I can't stand it anymore! I hate being one of those people who always think they have a disease. And I hate not knowing what the actual word for that is. Right now I think I have either throat cancer or mono. More likely mono, cuz I'm so tired all the time. But I've been tired for three years. ("I've been out to sea for a long time ...")
The weather is gorgeous. The air smells like blossoms. The kid from the housing complex across the way has taken to practicing his skateboarding for 5-6 hours an evening outside my living room window, yet again. Last year I mentioned to my mum how much I hated him and how frustrated I was at how bad he was (always falling) and she got mad and said, "How would you feel if people said that about you back when you first started figure skating?" I responded with, "Yes, but I didn't still SUCK after six months of practice." I'm so horrible and cynical. When I was 16 I swore I would never be one of those people who got irritated by teenagers. But my God, he still can't do a trick!!!
Overheard last week, on the #31 bus: "It's hard to believe we're in Canada when everyone else on the bus is Asian." !!! I hate society.
I'm so excited about the writing thang tonight, cuz after five weeks of promising, Colin might come! I would adore writing with Colin. He is perhaps the wittiest person I know. Also expected: MB, BR, EM, S, GM, DM, JK, and MB (yes, that's two different MB's, and both of them have the name Matthew).
I just cleaned the kitchen floor - and by cleaned I mean cleaned, first swept, then on hands and knees scrubbing, then mopping. And naturally, slipped on all the soap and nearly broke my foot. One of the toes is bruised. Housecleaning is hazardous to your health, I've always claimed this.
Friday: Felicita's, Hunter's, Big Bad John's (almost), the Sticky Wicket, the Brickyard. An ever-changing crew of people, beer, martinis, shouts and philosophy. From 5pm until 12:30am. And in the morning: a sad hangover, with two different types of headache.
Saturday: a reading day. I read for hours! About bipolar disorders. And only one drink.
Today: church soon (long story), then revising poems, and an attempt to clean the house. Perhaps laundry. Then suddenly the weekend is over. Over! I hugely miss the three-day weekends I had for two years. I don't get enough done now.
This is the first time that I've been sick and not manically tried to make myself better, ie, tinctures, herbs, vitamins, healthy food, etc. I've been taking cough syrup and Halls; last night, I had a cup of tea. And other than that, it's been a stormy road of rye, coffee, and cigarettes. And I'm still sick. It's been a week. No time to dote on myself. (Although today I did treat myself to kiwi bubblebath and this week's New Yorker. Have those two things ever before been purchased in combination? I think I got a Look.)
Semi-Louise on Tuesday night was great fun: they rocked and everybody was cheering and Matt made the astute comment: "It was so weird; I went on stage and you were sober, then I came back down and you were hammered." Hurrah for pitchers of beer shared with a good friend! Though once again I fear I have pressured Ben into drinking more than he should have. We'd had wild plans to throw our underwear at the bassist after the fourth song, but Ben and I were the only ones of something like six people who'd agreed to it who actually brought clean underwear, so we didn't.
Is this update all jagged and hard to understand? It's been a difficult evening. I'm trying to figure out funding for summer studies, and it's so damned complicated because you have to take classes for 12 consecutive weeks plus you have to be enrolled in a 60% course load plus I can only take classes after 2pm due to the work schedule etc, etc, plus I have to take the proper number now so that I can take the proper number next semester and it's so hard to think.
Wow. Tip: don't mix cough syrup with rye and wine. Or do, if that's your thing, but only if you want to get ruthlessly high and get scared of the clouds and think you're in a box. I'm still kind of spacey, and that was last night.
Just rewrote the "Big Bad John's: A Love Story" poem. I made it a bit sadder.
Tonight Semi-Louise plays Lucky Bar! I expect them to dazzle.
Writing thang last night was uber-fun. I wrote a kind of neat mastrubation short-short. Genevieve left an entire unopened bottle of wine, which Matt and I drank, so I'll have to buy her one for next week, only I won't tell her beforehand, so she'll have TWO, and the night will be forever young.
