wildcat

1. I have two apartments to view tomorrow, at 11:30 and 12:30. The second one sounds like the better of the two. A few disappointing phone calls, classified ads circled in the international movie cliché, red ink. Joy talked me through the "initial speech" and a few questions to ask over the phone. One of the apartments is in the same building Matt's brother lives in, and apparently it's a good building.

2. I think, I'd like to think, that if Michael and I were to have a song, it'd be "Feelin' Good," by Nina Simone. I used to want it to be "Let's Do It," (Cole Porter, 1929), but if I was to be perfectly honest "our song" would be a continuous stream of Nina Simone's entire oeuvre. Maybe "I Put A Spell on You." Tragically, I think "our movie" will forever be Underworld, that lamentable Kate Beckinsdale PVC fetish tragedy otherwise known as Vampires vs. Moss, wherein grammar is ambiguous and all werewolves look like homeless Abercrombie & Fitch models when they're not furry.

3. I wrote a poem about Moloch the other day. I rewrote it yesterday while Michael was playing on the computer. Tonight I wrote a second poem about Moloch, then two more. Then they became four sections in a single overarching poem. Drafted, anyway; they are incomplete and inconsiderate and inexplicable. They will be dealt with tomorrow evening, probably.

4. We ate a pomegranate on New Year's, at Midnight; on the balcony of Steff's parents' house in Gordon Head, with large men from Vancouver. They lit off bottle rockets and it was a mixture of Wes Anderson movies and Michael being startled by the explosions; I got sparks in my hair. As different clocks read different times, I took him into the bathroom afterward and we had a private New Years countdown, followed by pomegranate. Sex and death while times clicks over and a new year begins. I'd like to do this every New Years.

5. I need to submit "My Father is an Invisible Voter" soon, and I need to submit the Moloch poem once it's finished.

Apartment hunting didn't go well at all today. If it was a kill-or-be-killed situation, I'd be dead on the floor with all sixty miles of intestinal tract already out and being used as a boa. I have a few prospects to call tomorrow morning, and I'm reasonably sure that we're in an "only going up" situation. This has only been day one, really, so I can't be discouraged! I'm not discouraged. I looked at a listing for an apartment earlier, in James Bay, which sounded busy. Except that the bathroom isn't entirely private and apparently I'd be sharing a kitchen with the landlord. And the photos provided were tragic.

I mean, really, I should be glad I live in a country where the population density is so low. It doesn't feel like the best of all possible worlds, but is my life really that difficult? Okay, except for the bits that are self-inflicted, emotional wastelands that destroy me from the inside.

I've worked on the Moloch poem some, might do some more in a bit. At brie and flatbread leftover from the party, for dinner. I still have leftover cheese!

I have another apartment-viewing appointment set up for 3:30 tomorrow. I'm off work at 2pm, so that gives me enough time to get downtown and over to James Bay, where the apartment is, to look at it. The manager guy sounded a bit grunty on the phone, but the place looks all right from the photo, and it's near Beacon Hill Park. Also, you know: Thrifty's nearby, some bus routes, downtown, et cetera.

The one on Duchess Street's already been rented, the bastards! If only I'd been able to call on Monday night, but whatever.

The plumber is scheduled to come by tomorrow afternoon, and I don't have to deal with it. For my sins, though, I have to look at that apartment after work.

I need to do some writing soon, I think. It's going to be a busy couple of days, but I fully intend to make some time to zone out into the wordspace and drift in an endless sea of perpetual language; every word changing, fluctuating, achieving deeper and vaster levels of meaning---

I'm sorry, I seem to have dropped into some linguistic masturbation there. Egad.

Well, as expected, the plumber did not knock, or ring, or shuffle awkwardly from foot to foot in front of the door. Michelle's man, Mike, waited around the townhouse for two hours solidly, the window of expectation, and nothing came. Can't say that I'm terribly surprised.

The latest apartment I looked at was terribly far away from anything, in James Bay, and filled with old people. I passed several retirement communities on the way and then I got there and the foyer smelled of grandmothers, the peepholes were too low to the ground, and everything was off. I was off. Oh well, tomorrow is another day.

