Last night Matt and I drank champagne and watched Finding Neverland. It was a wonderful movie - it's been a long time since I've seen a film that wasn't trying to BE something: cutting-edge action, gorgeous art-house, intellectual-romantic-comedy, etc. The ending got cheezy, but who cares. Peter Pan has always been my favourite fairy tale. I think Johnny Depp might be my favourite fairy tale, too.
Matt got drunk and bellowed about things. I like it when he bellows. He's taken to calling Jimmy "THE BLUES CAT, THE BIG BLUES CAT," and Stinky, "THE GREAT WHITE CAT OF THE NORTH."
Last week I went two days without drinking, and this week three. Next week will be four, etc. It feels great. I'm getting housework done. I'm expressing myself well in classes. I'm still enraged when grocery stores stop carrying the products I loyally buy - ie, the garbage bags in the red box - dammit - but these things take time.
I am about to cross the Yates and Vancouver intersection, when a crazy man in a gorgeous brown corduroy jacket walks by. He is yelling at trees and cars: "MORE! MORE! MORE!"
In the opposite direction, advancing: a bearded man with a whiskey reddened face, a sports jersey. I am in the middle of reflecting on the elegance of mental illness. Sports jersey shouts at brown corduroy:
"SHUT! UP!"
Then, at me: "Hey Beautiful, bum a smoke?"
"Sorry."
Walk signal. The bag of cruelty-free shampoo and conditioner weighing my arms down. The sun. My blue leather jacket. People running for buses.
Sick again lately - had to bow out of the This Side of West launch party on Saturday night, where I was supposed to read a poem. Been drinking orange juice and spiced peach tea. Had some Neo Citran last night, but it gave me a strange icy feeling in my forehead, and doesn't appear to have helped. Apple cider vinegar is next. Plans: stop smoking, cut down on drinking. Eat less wheat products and more vegetables. Start eating yogurt, even though I hate it - slime in a plastic container!
Yesterday I had Easter dinner with the "pseudo-fam" - Caroline, Ben, and Matt - a marvelous spread of seafood pasta, garlic bread, and salad. Forgot to call my mother. Watched a drag queen movie, and am now compelled to research the psychology of the drag queen. What makes them tick? Are there any straight ones? Why are some of them transvestites or transexuals, and some aren't? Why did they choose this method of performance over acting, or singing, etc.? Where do they learn how to apply that fabulous make-up? (this coming from someone who tried to apply mascara in grade 10, and promptly gave up.) Let the research begin! Will have to pay off my astronomical library fine first.
(Acquired from Ben)
You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be?
Which book do I want to be? Hm. I like the cover of Aislinn Hunter's What's Left Us, very much, so maybe that one. I also like the cover of the first printing of Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, so that's a possibility too ...
Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
I had a bit of a "thing" for Gen the translator in Ann Patchett's Bel Canto. He was so stable and brilliant and sexy, with those midnight English lessons in the china cupboard.
The last book you bought is:
Mavis Gallant's The Moslem Wife and Other Stories. Lots of foreign diplomats and boarding schools in Switzerland, and cocktail parties and rickety bicycles and secretaries and world travel.
What are you currently reading?
Sean Virgo's Through the Eyes of a Cat. Reminds me a little bit of Jack Hodgins 1970s work - very rural and community and nature-ish. I'll have more to say when I get further into it.
Five books you would take to a deserted island. (The classic question)
Collected Poems by Allen Ginsberg. Cuz all the cool kids are doing it. Also I don't think I could make it through a week without screaming aloud from "America" or "A Supermarket in California."
I would glue together the following three Margaret Atwood books and try to get away with counting them as one: The Robber Bride, her masterpiece novel; Good Bones, the wild and humbling experimentation; and Moving Targets, a summation of an entire life's work of brilliance. .... But, but .... Also The Blind Assasin, and Cat's Eye .... Couldn't I just bring Margaret Atwood?
Naomi Wolf's The Beauty Myth. Because it's clever and smart and angering and thoroughly researched, and there are so many marvelous FACTS (I'm a truth addict/aw shit I got a head-rush -RATM).
Self Help, by Lorrie Moore. So I could lay in the sand and dream of matching beige trenchcoats and despair.
The Dharma Bums, by Jack Kerouac. For its spirituality and loneliness and brilliant wine-drenched wisdom.
Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?
Matt. His taste in literature is far weirder than mine. I'm in the mood for weird.
Caroline. Ditto.
Steph. Cuz I want her to update more, dammit!
It's alarming - in under 24 hours, Sambuca has become a hardcore drug addict, gulping down cat-nip and becoming crazed when we cut off her supply. She even wake-and-baked this morning. She rolls in it: she's covered with filth and her dignity is sacrificed for just one more hit man, one more hit.
She reacted poorly to the arrival of Jimmy and Stinky yesterday afternoon. She was a cranky bitch, and although Jimmy is probably about four times her weight, she's hissing and growling and generally looking foolish. Jimmy keeps telling her to take a chill pill - he's very mellow - but Sambuca just swears at him. She's also a tattle-tale: after I got mad at her for jumping on the counter, Stinky jumped up too, and Sam screamed and pointed, making sure I noticed this.
Yesterday I flailed - flailed through class and work, flailed over to the computer lab with Ben, two cigarettes, flailed through my re-write, then more flailing on the Felicita's patio, two pitchers of beer, flailing over to L's house with Caroline to play a mystical game of Scrabble - we made up words and then wrote a story with them - flailed to the liquor store for the second time in two hours and I'd LOST MY WALLET - flailed around looking for it - wound up in neon-hell Safeway stumbling around and the WALLET was discovered at the customer service counter - VISA card still there - flailed back home to read Amy Tan and wonder why I wasn't back at Felicita's, as I'd promised The Gang I'd be over there by 10. Flail.
Matt had a conversation with our landlords' children and I descended into an existential wasteland, accusing Matt of leaving me when his paternal instinct hits at age 35 - "You're going to LEAVE me and get MARRIED to some tart just so you can have her fucking BABIES," I screamed - but now I'm drinking coffee and it's FRIDAY yet I am NOT AT WORK! Brunch at Floyd's with Ryan and Aya, exotic travellers from Japan, in a little bit. Then I'm going to buy TEXTURED ENVELOPES, because I want to run my hands along the seams and write people's addresses on them.
A mad Ben-evening yesterday: shrieking out Ginsberg poetry, as we are wont to do; discussing the beauty of genitals - "But I think vaginas look like flowers" - and talking about spirit guides (we both received visits from ours recently, Ben on Friday night, me on Saturday); scribblings in our notebooks, which accomplished nothing; spending a too-long time downloading and playing "Danger: High Voltage!" and singing - shouting! - along; many cocktails - no, not apple-jacks, but apple-alberta-premiums; and finally collapsing in the front of the television, where Matt discovered us at 10:30pm watching ridiculously old Sex and the City reruns. He joined us and we cheered every moment of Stanford's screen time!
I broke the house arrest thing by going out to brunch this morning, on account of the following message left on my voice-mail:
"Joooooy?" [this is all said in a deep, quavering voice] "Joooy? Are you there? Would you like to go for brunch with the faggots? The queers? At the Banana Belt Cafe?"
How could I refuse? Feasted on a shrimp-avocado-cream-cheese sandwhich and home fries. Many cups of coffee. A little thrift store shopping, and now I'm at home, while Metallica blares from random speakers because Matt saw the Metallica documentary the other night and it revived his interest in a band that is dead inside. Really. DEAD INSIDE.
I'm inventing a salad tonight. It will have chick peas and roasted red pepper and zucchini, and mushrooms and garlic, and avocado, and a peanut sauce. Hurrah! Ben is coming over in a bit to write, and I shall drink whiskey and apple juice and rage about people judging me incorrectly.
All alone on a Saturday night! Things are so quiet I can hear them crackling.
A mere three hours ago I prepared for an evening at the theatre: arrayed myself in a brown plaid skirt, new orange shirt, and high lace-up boots; put hair in braids with a bandana overtop. Stocked my handbag with cigarettes, a flask of cheap whiskey, and Anais Nin's Delta of Venus (in case the evening got boring).
