wildcat

I wrote a poem tonight at work, before my shift and during my break, I wrote a poem tonight and then I wrote a second draft and now I'm working on my third. There's two or three things which probably have a priority in my life right now but this is the most important thing! A poem. It's like oxygen. But before I break off into Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge, I have to ignore all the other things and work on this! I'll use lots of exclamation points in my blog entry and then I'll try to read some notes from technical writing because I have an exam thingee tomorrow.

But I wrote a poem! I'm so excited!

A sucker for short fiction anthologies. It's a curse really. McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories, edited by Mister Michael Chabon. The first story in the collection is "Lusus Naturae," a new short by Margaret Atwood. I think that might have been what sold me on the book: something new from Peggy Atwood, paired with Poppy Z. Brite and illustrations by Mike Mignola. There's even a Roddy Doyle story in it. So far, smooth, Peggy's was enticing and gothic.

Coffee at Second Story with Caroline, whose name means "Song" (I misheard her on the bus; thought she said "sullen"). Discussed the upcoming poetry workshop, our predilection for reciting poetry outloud behind closed doors (She always reaches for the Keats and I go for the Eliot), and our recent fiction endeavours. We've decided to exchange short stories from this semester on the first day of poetry in January. I'm bringing her Tedford.

Revisions go apace. I forgot how much the complaining about how much time it was taking is just part of the routine, kind of like talking incessently about that essay you have to do for a month and then not doing it until the night before. My brain has to percolate our seethe in fear. Instead, I'm doing some laundry and then I'll begin, because I have no clothes and all my sweaters and long-sleeves are shoved into an old pink pillow case I use for my laundry bag, which has soap stains and other - sundries - on it. I think there might even be a few flecks of paint on the old girl.

Technical writing is over. The exam, writing a persuasive letter, took me twenty minutes to do and then I headed off to play the early morning Lothario with Michael before - you know - being seduced by Peggy having a new story for me to consume like so much fetid flesh.

Bringing someone special some flowers tonight.

Madness! Serenaded Shelbourne on the way home from the zine-making party, Peggy Lee's "Is That All There Is," while the rain poured and the flashing green lights lit me up. Leaves everywhere and all of them moistened, like little brown towelettes.

Selfishly, I abandoned Michael my wonderful boyfriend and Daniel to skid in front of the bus stop as the bus went by. I power-walked, or ran, or skipped
across town to Joy and Matt's, where we met up to go to Reanna's house for this party - this zine-making party. I went with a pair of scissors and nothing else, no booze either (although Joy supplied some of the gin). So from there we began, surrounded by the writing kids, Kerry had made cookies and Sonia drew images of James Joyce with teeth in his nostrils.

I rubber-stamped, a cut and pasted, I wound pages through typewriters and CLACKED away at the keys until odd poems formed, little stories about filthy Beryl and her many afflictions. Lolita incarnated as a boy. The pretentious soft-core porn of art magazines. Smoked weed, talked big, hung out with Joy, Matt, Sonia, random writing types, Sam was there, and Ian from poetry workshop last year. There was banging away at typewriters while Joy recited the typewriter alphabet, starting at the QWERTY and continuining with the UIOP...

And Michael wasn't there which was sad, but I had him in my head, my muse, as I wrote about Mother's Ruin and cut up and censored sections of Jane Fonda's post-pregnancy workout books, until they formed found poems that I fit in under signs. HARLOT was stamped across some man from the Great War.

And then I went home, Peggy Lee and the Triplets of Belleville in my ears----

Updated rantbook for once, today, after brunch at the Penny Farthing. Spent last night in the bath with Michael, drinking that Quail's Egg white wine that Gloriee gave me for my birthday; it was extremely good, spicy, thick and viscous. It didn't have an edge, but rather a pleasant after-taste. The setting was also nice, with bubbles and discussion. Michael tried to explain convection to me. There were candles, and the whole thing was good. Cleansing.

Otherwise, I've split my time between episodes of Buffy and work on my last story revision. It goes in fits and starts, but I have a better handle on Tedford this time. I also know more about the Best Beloved to which the story is addressed, and now that I have a secret name for him in my head, if not the story, Tedford can address him better. I still think the story will need another rewrite after I hand this one in to Lorna, for its own benefit before I submit it for publication somewhere (maybe Fiddlehead?), I need to develop the scene where they play Pirates, but it's definitely one step closer to being what it's supposed to be.