Talked to Joy for a while, compared our lack of "emotional capability." Picked up another shift for tomorrow, bought some comic books, talked to the roommate for an hour and clarified everything, I think things are going to be fine.

I think things are going to be fine. If there was ever a death knell for hope, that would be it right there. I think things are going to be fine.

I'm going to spend the evening watching Dead Like Me, eating whatever I can find in the kitchen, reading X-Men comics, and maybe a shower later.

Tomorrow, I'm going to make things better.

1. Your anxieties are beginning to clear.

2. This is a month of opportunities, but you must stay alert.

3. Sensitivity makes you special, but also makes you vulnerable.

4. Keep a "go-for-it" attitude and you are sure to be a winner.

In other words, the universe is saying: SHUT UP AND DANCE.

In seeking inspiration, I recalled this image--

Peter Orlovsky and Allen Ginsberg. I saw it for the first time in a copy of Ginsberg's journals, which I haven't been able to find again in a bookstore, but I'm pretty sure work has a copy somewhere (probably) downtown, so I'll sneak a peak when next I'm down there. I can't remember who took it, but it's probably New York - something tells me it might have been Burroughs behind the camera, but that doesn't make any sense. If it'd been Burroughs, the camera would have probably been flying through the air at Peter's head. Damn.

It's sad, the amount of time spent searching for the correct quotation to act as a title for a post.

BUT, which is to say HOWEVER: I have found a place. William Burroughs left a message on Joy & Matt's voice-mail that went as follows: "The Beatniks are homeless no more. The Beatniks are homeless no more!" There's already dramatic irony and coincidence involved, but the house is quiet and beautiful, a character home from 1908 with a big bachelor suite for me, including a small kitchenette - let's be honest, how much do I ever cook? Really? It will be perfect solitude for me and my writing desk, for my grandoise sentences. The suite is on a corner, it has Southern & Eastern exposure, and all the utilities are included for a pretty good price, with the exception of phone - whatever, I have the cell - and internet. I might try to go a month or two sans internet, see how that works. We'll see how long it is before I crack and scream and demand that the company gives me a connection again.

I'm excited; the place is beautiful, and well-positioned vis-a-vis bus routes and/or walking distances. There are so many little details for me to describe into stories.

Afterward I met up with Michelle and we went for Vietnamese food, then came back to the townhouse for ice cream. Moose Tracks.

Now I'm listening to Blackalicious. Don't let money change ya.

(a-dee-da-da-da-dee-da, a-dee-da-da-da-dee-da)

I learned how to play cribbage again, last night, and hearts. I won at hearts with devastating ease, primarily because I tend to play toward chaos theory, rather than clear objective winning strategies. That is: luck. Luck. Luck. This was after dinner at Hime with Michael. We went to Daniel's for drinks, ice cream, cards.

Scratching the old noggin over the packing situation, which needs to kick back into gear after languishing some weeks, my room a pile of boxes and furniture. I'm moving some things downstairs so I can figure out exactly what I still need to pack in here, and then I'm going to start some rough figures with regard to how boxes I need to acquire from Joy's work. Luck, again, I can move some of my stuff in before the 1st. That way I can clear out the loads of books.

Need to wrap up more kitchen stuff, including the ten or so martini glasses. Why do I have so many martini glasses?

Taking down photographs and pictures from my walls, in order to pack them up. I need to clean out my desk and such. I have a box of garbage bags, it may be time to use them.

Oh! The poor wretch of this body.

I've worked through some heavy lifting, only a few more things that were already packed to be taken down to the living room before I have a go at the rest of the stuff. I think I might do a bit of that, if I don't get called in to work tomorrow. I would really rather prefer being called in to work tomorrow. I would.

Need to do some writing tonight. Don't know what; maybe I'll stab at keys for a while and see what comes together. Maybe I'll wing it. Tomorrow should be the writing night, but I need to do something 'fore that.