Did I mention I had breakfast at a place called Brannigan's last weekend? The food was woeful and disappointing - fake eggs, among other things - but the atmosphere was fascinating. It's sort of like a Denny's, but shabbier, with confusing art on the walls, little children running up and down the aisles with toys, and fresh-faced, blonde-hair-in-two-braids waitresses straight off the "Sweet Home Alabama" set. Anyhow, I was just mentioning that because I wanted to quote the famous-est Brannigan of them all: ZAP! "The best way into a girl's bed is through her parents. Have sex with them, and you're in."
An interesting couple of days ...
Thursday night American Jon was in town, so a crew of us went out to Prior Lake to drink beer and tell jokes. Mostly leprosy jokes. Apparently that lake is home to fresh-water octopi, and we jumped up and down on the dock to scare them. "You're all calamari to me!" someone said - Colin, I think. There was also talk of the strange half-man, half-leopard that inhabits those parts. Didn't see him. I hate the sound of a quiet forest, the tiny little ping of raindrops on leaves. It's quite a beautiful sound, and I was raised with it, but it makes me feel lonely and uneasy. Forests hide things.
Friday was Emily's cd release party! By Emily I mean her wicked band, Elephant Island. They were dazzling with two guitars, a drum kit, an accordian, and a haunting harmony of voices. It was held at Second Story, the mother of mellow cafes - the kind of casual place that I could just curl up on the floor and rest, as I was still very sick, and listen to the music with one ear on the ground. Yeah, their show ruled, their cd rules, it was awesome.
When it was over I should have gone home to sleep, but instead Matt and I went to Big Bad John's, where we met up with Jess and got hammered. Big Bad John's has changed. There were really aggressive bouncers there, who kicked out a whole crew of Jess's friends because they were throwing peanuts. At Big Bad John's! Throwing peanuts! What a concept! So all these people got booted. It was awful and weird - I think we might have to find a new seedy pub to go to. Maybe that one attached to the Douglas Hotel. Maybe. I really don't get how women can be encouraged to take off their bras and hang them off the wagon wheel, yet throwing a couple of peanuts is criminal behaviour. The bouncers kept saying, "Try not to act like you're drunk." It was one of the saddest sentences I have ever heard.
Best quote ever, from "Breathless," Jean-Luc Godard's 1959 masterpiece - "When we talked, I talked about me, you talked about you, when we should have talked about each other."
I am so excited! After procrastinating for over a year, I finally asked the landlord if I could paint my bathroom, fully expecting him to say No. To my shock, he said Yes, and I said tentatively, "I was thinking purple; is that still okay?" and not only did he say Yes again, he said to save my receipts so that he could pay for the paint!! I'm so happy. Matt and I selected a dark, dramatic purple, the colour of excess and royalty from the days of Babylon, and it's going to rule. I can't think of a colour for the ceiling yet, though. Idealy something light, but I'm having trouble finding a shade that would complement it. Anyway, painting the walls will be my Saturday project, and I'm also going to make stew.
How long the sickness? The malady? I feel I am coughing up my entire life.
Had a good long nap today. 2 1/2 hours. Had nightmares of Matt and I fighting at a party and then he tricked me into going onto a reality tv game show thing in which couples are pitted against each other with mood-ring-type brain scanners to determine their true morals and multiple choice questions that you have to answer correctly, and first, to win points for. I wound up with -2 and Matt had +6, then he bitched to a British guy about what an awful girlfriend I was and then said British guy tried to rape me in a bathroom spouting mumbo about Eve and apples and bitches but I fought him off and when I told Matt he said Joy, don't be so hard on the guy, he was drunk.
Other weird news: woke up last night terrified by the sight of this massive black cat prowling around the bed. I was freaked out and pushing it away and shouting You're not Sambuca what have you done with Sambuca, but it was determined by her stylish hemp collar that it was her, after all. The madness is seeping through my pores and to make matters worse I actually HANDED IN the pulp sex story, entitled "The Science of Domesticity: An Erotic Tragedy."
Ah, how wonderful it is sometimes to be young and stupid. Sometimes.