Chatted with Joy briefly a little while ago - we're planning our day on Tuesday. Going to have some quality capital-w Writer time, go in search of our magical typewriters. It'll give me something to focus on as far as creative outlets go, and maybe give me somewhere to put the energy during my "vacation."

Going to have a few more shifts in the next weeks, so maybe the money situation won't be so dire.

About an hour to go before the exam. Forms and Techniques in the Novel. Bill Gaston. I know that one of the questions is how we would rewrite Atonement or Life of Pi. I'm not sure which one I'll choose.

That McSweeney's Astonishing Stories collection is really good. I'm in the middle of the winning story from the August Van Zorn contest they held awhile back - basically, a weird tale in the vein of Poe. Jason Roberts, I believe, with "7C." So far that story isn't truly that exciting, except maybe for the astronomy angle, as I've seen psycho killer stories where they toy with the victim before. However, it uses a retrospective narrator addressing a very specific voiceless character/audience much like Tedford, and it does an interesting structure to seperate that fictive present from the fictive past. I'm not finished the story as yet, I'll probably go do that after I finish this blog post, but basically has some time to surprise me yet. I think there needs to be a massive twist to make it really exciting, but as several people have said - genre depends on familiar plots. It's got to be the surprising details that do it. And, like I said, astronomy.

After I kill my exam, after I slay it, I'm going home and I'm spending the day finishing the basic rewrite and then attacking the line-by-line. I won't be satisfied, but this isn't about the mark (okay, fuck it, I want a fucking A+), this is just another draft. I have vowed to spend a day on each of my three stories from this semester once this version of Tedford's story is done. After that, submit submit submit!

The live version of "Roads," performed by Portishead with the New York Symphony Orchestra? Even more brilliant than the studio version. It encapsulates so much more frost than the original, and the swagger of the music epitomizes mad tragedy and horny compulsion like nothing else. It's a very sad song, very lonely, but ultimately sexy in that sex-and-death eroticism way. Beth Gibbons has a classic jazz voice, she could pull an Ella or a Nina really easily, but she combines herself with the instruments into some kind of Frankenstein Bride - hot, miserable, and weighed down by her body.

The rewrite - well - has gone from the original draft's 3800 words to 4698 words. And it isn't finished, this last scene is getting dodgy. I've hit that point where I'm very close to something but I don't know what. One of the big questions I've asked myself with this rewrite is how much of a voice does June get with Tedford. People pointed out in workshop that it seemed like she was the one that underwent a change, rather than Tedford, and I think it's more about both of them changing in a positive direction. The disturbing thing about this story is that there's a sense of genuine hope, I think, for the characters at the end - not a happy ending per se, but it veers wildly from the blood and retribution I usually subject my characters to. Even Sadie Valentino ended with an explosion.

In the localized miserable monsoon weather, I've decided to make up for what amounted to an indecent day by (surprise) reading Fantastic Four comics, eating chocolate, and walking around with no pants on. I'm also going to write stupid fiction which I hope nobody will ever see.

Other people spend the holidays listening to Christmas carols and watching A Christmas Story, a movie which has a dubious connection with my parents' divorce. Instead of reading A Child's Christmas in Wales, I'm reading The Fall of the House of Usher and other gothic tales by Mister Poe. And a book about Ranulph Fiennes and how he became an pulp-tastic explorer.

Joy talked about the opening antics of the Mad Typewriter Gang, but failed to mention the bottle of champagne I downed that evening, the Diane DiPrima poetry we recited in unison on a broken-down couch, or how good that Jack Daniels tasted. Warm! It was like liquid warmth. Or the five minutes where Joy and I commistered about the lack of typewriters at the pawn shop on Johnson Street with the yellow awnings (the ones that announce "CDs! Videos!" et cetera), while Caroline seemed to be in a parallel dimension where we discussed cameras with her. We did indeed find one typewriter which was by all accounts perfect, but it was heavy as sin and right at the beginning: we couldn't cart that around all day, and there was only one! There were also fights over who would get the magical beast. And Matt kept leaving, but then he'd come back and it was like things were the way they were supposed to be. Again. I never really got drunk, but I was definitely in a multiple reality mood.