I'm part of the way into Phillip Pullman's The Subtle Knife, second book of the His Dark Materials trilogy. I had a hankering for weirdly philosophical young adult fantastic fiction, and I'd heard good things about these books. They shuffle between gnosticism and were apparently written as an antidote to Paradise Lost; the first book was quite good once Pullman got past the initial set-up, the prose lost some of the clunk and grew gloriously streamlined. It suffers from many of the typical flaws of the genre (I feel inclined to write a story about a character who isn't the child prophesized to come and do whatever) but approaches the world with a cool and invigorating breath. I'm not very far into Knife but it suffers from a distracting secondary character thread that keeps going, even though I'm more interested in the two main characters and want to go back to them; the current thread seems more like basic world-building (again) and I'm resisting the temptation to skip it.

After I finish the books, I'm going to read L'Engle's books, A Wrinkle in Time and so on, for a liberal Christian variation on the genre. I'd like to find some different books with different metaphysical backgrounds, but I'm not sure where to start.

The frustrating bit of writing is when - as often happens to me - you have a page written and you stare at it for a long time, go do something else, come back to it and delete the whole thing because it fails on some fundamental level. This is the problem with starting a new story; getting past that point of type-and-delete and just typing. No matter the shit that comes out. I'm going to sit in bed now and open my rantbook for the purpose of writing, maybe a short poem before something longer. Or I'll sit and read and collapse into a sleep.

1. I wrote a blog entry and then I went away and it sat here and I came back and was disgusted with it, so I've decided to "edit" as in "revise" as in "replace utterly, from the inside out."

2. I boxed up my CDs, except for a couple to tide me over. I mostly listen to the computer's music, anyway. Also my printer, and I've only got one more stack of comic books to pack. I've got a rather large box to put together and take down to the rest of them.

3. Need to spelunk through the kitchen with the purpose of packing what I need from there.

4. The Fear sat with me while I drank tea and it was okay, but now the Fear has been sitting here talking off my ear for hours! It followed me downtown when I missed the bus and my bag strap broke, it followed me into Russell's where I sold some books for not enough money. It followed me onto the bus back home with the stink of people and horrors and it whispered into my ear about all those horrible things we try not to tell ourselves.

5. Got home and there was a GST rebate in the mailbox, with a change-of-address form on the back of the envelope. Small favour.

6. Submitted "My Father is an Invisible Voter," expecting the rejection letter in a few months. Sent it to the Danforth Review. I should really give up and write a crappy novel, maybe attribute it to Kilgore Trout, I should really write about torrid bosoms thrust into the faces of scandalized political figures, desperate to suckle misery-juice and die under their own desks, hearts removed with scalpels.

7. Making pasta with pesto sauce and then going to the grocery store to pick up a few things; it's best to not go shopping while hungry.

Box half-filled by the bedroom door, a small stack of comics to amuse me and four CDs left out, Joni Mitchell one of them. Fiddled about with the new USB memory thingee (technical term), exhausted of images and looking for inspirations. Supermarket? I can't find the supermarket to shop for them, no store detectives to follow me, the empty pressure upon my eyelids. HOWEVER, I'm about to embark on a quest through the callous streets with the night sky violent and starry, a quest to Joy's house for inspiration and writing and pedantic statements and the women come & go speaking of Michelangelo and Matt strumming his geet-box and Sambuca and the piling of conjunction upon conjunction, and and and but but but & & & *

"You can't live inside this house," she said, finally, when she could take no more. "You can't live inside this house," she repeated, when she followed him around all day, newspaper rolled up in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other - his favourite cup, in fact, a point of some contention in the marriage. "You can't live inside this house," she said once more while they sat in bed and he read some bestseller neo-deconstructionist garbage thriller with a plain black cover and a title in some unreadable font. The house was not big enough for them, for her and him; he couldn't go on living there, she felt, because she could hear him when he used the bathroom, she couldn't very well breathe with him around and he didn't speak, besides. Unsettling, the way he didn't speak, the way he never spoke but merely stepped around her, opening the fridge door to crack open another beer like she wasn't there, not even bothering to offer her one. "You can't live inside this house," she said while she ate the meal he cooked, a vegetarian lasagne that made her long for chopped liver and ground beef, the simper, the smell, the greasy gullet-smacking flavours absent from it. She said, "You can't live inside this house," even as he walked out the door, she called him at work to say it, she left notes tacked to the fridge or the bulletin board in the den, she left post-it notes on the bathroom mirror. He pulled them off and left them on the counter to be thrown away later, by her, but never said a thing about it, never complained about the misuse of paper - he worked in an office, after all, and supplies were sacred - and he kept to himself in his armchair with a paper open, her standing there with a frying pan in her hand and those words hanging out of her mouth.