And ... It didn't, exactly, because Matt was marvelous company and the plays were well-done ... But after an hour-and-a-half of pseudo-hanging out with people who aren't really my friends, in a culture I'm not really in tune with, and with the prospect of a shmooze-party after, I packed up and went home. Kissed Matt goodbye and stood in the rain waiting for the bus. Now I'm here with Anais Nin, and my cat, and that flask of whiskey plus some more in the fridge ... I'm still dressed up and there's no one to see; the irony is crushing, but still: it's far better than a shmooze-party. :)
Saw a wondrous sight on the bus today: a middle-aged businessman, a little overweight, a little bald, a black trenchcoat and briefcase, reading a Graham Greene paperback. Made me believe in things a little bit more.
Also: the cherry tree in the backyard has started to blossom.
And: I rented the second season of Seinfeld on DVD.
Shuffled my way to the Nuclear Science Department at Victoria General Hospital today, an hour and a half early for my appointment, craving coffee. Also thinking, "Why do they have to call it NUCLEAR SCIENCE?" Felt as though I were going to be bombed.
I ambled down hallways, passing people in wheelchairs and stretchers. Found a Tim Horton's coffee outlet - yes, in a hospital. Rolled up my rim and lost. Listened to nurses gossiping on their break. Saw orderlies flirting with people in flowing white coats. Tapped my feet.
Finally it was time for my appointment, and I had two x-rays done, my hips and lower back, to check out my bone density. Has Depo put cracks in them? That sort of thing. I've been thinking of all those times I say I can "feel my hangover in my bones," which I always thought was a witty, rather marvelous thing to say, but since I'm at a huge risk for osteo - the Depo combined with the refusal to drink milk, except in coffee - the x-rays needed to be taken. I will know in 3 days.
The greatest line Mavis Gallant has ever written, from "The Ice Wagon Going Down the Street," which is one of her short stories: She seemed unaware she was creating disaster and pain.
Off to Felicita's shortly to watch Together At Last Playing Country Delights duke it out for the Battle of the Bands title. I won't be out of there till 1am; will be back at 8am, for work. Perhaps I could sleep there? Country Delights will be performing a song I co-wrote with Matt. A new experience! 23 years old and a new experience! Feel giddy.
I just created and consumed a stunning dinner of fresh Atlantic salmon, baked with lemon, onion, brown sugar and soy sauce; steamed asparagus with walnuts and garlic; and mashed potatoes with green onion and sunflower oil. I do not understand how people can be models. I do not understand how people can function on 900-calorie-a-day diets. I don't.
A fun girl-day on Saturday with Jess, Steph, and Bridget: lunch at Kelsey's, then consumer madness at various clothing shops. All I bought was lame thin socks - it is necessary for me to wear lame thin socks with my brown tennis shoes, as they're slightly too small - but it was marvelous to gad about. Topped it off with a couple rounds of martinis at the Tapas Bar.
Then Yahtzee with Matt and popcorn for dinner, before heading over to Colin's place for movies and whiskey. Stopped by Logan's after to catch Jay's show, but he wasn't on yet, and we were tired, so we touched his hands between the slats of the Logan's patio latticework, and went home.
Much more successful than the previous evening: Matt was out rehearsing and I was feeling anti-social, so I stayed home to do homework. Drank instead. Called old friends from years ago. Actually got ahold of one of them - this was 10pm on a Friday night, mind you - and she said, 'Wow. You must be really bored." "Not bored, DRUNK!" I shouted, and the conversation went downhill from there. Fucking pre-paid phone cards.
In a few days two marvelous cats named Jimmy and Stinky are coming to live with me! They belong to Jess, who is about to depart for her fabulous Mexican vacation (she tells me there's a swim-up bar at the resort she's staying at -- !!!!!) and I will engineer the grand social experiment that is introducing Sambuca to two total strangers and asking her to share her house with them. I can't wait to see if Sam has a darker side, if she becomes petty, or violent, or sneaky. Maybe all the cats will make friends. Matt seems to think that Sam will fall in love with Jimmy, who will jilt her, and Sam's heart will forever be broken. What will Stinky do? Prowl. Steal our beer. Make long-distance phone calls.
Up at 7am - breakfast at Floyd's at 9:30 - the ocean at 10:15 - organic apples at 11 - Allen Ginsberg on the patio at noon - "I am so lonely in my glory" - spoken word jam with Matt and a guitar - off to catch the 1pm bus at Oak Bay Junction, to go shopping for socks with two beautiful girls.
It was International Women's Day, recently, and someone put an ad in the campus newspaper that read along the lines of 'Happy International Women's Day! But am I the only one who sees the irony in holding a bake sale to honour it?"