It's after midnight and I can still hear the rain. And the Magnetic Fields, puttering away in my disc drive. It doesn't sound like rain out there so much as somebody crinkling paper between the townhouses. I suppose to be crinkling paper between, one would have to be made of paper too, because I don't think there's much space between the walls. Haven't heard the neighbours have sex lately, which could be a good or a bad. It's after midnight and I suppose I should go to bed so I can get up and be a good litte automaton at work tomorrow, but I'm more interested in writing bad fiction for myself. Comic books. In the mood for gaudy, four-colour comic books with recycled plotlines and nothing worth mentioning. Trash.

1. "Wifey." I went into Thrifty's today, wandered around, picked up some things to make dinner with tonight, and then went to the till. The woman commented on how good the food looked, and I mentioned it was for a linguine dinner. Her response? "Are you cooking, or is wifey?" Wifey? Wifey? Apparently, I've hit the point where I look like I could be married. I was wearing two rings, but they were on my thumbs. Michelle later commiserated about how much she hates the term, and Mike suggested that I should have said, "Nah, hubby's doing it."

2. "Woman with an Umbrella." Went to the Victoria Art Gallery today with Michael, wandered around the French Masters exhibit. The drawings sections interested me the most, but the painting by Degas was my favourite. The Italian-looking, hyper-detailed face paired with a sketchy, half-finished body and surroundings. There was an installation of more recent art, called "Beauty Queens" - the whole thing was ridiculous and self-involved. I'm all for postmodern art, all for experimental forms of expression, but I found myself asking - is this art really saying anything at all? Now, obviously it has to be a dialogue with the viewer, but the art has to express something to begin with before the dialogue can start. There was one set of chromogenic photographs - heavily red, with yellow - that I clicked with, but otherwise? I'm fully in favour of Dada, which is all about Saying Nothing, but it at least has a capital Saying Nothing rather than just not having anything to express. Its meaninglessness and how art is nothing is what Dada is all about.

3. "Poe." Saw Ladykillers last night, by the Coen Brothers. Andrew tells me it's not supposed to be any good, but I enjoyed it a lot. It had Tom Hanks in it which usually spells disaster and feel good bullshit, but he pulled his part off well and stepped outside his usual roles. There was a lot of dark humour to wallow in and Edgar Allan Poe references - which seems to be the theme of my life lately. Several of the drawings by French Masters in the exhibition were illustrations for different E.A. Poe translations into French.

1. Reading Mindhacks. Neuroscience. There's an entry on imaginary friends that I find interesting. I had an imaginary friend named "Bill," he babysat my menagerie of stuffed animals - I think I had about fifteen, all of which slept with me every night until Mum decided she was tired of washing them every weekend and packed them off into garbage bags or gave them away. I don't really remember that much else about Bill, actually - was he just there to watch the animals? Did I just invent him and keep him around to get my little self out of the "house" once in a while, rather than being tied down at home with the kids? I remember him having some kind of personality and I imagined him being older than I was.

2. Writing bad fiction can be fun when you're not planning on showing it to anybody in your life. Really. This is worse than the three-day novel, I'm sure, but I'm having fun. Pulling old characters out of mental storage and puppeting them around. I need to invent an antagonist for this.

3. This live Portishead CD remains wicked. The reverberations, the faint unbearable tension that lives in Beth Gibbons's voice. The words "it's only you who can turn my wooden heart." I don't know, I really like "wooden heart." And there's a quality to the scratching, its use as an instrument - it isn't particularly out there or anything, but it's definitely confident.

DREAM from last night: Getting ready to do a drag show as Meringue somewhere with a lot of catacombs. Half-urban, half-medieval, possibly Venice in a bizarre dream-version. I'm running around with an orange taffeta dress pulled on over top tights made out of newspaper. I have distinct memories of trying to apply eyeshadow and mascara, but my eyes not being able to close properly. I'm apparently going to be late for the big show, wondering where Matthew is with his Mineauge outfits. There are a lot of women running around, some I know and some I don't. Dancing girls for the show? Woke up before the show could go on.