Written in about five minutes, before I'm off to the grocery store to pick up a couple things. Something to get my head turning. Make of it what you will.

But anyway, I'm going to clean now. There's a lot of meaningless crap lying around this bedroom, which is my definition: piles of things, left, stacked up to be rifled through later. I'm going to open a garbage bag and into it I'm going to place all the useless things this room. Then I'm going to sit down with my kitchen stuff and work my through it, figure out exactly what I still need to get from downstairs or from Value Village (where I intend to go tomorrow). I may also empty my desk of things.

And in the process? Julie Taymor's Frida. Seen it before, but I need to watch it again and I felt the first flutter of a spark, a story-spark, this morning while at work. Which is spectacular, because my brain's been a creative wasteland for nearly a week and I'm going insane as a result. A week! Deplorable.

I'm fascinated by the dialogue of sexualities going through Julie Taymor's Frida - not an issue of gender, or promiscuity - it is a dialogue of significance. Diego fucks (yes) his models - but he gives "more affection in a handshake." When Frida finds him straddled by her own sister in the dark, he gasps that it "meant nothing" (classic retort). Frida is certainly no stranger to the extramarital encounter, going so far as to sleep with the same woman as Diego, but her approach is always of revelry, rather than Diego's half-hearted couplings. He refuses to take sex seriously, because people take it "too seriously."

Frida takes it seriously only for the beauty, the meaning of the act, even as the act might be comic, pleasurable, and amusing at the same time. This is threaded through much of the film - Diego's slept with half the women at the party, is utterly callous with regard to his lovers' feelings, and is too preoccupied with his own ego. Frida, by contrast, is shown revelling in near intimate contact (there is a shot of her singing with a man in a bar, while he plays an instrument in the band, they almost kiss, lost in this moment).

There is a scene early on where Diego (played by Alfred Molina) is arguing about politics with a character played by Antonio Banderas. It's typical drunken party fighting, which halts when Tina (Ashley Judd) - hostess - drops a bottle of tequila on the table. The one that can down the biggest sip may dance with her. For the men, this is posturing and it serves to break the tension; Tina is a prize, a distraction. However, as Tina makes the challenge, we are given a slinking side view of her, the dress, her exposed expanse of back (an interesting image which relates to the overarching imagery about Frida's spinal affliction), and Frida (Salma Hayek) casually examines her. Undresses her. The men take modest sips and the squabble is over, and then Frida picks up the bottle, drinks for nearly forty-five seconds (more?) and then looks at Tina: "Shall we?" What follows is a taut, electric tango and a mounting kiss.

For Diego, the sex is often a byproduct of art, a momentary frenzy afterward. He loves the attention. For Frida, the sex is an act of art in and of itself, it reverberates through her paintings, and her partner is presented as object and subject. The sex is threaded into her paintings and her paintings use that thread to come out, to exist and fluctuate with intent in the film, while Diego's remain solid and bound to the canvas.

Frida's relationship with Diego is intriguing because it seems that for him, she is significant, there is meaning there, but he is trapped by his own ego, and she is trapped by his role for her as mentor. Even as she outgrows that pattern, they are bound together and can not escape.

Tempest! It's really roiling out there, my windows are stained glass from the rush of rain over them. I made it downtown before the main force hit, went to Value Village and picked up a big pot and a saucepot for twelve bucks, then found a wicker laundry bin for a further twelve. Plus, additionally, as well as, part of Michael's birthday present - a small part, but a part nontheless. Then back onto the bus to come back here.

I woke up at eight this morning, sat and drank tea downstairs for an hour while I worked on something; last night, at around eleven, the spark struck and a story started. I don't know. I've only finished two pages and it's probably a foolish endeavour, but the voice intrigues me even as I wonder about its validity. There's a significant logic flaw in the opening but I know how to rework it for the second version when I type it into the magic machine. The main character doesn't have a name yet, it's as if she's running around with no face, nothing through which to speak. The suffering my characters undertake in the name of art.