Highlights from the last few days: Saw Jay Dunphy and the Religion at the Cambie on Saturday, and actually made friends with a bartender! We were discussing fashion and I admired her belt, which had a buckle shaped like a big shiny apple. My belt was subtle yet sophisticated: black with silver-rimmed holes. It was a new belt, my first since young teenagehood. I love it! Caught a ride to Morgan's party, which was fun and debaucherous and all that good stuff, althought it did include the MOST EMBARASSING MOMENT IN MY LIFE. I've told the story so many times since then that I don't really feel like repeating it here, so ... But maybe, it's such a damn good story ... Okay. Matt and I crashed in the spare room and had sex on the floor, and I fell asleep naked. Some time later I woke up having to pee, and it was pitch-black, couldn't see a thing. I stumbled about looking for my clothes, but only found my shirt, which I put on. It was a rather short shirt, and came down to just above my belly button. Then I had a bright drunk-thought: "If it's pitch-black in here, it's probably pitch-black in the rest of the house. In fact, the party is probably over." The bathroom was only a couple steps down the hall, so I decided to just go. And of course as soon as I got in the hall I was BLINDED with the light, as the party was very-much still going on, and everyone in the living room saw my ass and started laughing and cheering, and I didn't know what to do. So I turned around - more cheering - and went into the bedroom where, inexplicably, I put on Matt's pants, and went to the bathroom. Maybe this isn't an embarassing story to people who are used to appearing naked at parties, but I'm not that kind of girl, and it was horrible horrible horrible, and I don't know who all was in the living room. Gah.
Launch of TSOW was Saturday at Lucky Bar - much fun, good people read, and the book looks great. Works selected include masterpieces by the likes of Ben, Matt, myself, Ally, Kerry, Miguel, Emily, tons more ... We went bar-hopping after till 3 am. Very fun, although I grew stormy and bitter towards the end, suddenly sober while everyone else was drunk and loud, and had a miserable walk home.
I'm sick today. A horrible disgusting SARS cough that makes my stomach feel like my intestines are disintegrating. I would like Matt to be at home and take care of me, as he did yesterday, but he will be gone till 11 and I am alone, alone, alone, unable to make Emily's party due to sickness as well as a story due tomorrow, my only company a few stray bottles of Rickard's Red. Would like to buy more, but that is madness - if I can find the strength I will go down to the grocery store and buy materials for a salad, as well as strawberries and pineapples and peaches.
Saw an odd movie last night - "One Night at McCool's," starring Liv Tyler, Matt Dhillon, Paul Resier, John Goodman, and Michael Douglas. It was one of those bad-good films, if that makes any sense. (Preposterous and implausible and thoroughly enjoyable to watch.) Liv Tyler astounds me. What does she have? What is it? She has IT. She is not a terribly good actress, though not a bad one, and of course gorgeous - most people like that piss me off. But Liv Tyler moves me. I think she was born in the wrong era. I think she needed to be a film star back in the days of silent movies, she's got that kind of brilliance. Only there was this one weird sex scene where her facial expression (I believe she was giving someone head) made her look exactly like her dad. That was bad.
Going out to the Cambie to see Jay Dunphy and the Religion in a little bit, then off to Morgan's for one of her infamous parties. I'll be drinking gin.
I've been trying to list all the jobs I've had in the past six years - my 'workin' years - bookstore clerk (thrice over), camera operator, door-to-door sales girl, freelance writer, rubbish remover, ESL tutor, camp counsellor, fast food whore (thrice over), au pair, carnie (for one glorious afternoon and evening), editor, program coordinator, Sunday School teacher ... There's more, but I can't think of them. I want to be a girl friday and personal trainer before I move on to a "career."
And what would that career be? Ideally, one of the following: novelist, publisher, professor, film/stage director, therapist, bookstore/cafe owner. Realistically? Probably only the novelist bit.
Let's make the comments feature interactive! What would everybody else like to be?
Had lunch with an old friend today, Vernon-old, who knew me back when I was penning hits like the blood-saturated "Johnny's Rats." Actually he co-wrote that piece with me. We went to Azuma Sushi and chattered about astrology, relationships, books and the meanings of our lives - not the meaning of life, you understand, but the meaning of our lives. I think it's so important to be self-obsessed. And increasingly, I've been complimenting myself a lot. Everybody should do this. And we should also do things that make us happy, even if, say, medical science says it's self-destructive. What does medical science know about pure joy?