Grow up.
Grow. Up.
As a child and teenager I scorned cooking and baking because I too thought it was symbolic of female repression. I thought you couldn't be a feminist and be interested in cooking at the same time.
Then when I was 21 I stopped eating meat, and was forced to learn how to cook because I could no longer buy the majority of the pre-packaged foods at the supermarket. I bought a couple of vegan cookbooks and went nuts: to my shock, I loved cooking. A sensuous world of spice and organic vegetables opened up to me; I could spend an entire afternoon peeling yams, washing spinach, mincing garlic bulbs and dicing ginger. I learned how the different consistencies of bean curd could affect a recipe, how a half-teaspoon of cumin could change the flavour of an entire dish. The aroma of basil and oregano would overpower the kitchen, and I don't know if I've ever felt so purely satisfied. Sex and writing come close, but there's something about food, about creating it, that brings the visionary spirit to a deep, underground level.
To me, the ideal feminist is an ancient crone, with deep wrinkles and baggy pants, mud stains on the knees, leaning over an organic garden and pulling weeds. Then she brings the things she has taken from the earth into her kitchen, the only true womb, and creates life out of it.
Mavis Gallant: Would you have moved to France if they gave you citizenship? Like those figure skaters in Quebec? I forget their names. They were ice dancers, brother and sister, and Canada treated them cruelly for their francaphonishness. Serves Canada fucking right!
Jack Kerouac: Did alcoholism treat you badly, or secretly, did you enjoy it and feel loved? (I want for it to have been your best relationship)
Michael Ondaatje: Yes, the author's 'fuck-you tone' contributes to the theme of the poem as a whole.
Joyce Carol Oates: Your physical beauty and perfection makes me want to throw acid at someone, in frustration and frustrated ego. Not at you, though. I like your writing too much.
Allen Ginsberg: Are you my angel?
Michael V. Smith: Do you remember me? We met at The Starry Dynamo Cafe in Vancouver before I read some of my stories, and you called me "darling."
Aislinn Hunter: Your short story "Hagiography" makes me want to believe in things again, the good, disturbing things about people, and Catholics, and pornographic movie theatres.
William Faulkner: I tried to like you. I tried, and tried. Or rather: I didn't. I knew going into you that I'd hate you. I'm not sorry!
Are you there, Judy Blume? It's me, Joy.
Lorrie Moore: If you and I were sisters I think we would have hated each other, but we would have shared clothes - we have similar tastes, I'm sure - and we could have provided each other with both emotional and artistic growth. Public notice! I am willing to be your pen pal, if you like. You may contact me through the comments section of this blog.
Sylvia Plath: I used to chant your "Daddy" poem when I was nine years old, even though I loved my own daddy, even though I was nine years old. Come back.
Weird ten minutes on Wednesday morning: after a full four hours of sleep I headed off to school, photocopied my tragic story ("How to be a Success at a Cocktail Party"), and was in line for a union egg muffin. Struck up a conversation with a senior citizen after he said, "Good morning!" and I snarled back, "What's so good about it?" (Really! I snarled! In public!) We chatted a little, then I got my egg muffin and drifted over to the grill place to chat with Katherine. Senior Citizen came up behind me, grasped my pony-tail in his large hands, and proceeded to stroke it! While saying something inane like, "Look, she has a pony-tail, what a beautiful pony-tail!" I squirmed away and grabbed a coffee from the coffee place. Reflected on the meaning of sexual harassment. Was offended by the stroking of my pony-tail, but decided I was a hysterical bimbo if I actually thought it was "sexual harssment." Hence the invention of "sensual harassment." Was laughing to myself over this while munching my egg muffin at one of the study tables in the SUB, when I was asked to leave by some sort of tax preparation girl who was setting up some sort of tax preparation service at this table. I snarled at her. Then I grabbed all my stuff and moved it all to the next table, which was something like 12 inches away, and stared at her intently as I finished my egg muffin. Felt like a total asshole.