I need to buy dish soap and I need to organize more of my things tonight, I need to actually follow through on that kitchen packing stuff. BUT, I intend to do so. I'm going to sit, listen to the radio, write, pack, and feel accomplished by the end of the day.

The fridge was an anthropological expedition, I packed more things away into boxes, and the day has been productive. Productive: full of product. Product was made. Product is, at present, being consumed; linguine with pesto sauce, parmesan cheese applied on top. Applied.

The fridge is a whore, the fridge is a peeler, the fridge is currently engaged in full frontal nudity, because I've stripped off the magnetic poetry and the feminist bookstore fridge magnet that Christian left behind and I'm taking with me for safe keeping, to give back to him when he gets back from Deutschland. Do you hear me, Christian? I have your fridge magnet. Come home.

I'm going to sit downstairs later and listen to the radio while I work on the new story, and then assuming I don't get called into work tomorrow - it's very slow this week - I'm going to go write in a coffeehouse with Joy, wherein we will "workshop the ugly first beginnings," I think she said, because she's also started a new story. But this after she listens to the National Playlist on CBC, which I'll probably have on in the morning. I like this, this starting the day with CBC on and breakfast. It reminds me of growing up; this is probably how I will start my days at my new apartment, when I'm not blinding stumbling around looking for something clean to wear or whatnot.

My new apartment will probably be an apartment slash library.

Thinking I might sit down in a bit and draw me some Batgirl. I haven't drawn anything in a while and I want to see if I can still do it.

The long and short of it is that I have my new house keys, and I can start bringing things over this week, to make go as smoothly as possible. I'm reevaluating what exactly I'm going to have room for, and if I don't get called in to work tomorrow I'm going to do a power-pack and clean, get rid of all the meaningless things that are holding me down.

1. With regard to fiction, no first kiss should ever involve pressing someone unexpectedly up against a wall (or other convenient surface), there should be no talk of taste, you know. I don't know: there should be more bumping of noses, or worse, teeth against teeth. There should be bad breath and chapped lips, there should be the alien invasion of tongue. I want to read about a first kiss that isn't magical, isn't unicorns and sunshine, but nerve-wracking and uncomfortable. I want to read about an unfortunate first kiss. A first kiss which means something, in that it is an open window for a second, et cetera. As usual, all rules are wholly arbitrary and prone to breaking at the merest suggestion of innovation.

2. I drew a couple Batgirls in my rantbook, but their lower bodies were off, I can't draw feet, and don't get me started on eyes. I do tend to prefer the curvaceous body type, though - the Earth Mother type. Or something. I like round.

3. Michelle moves to Fort St. John on Tuesday, my god, she leaves town to head up North (stop off in Prince George) for her management training. Went out for
her goodbye dinner last night. We said goodbye on Fort Street, nearly 11pm, with the cold and the hugs and things. I don't know. She's got some great things ahead of her. At times, our friendship has suffered from the Expanding Universe, but it still succeeds in being a vertebra for my life's spinal cord. You know: backbone.

4. With regard to my own fiction, there is always a fundamental failure in there, and that is my great wall. China! I'm working on the spark I had this week, a bit, although it needs to be typed out and worked from scratch a bit. I'm also doing something else, because I'm never happy with less than two projects on the go at one time. I want to write kicky girl adventure.

A reasonably concise list of things which need to be packed up:

-Lava lamp.
-Buddha, Ganesha, Athena's owl, alarm clock, change-chest.
-Tarot cards. I need an elastic band for them.
-My clothing, underwear, pajamas.
-A few assorted books and comics which I've been keeping out. I'll probably do that in the next day or so, then focus on library items for wiling away the hours.
-The martini glasses, which desperately need to be wrapped and put in a box.
-Toaster.
-Microwave.
-Domino set, for some reason.
-Bathroom stuff.
-The computer and a few associated bits.
-Phonograph. I've been listening to its radio a lot.

Need to get rid of the rest of the book donations, I might take some to work whenever they decide to call me in next.

Went through the garage and found a bunch of random items, dumped some of them and packed others. I'm starting to be a bit more cutthroat with regard to what comes with and what goes away into the Oblivion Door. Zen Rock Garden is now in a tupperware container with the assorted bits that go with it.