Brunch with Michael, Steff, Jason, and Stephen shortly. After that I'll be working on the novel's next section and reading the Ranulph Fiennes book. As well, I have two giant books on fashion and architecture to look through while I work on the novel. This next section details Meringue's transit to France and her arrival in Paris. Feel inspired because of the dream, which verged on nightmare for most of the time. Very distressing eyeball sequence right in the middle.

Started a new revision for "Wild Cat Days," with comments back from Colette at work about it. I pulled out Lorna's comments on the rewrite and got to work on some line edits. I have at least one more scene I need to add, and I really need to something about the use of italics. Fuck. It's ridiculous. It does something weird to the piece's tone and I don't like it. In fact, there's so much I need to work on with this story. Like the transition into the surreal world of the story, when Harold starts bringing home actual wild cats. There's also that weird bowel obsession that I need to figure out and maybe cut; or some explanation about the whole vegetarian stomach enzymes to clarify it.

Yes, I'm very tired of not doing anything on my holiday. I have three stories that aren't nearly ready enough to go out as submissions, so I'm spending the next two weeks working on them when I'm not cranking out christmas gifts or going to work. I miss my friends, I miss my Michael, and I miss being productive. Time to stop dicking around and get things done.

Read "Light is like Water," by Marquez to get myself into the surreal mind set. Magic realism. This story will be top notch. I will work it over. I will work it under. I will work myself out of it and into it. And maybe it needs another title.

I'm going to eat now. I'd fix myself a drink, but the house is painfully non-alcoholic. Damn-damn-damn.

ACTUALLY, I'm reading Breakfast at Tiffany's, by Truman Capote, and it inspires me! I'm rather excited. I quite like the style, the voice, and Capote's excessive use of dialogue, always long passages that sizzle with this intense energy that drives you on, and on, and on--! Like Kerouac without the dashes, but with dialogue and an interesting female character. Capote is kindred to my tendency to come up with names like Tedford; he's got Miss Holiday Golightly and Rutherford "Rusty" Trawler. Divine, divine, divine. It simply outdoes the movie for way-out jazzy voice, but I continue to love both. I can't believe I let the book sit this long in the pile.

Some copy edits and general adjustments have been noted down on the draft of "Wild Cat Days" and now I'm making the changes to the file. Possible alternate titles. Move some scenes around, try to add more description of the narrator's husband Harold. The voice is the key, very bitter, and I want to inject more body treachery into the narrative. Harold has been described by both Colette at work (whom the story is thinly based upon) and people in workshop as being like the invisible man, an apt description I'd like to capitalize on.

That all said, I'd really like to live in a spacious studio apartment right now. Darling.

"Chicks so tight my lips are turning blue." Well, tights jeans too. So tight, he doubted he'd ever have children now, at this rate, while he got his swagger on in the little shit-joint drinking hole on Main. Face it, there were only two streets in town and there's no hope for a place like that. He should have taken up smoking, because everybody else in there did - thick plumes, heavy virulent clouds all around his head. Could he shark somebody at pool? Probably not, not on a night like this with his throat sore from second hand smoke and that nasty split just above the bartender's lip, a wound that reached up and shook hands with his pulsating nose. Miserable nostrils. Maybe this was the wrong place to pick up chicks. Maybe this was the wrong place for a lot of things, for a boy like him. He undulated his hips up to the bar in that way the ladies liked, and flashed a five-spot in front of the bartender. "Vodka-cranberry, please?" No, his eyes threatened to explode. This was more of a buck-a-beer town. Was it too late to change---

(c) 2004 Ben Rawluk all rights reserved

How does all this lint form in my navel? How? How does it trap itself in my stomach hairs and cling like a spider? A spider in my belly-button, dug in, clawing at my inside bits, working its legs into the holes left from my piercing, which have never really scarred over on the outside. Which I kind of like. I keep fantasizing that all my discarded body hair, all the trimmed pubes and chin stubble, all the flecks of head hair - that they all got together and formed this man made of hair, who stalks me now outside my second story window. Probably crouches on the roof as we speak.

Poppy Z. Brite's blog: "When I went to get four inches of frizzly split ends cut off my hair the other day, I was an ornithologist. I worked at Tulane University and specialized in the large wading birds (herons, egrets, spoonbills, et al.). I made this claim not because I took any pleasure in lying to a nice young hairstylist, but because I simply didn't feel up to answering the usual questions: What do you write? Are you published?"