Movies I've Seen in the Last Couple of Weeks:
"My Life Without Me" (****)
"Before Night Falls" (**1/2)
"Tape" (***)
"Now and Then" (*)
"Go" (***1/2)
"Your Friends and Neughbours" (**1/2)
"Elephant" (****)
"Blast Fron the Past" (**)
"Vampire's Kiss" (*1/2)
(can you tell I'm procrastinating against writing?? I've also been taking online quizzes.)
"If you spend too much time reading Henry James, you will get sullen and tetchy, a state of literary angst best relieved by rereading Jane Austen, the mistress of consummation." - Natalie Angier, Woman: An Intimate Geography
Today at the ol' neighbourhood beer and wine a clerk said to me, "You sure love your Moosehead, don't you?" I was crushed, yet somewhat pleased to be recognized.
A friendly note to those legally-aged persons who buy cigarettes and alcohol: When the girl behind the counter asks to see some photo identification, IT IS NOT A PERSONAL SLUR. In fact, she's probably 100 percent sure that you're how old you're supposed to be, because she's only had two underaged kids come to the store in the last six months. She's asking to see your ID for one of two reasons: 1) it's automatic cuz she's worked off her feet and too busy to look closely at your face, or 2) she's double-checking cuz if she screws up and you ARE underage, the store gets fined $20,000 and she loses her job.
Maybe you could take it as a COMPLIMENT.
And a special extra-note, to those "born on or before this date in 1985," those lovely little newly minted 19-yr-olds: you, especially, should not put up a fuss. Trust me, you've got a minimum of 2 more years of this, probably more. Although it might seem clever and satisfying to stuff your ID at the bottom of your backpack and hold up a line while you dig it out because, wow, why should you have your ID handy if it's OBVIOUS your birthday was yesterday ... Well ... Why are you doing this? I know why you're doing this. I did it when I was 19 too, and I thought it made the clerks feel bad for ID-ing me when they didn't have to. But they DO have to, and it's not a PERSONAL SLUR for God's sakes, and nobody feels bad when you've got the proper ID. They're just bored, like they always are.
Say what you will about manic-depression - at least you can fully appreciate a good mood when it comes.
Good things that happened today:
- getting a ride home from school with Shannon, and on the way to her car having Andrea also stop and offer me a ride home
- one cold beer over writing at Thin Edge until the drunken construction workers scared me off
- homemade stew for dinner
- a message from Ben that said, "Hellooooo, Joy, it's your 'good friend Ben'!"
- a message from Matt that said, "And, you know, tomorrow, the birds will sing, and all that."
- four cups of coffee
- a sunny day
- aloe vera face creme that makes me smell like a goddess
Last night I saw Jay perform at Cafe Namaste - a brilliant acoustic set, only half an hour long, but filled with his wistful rasping and sad, sad, lyrics. It was very cool. Went with Ben and Matt, and considered it a field trip of sorts because it was our Monday night writing thang combined with watching the show. I wrote a short-short called "Four Disappointing Telephone Conversations With My Daughter," a half fiction/half non-fiction thing that was sort of from my mom's point of view. It was very tragic. Haven't seen my parents since last August, and I'm considering taking a trip up to the Okanagan this summer. Maybe. It is the Okanagan, and there's not much left for me there. But it would be nice to see them, and the wonderful dogs: Keto, Jaggermeister, and Bear. Keto is my favourite. She is something like 20 years old now. When I was kid she was so big I could actually ride her around the yard.
When will I learn to drink responsibly? When? This is getting less and less worth it. When will I learn to indulge myself only on special occasions, or to drink "moderately"? Is this all my dad's fault, and if so, if I have his genes, then why don't I also have that willpower/grace that allowed him to stop? (I didn't mean that. I can't blame this on anybody. But it's tempting.)
This afternoon I saw a loaf of rye bread, torn in half, on someone's front lawn.
I'm drinking beer. Rickard's Red. That means I'm writing tonight.
... Or maybe - going to Colin's for a movie?? I'm not sure. Matt is discussing it on the phone with him right now. I will withold my decision until I find out what the movie is - Colin has notorious taste - sometimes good, sometimes bad - action cult hits, mainly, and things with vampires or Troma films.