Probably things I'm forgetting, but there you go. No writing night tonight, Joy's sick and it's stormy outside. I'm crabby and I was crabby on the phone and I don't think human contact is a good thing right now. I'm making dinner in a bit, might have a shower, and then I'm going to do something interesting that doesn't involve packing. I need to talk to Michael about when we can take a load over to the new apartment.

Submitted for your approval/disdain: Japanese Spider-Man, from the Nineteen-Seventies. Yes. I don't understand the presence of the giant robot other than generic Japanese Ultraman/Power Rangers oeuvre, but what the fuck.

Anyway, I've blasted away a day doing not much of anything at all, besides drawing failed iterations of Batgirl, screaming at photoshop for a while, listening to the CBC (wondering why Drew Hayden Taylor's getting so much press right now), decadent direct-to-the-mouth consumption of liquid honey (beauty), texting back and forth with Michael. So I'm off to bed, to hide under the blankets and write stories. There won't be any spiders in my stories, or bats.

"We are turning into a nation of whimpering slaves to Fear— fear of war, fear of poverty, fear of random terrorism, fear of getting down-sized or fired because of the plunging economy, fear of getting evicted for bad debts, or suddenly getting locked up in a military detention camp on vague charges of being a Terrorist sympathizer."

-Hunter S. Thompson

Yes; what can I say after that?

Yes; I'm sitting at my computer with my rantbook out to work on the new story, which is probably useless. I'm eating cookies, drinking raspberry juice, and the Fear is over there on the other side of the room with nine eyes all trained on me - nine midnight eyes like thick, black acorns - each one threatening to burst open and deliver unto me a tree. A tree of loathing, of gnarled limbs and poisoned apples rotting and bursting open. The Fear is over there and I'm over here and we both know damn well what we're doing here and I'm going to work on the new story. Hell, I'm going to write a novel, you know, with the Fear looking on. The Fear can be my editor if he likes, he can complain about syntactical errors and verb confusion, he can whisper that my main character is trite and one-dimensional, that my supporting characters are meaningless cardboard cut-outs - all signifed and no signifier.

Yes; because I can deal with editors.

Side links are changing up a bit. Adding and subtracting. Expect a few random shifts over the next couple days.

My mother is now 51 as of today. I called and she told me about her uterine fibroids and assorted things. The kids in her class are being monsters, as usual; apparently she took them out into the snow yesterday for some kind of snow-sculpture competition between different classes, and now they've had their taste of freedom and gone mad with power. I find it odd to think that Prince George has (a) snow and (b) enough snow for sculpting. I can't quite put my finger on when exactly it happened, but I've lost some fundamental grasp on winter. It feels like autumn never ended over here on the Island.

Worked on a side project while I let "Queen of Coins" stew for a day or so. I might take it out in a bit and work on it anyway, make sure the paragraphs I wrote last night are added to the draft in progress. I have a clearer idea of the image systems, and I have a name for the main character. Actually, it's the name I had initially chosen but decided to ditch for sundry personal reasons. Only Joy was on the phone with me earlier and, once we finished our extended Holy Grail dialogue (I don't mean quoting from Monty Python, either, we actually discussed the concept of the Holy Grail and literary implications therein; I love the people in my life) she convinced me to go with it.

Tomorrow, I have plans to move a bunch of stuff over to the new apartment with Michael, and then eat sushi which I can't afford. And probably ravish Michael after the sushi that I can't afford.

I read Lynn Truss's new book, Talk to the Hand, last night. It's a quick and dirty read. It's a diatribe on rudeness prevalent in society and such things. Pace of Modern Life stuff. It goes on too long in places and fails to feel well-rounded, but I like that she's as opinionated over meaningless stuff as I am, and it's also absolutely hilarious at moments. The woman has an expert sense of comedic timing.

Superman makes me happy. Yes. Superman that makes me think of Margaret Atwood & Angela Carter's takes on Bluebeard? Happier.

I got a phone call from work! Four hours today, the interminable Fear has to wait four hours before he can descend upon me yet again. Working on a story! Using a lot fo exclamation points to distract from the bone-crushing despair. Anyway. Moved half my stuff into the new place yesterday, mostly it's just big furniture left to do, I'll start moving that down to the living room slash staging area. Madness.