For the record, I finished the entire Capote book. Breakfast at Tiffany's is a great novella, which inspired me to want to write a novella, and the three other short stories are varying shades of brilliant. Definitely kindred action. I've started Martin Amis's The Information, and inevitably I'll blog about that in the future. I can say for sure that I like his roving, disjointed point of view shifts in the opening, which is something I like to play with. This year has been all about experimenting with point of view and narrative voice, so you'll excuse me while I geek on and on about books that do things along these lines. Amis is brilliant, although I hear he's cranky in person. But I'm often cranky in person as well.

Let me get right to the point: this day has been UP and DOWN. UP, let me tell you, finding a random issue of Fantastic Four to read and finding a perfect couple gifts for someone. DOWN the drain, down the throats of the masses, down the electronic highway from my account to someone else's. Money. Getting detailed to the point of madness instructions on how to get to my mother's house, without time to process and fully write down what the hell's going on. Not that I really needed more than a few clues, because I do still remember what Prince George looks like. UP getting to know Michelle's new boyfriend, but DOWN apparently we teased her too much. What? Really she was just exhausted and tired and drunk after not eating all day except wine and chocolate. Got to remember the emotional ups and downs and be more gentle. UP talking to Caroline re: everything, including our recent and new short stories, the dream I had about her reciting Sylvia Plath poetry, and various and sundry. Apparently I have the same energy as Burroughs, which is a bit of a fuck you to the old man (who the old man is I won't say).

But, enough of the congenital existential despair. Get another fucking soapbox, man! We can't stop here! Jason Roberts, winner of the August Van Zorn competition, wanted to know what I thought of the rest of his story "7C," in that McSweeney's creepy horror genre anthology. I thought about it this morning while I shelved books endlessly at the job and decided that the big surprise ending for me hinged on the time between the retrospective and the present - the story being told and the storyteller. That was the twist that interested me, because the story was so focused on that narrator. As soon as we realize the actual amount of time past, it changes the whole meaning of the story and forced me to reevaluated my view of the narrator as a psycho killer (either pro or gifted amateur). I felt the elements of body horror could have been sped up a little; they felt decompressed a bit too much for a short story. The idea for the horror was fascinating but it needed to start getting more obvious faster, because we don't have enough time and suddenly halfway through the story the thing we thought was just a psychological thing becomes a physical thing - which of course is probably the point of what Roberts wanted to do, but for me at least it felt like it didn't quite achieve the effect. It wasn't enough of a twist to warrant the wait. The astronomy angle was good and I felt the story was worth reading for the characterization, which could be taken further if he felt like it.

So that's what I thought in a very super-compressed and high-action way, not terribly well constructed but it's after midnight and I have to get up for work again in the morning. At least Michelle will be gone already for once so I can get to the shower as I feel like it and run at my own pace.

Went to a fabulous potluck at Joy and Matt's house last night, with a good group of people in attendance. After that, I went home with Michael in the rain, curled up in bed, and woke up this morning to all the banging, comings, and goings of his house on a Saturday morning.

Home for a few hours before we go to Natasha's housewarming. Busy! Busy, busy little beavers. I'd like to centre myself a bit, and I need to shave off the shoddy facial hair before it attacks me. I'm not feeling as up to snuff as I'd like, but you know how it is.

Well, something exited my fingertips tonight, write into a Word document. Don't know what it is, yet. The unwritten novels pile up faster than congenital illnesses. I still have that peculiar habit of overwriting, and I'm always worried that my prose is purpler than it should be. I hate sometimes that I'm such a fucking stylist.

Speaking of stylists, I'm watching The Royal Tenenbaums while I do it, in fits and starts. It's up there with Wonder Boys - perhaps not the greatest films ever made, but they both make my brain scuttle when I watch them, and then I have to write something. I'm rather pleased that Anjelica Huston bullied Wes Anderson into rewriting the script to give Etheline a bigger role; one of the things which I find the most interesting about this film and Rushmore is that both Etheline and Rosemary are cast into the role of muse and object of desire, but both of them rage against that category - Etheline quietly, and Rosemary with a certain fierce self-determination.

Maybe I'll have to watch Rushmore later.