I'm making stew for the first time in my life! Half of it is for me and half of it is for a friend who is broke and living on Mr. Noodle. Some of the tasty ingredients: butternut squash, garlic, carrots, green pepper, onions, tomatoes, and ginger! It's simmering at the moment. I hope it works.
Tons of writing lately: my new hangout is Second Story Cafe and I sit in an easy chair by the window, drinking Yum Yum tea and writing with my notebook propped against my knees. So gloriously pretentious and cozy! In five years time I aim to purchase that space and convert it into a writers colony. I'll have to let Kate know. Or maybe I'll do it on the sly.
Fun party on Friday: I wasn't going to go cuz a) I'm cutting down the booze intake yet again and b) we wouldn't be going till 11:30, which in general is too late for me (stupid 8:30 shifts at work! Ruined my sleeping habits). But I went and it was awesome - tons of incriminating Polaroids and beer and mix-tapes - it was a mix-tape party. MR, who is perhaps the gentlest, nicest person I know, got called an EMO-fag for absolutely no reason. People were falling over and being taken home by people they didn't know. We left when our hosts were starting to fall asleep.
I tried to retrive my pants from the James Bay Inn today, but they were not in the lost and found, and I was laughed at - LAUGHED AT - by two staff members and a few customers sitting at the bar. "It's not as tawdry as it sounds," I tried to explain. Someone said it sounded like a long story. Where are my pants? Did someone steal them? I'm so upset. All that humilation for nothing!
Reading at the JBI on Sunday - uberfun. As it was Oscar night the readers were instructed to "dress up," but only half of us did - Maggie in an enviously sexy black see-through thing, Ben with his British spy striped pants, and me in the polyester ankle-length number that looks like one of those 1970's curtains with huge orange flowers everywhere. Such wicked freedom! The readers were all cool and professional and inspiring, and I got a free drink for gracing the JBI with my talents. A Rickards Red. I had wanted a martini, but they only had those stupid martini glasses with the squiggly stems, so I didn't. Everything about the martini experience must be classic and cooly sophisticated, and nothing personifies this more than the simple, straight stem.
After the JBI Matt and I stopped at a beer and wine store for more booze, and as I was paying, I suddenly burst out, "My God, I've left my pants at the bar!" Everybody in the whole store stared. At the orange dress. I had changed at the JBI and apparently left my jeans (my FAVOURITE jeans) in the washroom - wanted to explain, but the looks were so funny I just tried to seem catty.
SO - LOTR cleaned up at the Oscars. I don't really care, because I know that the whole thing is all politics and money driven as opposed to art driven, but still, I desperately wanted Sofia Coppola to win Best Director. Desperately. And the bastards in the Vancouver Province mis-spelled her name!
I'm going through one of my horrible manic-depressive stages. They appear to be getting worse as I age, or at least the depression part gets worse. Maybe the summer and the sun will help. Maybe my teeth are poisoning me.
The coolest thing in the world happened this morning. At 9:30 the buzzer rang, which is odd, because no one comes to our house at that hour. So I went downstairs and it was this extremely pissed-off looking mail man. I opened the door thinking I was receiving a Package (how I love Packages!), and said, "Yes?" and he said, in the most pained and despairing tone I have ever heard, "WHERE is your mail box?" Our landlord is tearing all the gyp-rock off the side of the house, and the night before he'd had to take the mail boxes down and place them inside. I thought this was reasonable, and tried to explain, but the mail man just kept getting angrier and pointing at where the mail boxes used to be and saying, "You HAVE to have a mail box!" and "How do you expect me to deliver your mail if!" and on and on and on. He Lectured. At first I was defensive, as it wasn't my fault, but then I began to marvel. He was in his element! He was so upset and indignant! I found myself agreeing with him, yes, yes, yes, this is stupid, and I had a vision of what an awful thing it would be, if I was a mail man, to come to a house with no mail box. It was so funny and sad and ridiculous and frustrating; the man was livid. I felt we understood each other - in my line of work I also deal with stupid, no-sense things. I felt we bonded.