio at midnight, candles lit, cocktails in hand and a bottle of champagne on ice, toasting the New Year.
In the morning we went out for brunch with Ben, Michael, and Michelle. The first reunion, I do believe, since the infamous Darcy McGee's Conversations! We went to Milestone's, and I had something to do with eggs and spinach and pine nuts and potatoes. Plus a Bellini. Felt super.
Tonight Matt and I watched a movie called "War Photographer." It's a Swiss documentary and the most sobering film I have ever seen. Rent it, rent it. I cried during the scenes with Balkan women, and there was also a segment about Phillipine working-class types who are forced to live on cardboard boxes between train tracks. These were working people. I wanted to go over and teach them how to write, because imagine the kind of novels you could come up with if you lived on the gravel by the train tracks and your dad had only one arm and one leg due to a run-in with said train. Matt thought it would be better to provide them with clothes and shelter. Either way, it's inspired me to become a humanitarian. Or to want to become a humanitarian. What do I want to do with my life? Get a job in publishing and write fiction in the evenings while I sip at my expensive scotch? For fuck's sake.