Anyway, this afternoon Michael and I tried to make pancakes but that didn't work out because we didn't have milk, and instead of doing the obvious thing (go across to the grocery store to get some), we went out for brunch at Floyd's Diner. Sometimes I imagine how ridiculous it'll be when we live together; there will be a lot of empty Chinese food containers everywhere, and we'll alternate between lavish meals in and extravagant meals out. I keep imagining that chaise-lounge in the living room that I've always wanted (I'm wearing a fabulous blue pinstriped suit as well), me perched across it with a gin martini on the table beside me and a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary in my lap.

I'm writing this story with no idea where it's going. It's fun to see characters begin to develop, even if only in two pages and only in the most superficial way. I wonder if this will be any good. I wonder what Virginia does on those Tuesday afternoons. I wonder if Pandora will ever be happy.

Work in the morning, followed by a very quick trip to Oak Bay to pick up a Christmas cheque from my grandparents. They want very little to do with me because of my lifestyle, but they keep up with small monetary bonuses because of genetic connection. Don't know how I feel about that. My mother advised me on my birthday: "Just take the money. Money's money." I could have actually gone today but I usually need a bit of mental preparation to deal with them. All the psychic armour has to pile itself back on.

But I'm looking forward to tomorrow night's big thing: a writing excursion. With Joy and Matt. It'll be a chance to get some work done in the company of other writers. Which mostly just translates to getting bitchy and gossiping about people we know, which is another kind of writing if you think about it.

Drunk on the gin (as usual) at Joy and Matt's house (no surprise), we engaged in the writerly existence. I came up with two poems, which means that I have three poems waiting for something like a workshop, plus two that need to be typed out and concluded. I feel completely productive even though everything's wobbling. Wobbling! After that, drunker on the gin I watched four episodes of Futurama with saucy twosome and laughed until I couldn't breathe. I also discovered Engrish because of Joy, and finally got a grade posted: A- in Technical Writing. Blood y right I did it. Going to go to campus tomorrow to pick up my novel chapter and maybe by then I'll get another grade, but doubtful at best.

Current state of the Union, Darlings: A- on "Tedford and June," with some pretty good comments that I can use for another rewrite. The emotional stakes still haven't been quite established, so perhaps the thrust of the story isn't clear enough yet. A on the first section of Meringue, and Bill included notes on voice and various things; Meringue's voice in all its excess can become a kind of monotone, which I have to experiment with and modulate. He also mentioned that because of the retrospective, there isn't enough tension about her fate, so something more important needs to be occuring in the present. The next section will definitely follow the Murder on the Orient Express mode.

Otherwise, I'm reading Martin Amis's The Information and making pancakes today before I scurry off to work. I'm going to spend perhaps half an hour working on that short story I'm writing, and I'm probably going to consult the revision notes on my break tonight and make some decisions about rewrites.

Marks up: A- in Technical Writing, A- in fiction workshop, and an "A" in Forms and Techniques in the Novel.

Showed Michael The Big Leibowski last night. I still really enjoy that movie, which somehow manages to be a western in Los Angeles, a mystery with no mystery, and a caper flick with no caper. Sort of. We got into arguments at different points, and he liked the second half better than the first, and I don't think he quite identified with the Dude like I do. Which might be a good thing. It was another case of discovering something new while I watched the movie; during the Dude's gorgeous drugged out pornographic dream sequence, featuring Julianne Moore as Wagner's Brunhilde, the German Nihilists appear as the long, red-legged scissor men from "The Story of Little Suck-a-Thumb." Except that they get remixed with a Freudian castration emphasis thanks to a visit from Mister Ferret in the Bathtub. I totally missed that the previous times I'd watched the film. I think that porno dream sequence is probably my favourite part of the film, Joy's obsession with "Nobody fucks with the Jesus" aside.

I'm sorry, I know, I'm defective, I do not want a pet. Well, actually, I could handle a fish or a lizard of some kind, an amphibian. Just fine. I do not want a cat, or a dog. I don't not want a cutesie little bunny wabbit or a itsy-bitsy mouse. I know, I'm defective. I know this, I hear this on an almost daily basis: you didn't grow up with any pets? And they cluck their little tongues and say what a hard life I must have had. I did not grow up with any pets. I do not want a cat, I'm allergic, there's no way of predicting. I'm not going to go out of my way to feel ill when I'm at home. I do not want a dog, I do not like the smell of dog. I like animals just fine, feel good about protecting them and animal rights, but I do not want to have one around me. Animals and I live in two seperate worlds and we know it. I like other people's pets; this is the way most people feel about children, when they're someone else's hey - that's great! So cute.