Again, the madness hits - a story is due, it had to happen - and all I can think of is that moment in The Pianist, near the end, where the Pianist plays a song for the German officer, and the German officer says, "What will you do after the war? What will you do when this is all over?" - because the German officer knows the war is almost over, he knows he has lost - and the Pianist says - says, ragged, beaten, almost dead - says, "I'm going to play piano on the Polish radio," and I cried, over and over - on buses, on my patio, on the sidewalks of Douglas St., at work, at sleep, every time I remember - "I'm going to play piano on the Polish radio" - and then there's that thing Hunter S. Thompson wrote, about rapists, when, 1700's, 1800's - so many different people raping one woman at the same time, not enough orifices, so they cut new ones in, with their knives, in her arms and legs and stomach - raped those - sadness, for her, for Hunter S., who wrote that so coldly, maybe because it was too horrible for him to fully digest - the story, the story I am writing is about a baby, I hate babies, I don't mean to but they frighten me, I feel threatened, babies don't like me either - it's about artists, visual and literary, who produce a baby, together, they live in a commune and want to create the ultimate work of art, collectively, but then they kill it - not physically, but emotionally - too dark, too much senseless - not enough cents; I am poor - and my mother was not in this evening when I called, left a message on the robot - so cold, blue, but not a nice blue - brought soup for Jess, that I had made, it has ginger and garlic and onions and yams and tomato and pineapple and basil in it - gave it to her - watched American Idol - none of those people can sing - will the world end when there is not a single person left who can sing?
Just watched "The Life and Times of Allen Ginsberg," and experienced a sort of transcendence.
A good, ghost-like day: floated through-out the city, pausing to write and smoke and play Yahtzee on the Moka House Patio; to absently spend $30 on used books, to set off anti-theft alarms in various stores (I am magnetic: no one can figure it out), to sit child-like on city-bus seats, legs dangling because they are too short to touch the floor.
OH MY GOD! I want to be a blues singer! I want to WAIL! You know, and have it be artistic.
Blues. Which blacks are best at. Which whites can only try at. So many colours. Also: Gospel. "Jesus hold my hand." Yeah! There's something about Gospel music that makes Jesus sound cool. Not that he isn't already (may I hear an "original socialist," people!). Also there's the Pixies: "God is so groovy I want you TO KNOW." Heck. And MXPX, wicked-ass punk band: were stripped of their"Christian rock" status after being caught smoking weed after a show at Vertigo, in none other than UVIC. The time's, they be a-STRANGE.
Complaints:
- People who confuse 'its' with 'it's'
- People who confuse 'your' with 'you're'
- Bob Dylan
- People who don't know when or when not to capitalize 'Mother' and 'Father"
- People who don't know the proper punctuation with which to end quotes (ie, "Great news," she said vs. "Great news." she said.)
Been in a chemically-blue-eyed kind of mood this week - lots of staying up till 2am doing homework and writing, then getting up at 7am, then falling asleep at 5pm. The eyes know.
Shared a couple of marvelous beers with Michael this afternoon, discussing Martha Stewart, and the media's portrayal of homosexuality, and Tyndall House. For the first part of the two beers there were a lot of political people at our table, and I viewed them with awe. I only spout political rhetoric. They live it. Wanted to be like them, but realized I am more comfortable with a glass of gin and an evolving short story. I am also lazy. But: I have decided to be a ballot-counter for the provincial election. Rah!
Speaking of evolving short stories: I have one due on Wednesday. The last story I will ever write for university purposes. Want to make it good, but also, to be ironic and make it fluffy.
I just read that most cats spend 50 per cent of their time self-grooming. I'm greatly ashamed of Sambuca. She spends maybe five minutes.
Very jagged thoughts - have re-written this entry four times now. Will have to just spew -
- it is the season for cherry blossoms, picked by one's lover -
- compartments of doom in the brain: very good thing! everything has its place, including difficult people. you mustn't FRET over difficult people, for fuck's sake - or rather, fret A LOT, verbally, and then stick it into one of your compartments of doom, to be taken out again only at parties, for the purposes of entertainment, or when deliberately making oneself feel bad because it feels good to cry -
- fiction fiction fiction i want to marry you -
- red bull? huh? the big deal? the big
deal, please. i haven't got a clue. tastes
like bio-strath (remember that stuff
clint?)
- weekend plans: make a meal plan for the following week and then COOK ALL THE FOOD ON SUNDAY. I've done this before. it works
- have to read some faulkner now. i'm going to hate it, but in a weird way i'm looking forward to hating it