I'm not some inhuman monster although I know at least one or two of you is thinking it, thinking oh my god, he doesn't want a puppy around - but I don't, see. I like not having fur on everything. I know very well that I'm too much like Miranda and that what's even worse is that I'm making television references about it. I could actually see myself with a kid, I can very well see myself with a kid in ten years, maybe sooner. Really. I could have a kid and I'd probably love it, even the stupid three o'clock feedings, because I'd already be up working on a novel, and failing miserably at getting published. But I'd read her Margaret Atwood stories at bedtime, or Lorrie Moore, or I'd read him my own stories. I'd bring home books of Dennis Lee poems and I'd teach the kid the appropriate times to cuss ("Whenever," I'd say, "The Man is getting you down.") I could have a kid, one day, when I'm ready and not quaking with terror at the thought of screwing that kid's head up.

But cats make me sneeze and my eyes get all puffy. Can't breathe. And there's this whole business with shedding, not fond of that, I have enough of a time cleaning up after myself, my lover, and this hypothetical imaginary small child. Who would probably be named something like Antimony or Sophie or bloody Maximillion, and grow up hating me for ever picking such a name. Sure I get lonely sometimes and want to cuddle, but when I'm actually alone I just throw on a blanket and suck it up. Occasionally, I want to have a drink after a hard day of writing or not writing and lord help everybody if I have writer's block. Plus, honestly - I have the lover and the imaginary child type entity (I'd name him Cthulhu), there would be cuddles.

I know I'm defective. I'm too cynical, sarcastic, I don't like doing dishes, I don't want a cute puppy, I'm too cavalier about other people's religious beliefs and I really need to work on myself. I'm a know-it-all. I'm not going to hit enlightenment in this life. I'm barely one step closer. I worry about my hair too much, and am prone to spending money irresponsibly. I have not yet converted to a full vegetarian diet, I still eat fish. I spend a lot of time wanting to write stories and I'm sure I'm going to be a horrible husband; too set in my ways. Can't we just have an iguana, or a tree frog, maybe three? In a tank. No fur. No fur.

Went to Wes Anderson's fourth film, The Life Aquatic with Steve Ziszou, tonight with Michael, Robbie, Ayla, and Dan. I went into with a mixture of giddy enthusiasm and utter despondency - as Joy pointed out, surely he had to make bad movie at some point. And while I thought the film certainly had its flaws, I walked out amazed at the film I'd just seen. It was good. It was really good. It made us of CGI, cutaway theatrical sets, and some brilliant script work. The acting was top-notch, especially on the parts of Bill Murray and Anjelica Huston - Michael observed that the chemistry between them was apparent despite the surface tension between the characters. Cate Blanchett was another really strong highlight, and I found her complicated character fascinating. Style is obviously a big factor in Anderson flicks, and I grooved on it in places and didn't groove on it in others. I think what impressed me was that not only did it refine the sense of style and underacting which is present in his other films, it also added to it by grafting on a lot more variety of tone. It made use of these weird "action movie sequences" which not only reflected the documentary film work in a weird way, but also enhanced the bemused irritation that the world regarded Bill Murray's character, Steve, with. It also completely blasted me with my weird adventurer fetish and inspired me.

More thoughts later. I look forward to adding it to my library.

Christmas was surreal, with Michael's family. Things: A book of Buffy the Vampire Slayer criticisms and analysis, as well as a martini-candle from Michelle. Michael's mother gave me a gift certificate to Munro's, so I went and bought Where I'm Calling From, short stories by Raymond Carver. From Michael, I got Rebel Without a Cause on DVD, a book of illustrated H.G. Wells stories, and a flashy-lights little raver-ball. Great fun! Dinner was weird, Daniel came over and joined us for turkey, stuffing, et cetera. We made traditional Ukrainian Vegetarian cabbage rolls, so that's what I had for dinner, and too much home made chocolate. We started drinking the Gin at 11:30 am. You know. Tradition.

The trip to Prince George was cancelled as a result of dodgy road conditions upon my father's advice. We're going to look into airplane sales for mid-January to try and make it up there soon.

Dinner at Hime Sushi tonight; a Bento Box with salmon cutlet, my usual. The miso soup was excellent, and it sated a random desire for Nigiri. This was after about an hour of driving around with Michael, discussing the future and considering options. We also bottled the mead, which should be ready to drink in about five years. In the meantime, we're going to pop open the sediment-laden last bottle on New Year's Eve, at my fabulous Gin and Sushi New Year's Party.

I think I want to start writing a novel or something tomorrow. I'm sure I'll disappoint myself.

I'm so hungover my eyes are those glass bulbs pulled off of Christmas trees and stamped to bits during arguments. And I wasn't the one puking last night. I would like to crawl out of my bedroom and into a hot shower, but this isn't my house and there are people outside. I'll probably set out for home on foot in an hour, swelter in the cold and my stewed guts all the way through the Royal Jubilee parking lots and over to my place. I should probably go check my bank account so I can see about paying some bills, but I'll do that this afternoon.

The evening started off at Pagliacci's with Michael; Michelle phoned to invite us about four minutes before they left the house, and I didn't get the message for an hour. Anyway, that's where we ate. It was really fine, really delicious, I ate too much bread, but as usual there was some canola margarine or something obscure used in the process that made my nose absolutely itch like crazy. After that we went to A&B Sound and both made impulsive purchases, cheap ones, and headed to Swans to meet up with the gang.

Joy, Matt, Steph, and a bunch of Steph's guy friends showed up. Michael and I each had a pitcher of Raspberry Ale. At some point, it was suggested that we stumble to the Sticky Wicket for pool, which sounded great. Lost a few people - i.e., Joy, Matt, and Michael - in the crosstown stumble, so we played pool until Matt showed up. Where were Joy and Michael? About forty minutes later they crawled in, Joy raging about the horror of being refused entry to a strip club. They played a wobbly game of pool at the next table over, Steph and I bonded as usual in a drunken fury while she smoked and we judged other people's life choices. Brilliant.

You know, I think two scenes in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes really steal the show for me; the two renditions of "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend." Marilyn Monroe's version, the classic and memorable version that was riffed on for things like "Material Girl?" I'd forgotten about the weird living sculptures of women in tight black with their hair up in black bandanas, tied together to form statuary and even weirder - suspended from the ceiling as living chandoliers.

The other version is Jane Russell's rendition: done up in Marilyn drag in a French courtroom, wearing a heavy fur coat over a floozie's night club costume, all bangles and silverware. She reduces Marilyn's character to the absurd and then obliterates the earlier rendition's little blonde girl vibe in favour of Russell's hot sex madness. I completely love this version and it totally reflects why I like Dorothy Shaw - Russell's character - better than Monroe's Lorelei. She's all about the sex, and all about the variety and heat. She likes muscles and hot men. Her version of the song is raw and gyrates wildly between an outright drag show and the Maria-Robot's erotic dance in Metropolis. Her dress is similar if not exactly the same as the one Nicole Kidman wears during the first version of the song in Moulin Rouge.

Dorothy's completely in control of every situation and moreover, is never presented in a negative fashion - she is no slut, no whore, either from inside or outside. She just wants to have fun, and up until the narrative smacks her down, she isn't in it for the LOVE, per se. In fact, the only real judgements levelled against her are from Marilyn/Lorelei - because Dorothy would and will get it on with a poor man if he's pretty. Lorelei is attracted to money and comfort, and her pragmatism is delightful in its own way simply because she's completely up front about it and only plays the little girl with no brains when she can get something out of it. Anyway, my point is that Dorothy pretty much lampoons Lorelei to remind us that Lorelei is all an act; Dorothy's been nothing but one hundred percent genuine. Especially when she's watching hot, Olympic athletes practice in the gym with little flesh-coloured trunks on.

Inspired to write another story about Lenore, that little dinky-toy town in the middle of the desert. The first one was a riff on science fiction, the second one was a riff on Bonnie and Clyde movies, and I think this third one will be a riff on Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I have a couple ideas for it, at least as far as the basic conceit goes, but I need to flesh things out more and actually start writing it.

Wrote something for the postcards blog. Check it out. I'd like to get it going again, if for no other reason than to inspire me wild flights and get my fingers clacking. Maybe other people will post to it as well.