(Ganked from Joy)

Four jobs you have had in your life (or, look how similar Joy & I are):

1. Library Circulation Assistant.
2. Camera operator for a Cable tv station.
3. Summer day camp leader.
4. Freelance writer (for an internet yuppie magazine's media packet).

Four movies you would watch over and over again:

1. Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.
2. The Royal Tennebaums.
3. Breakfast at Tiffany's.
4. Mulholland Drive.

Four places you have lived:

1. William's Lake, BC (0-6).
2. Prince George, BC (6-19).
3. Victoria, BC (19-present).
4. My head, the world (0-present).

Four T.V. shows you love to watch:

1. Dead Like Me.
2. Futurama.
3. CSI.
4. What Not to Wear.

Four places you have been on vacation:

1. Edmonton, Alberta (the big mall took me an hour and a half to get through).
2. Vancouver, BC (Many, many adventures there).
3. Paris, France (The French are glad to die for love, they delight in fighting duels).
4. Seattle, Washington (with the man; amazing bookshops).

Four web-sites I visit daily:

1. Barbelith.
2. Negativespace.
3. Calvin & Hobbes.
4. McSweeney's.

Four of my favorite foods:

1. The Hime Bento at Hime Sushi: nigiri, tempura, salmon teriyaki cutlet, crab sunomono, miso soup.
2. Home-made, real macaroni and cheese.
3. Cookie dough ice cream.
4. edam-and-avocado sandwiches.

Four places I'd rather be right now:

1. The Buddhist monastary on Salt Spring Island.
2. In bed with the man. Sigh.
3. My new apartment.
4. At Joy's kitchen table, writing.

Four bloggers I am tagging:

1. Tara.
2. Samara.
3. Caroline.
4. Michael.

Two hours and then I'm free from work for the evening, to hop aboard a bus marked #4 and head back to the townhouse. Spent some quality time with Michael, although we still go long stretches without seeing each other and it's been difficult to balance all the parts of our lives.

I'll be watching some movies tonight, working away at the packing of things, I will feel frustrated that I can't read Octavio Paz poetry because my book's over at my new apartment. I'll try to keep track of everything that still needs to be sold or donated. I'm going to make myself some dinner and sit down, maybe read a little, maybe work on that new story for an hour or two, maybe find some time in between minutes to breathe like an ordinary person.

Tomorrow's another load or two over to the new place. Michael's been amazing about helping, and I might see who else is available next Monday for the big final push, push, push...

Additionally, have A Very Long Engagement out of the library, might see if Joy and Matt want to watch Audrey Tautou and the horrors of WWI tomorrow at writing night. You know, write some postcards and stare at a girl with a tuba, the most majestic of all the beasts.

I'm compiling a list of books to look at buying with my gift certificate, once I've moved and I desperately need some impulse buying. Thank god for Christmas, because I'm broke...

I sat and ate some dinner with The Incredibles, which still impresses me even with its flaws. Now I'm listening to music and contemplating that book, Biopiracy, which I'll start reading tonight. I need to read more books, lately it's been mostly comic books. I need to embrace the prose. I have scraps of prose in my rantbook for "Queen of Coins," but none of its gone into the digital draft and I need to work on it. Sit down and hit that zone where the Fear disperses into a fine mist, and I'm alone inside, outside, and subsisting on words. Which sounds lame. Maybe I'll write some poems later.

Later, later, later. Later.

Anyway: I need to pack some things up. Disconnect the Phantom Phonograph, maybe drag something else downstairs. I don't think Michael will be free until the afternoon so I can do some packing in the morning, but I should at least make some effort tonight. I want this to go smooth.

Incidentally, and beside the point: We saw Mr. & Mrs. Smith Upshot? Other than a few decent moments the whole thing was a travesty. It was because of this tripe that we've been subjected to the Brangelina fiasco? Deplorable. The film's opening was far. Too. Protracted. The theory was that you have to set up the backstory, establish the strained relationship between the husband and the wife, and generally point out the cracks in their veneer before you reveal that OHMYGOD THEY'RE LIKE OPPOSING ASSASSINS. Only, you know, we got bored. I was bored of Brad Pitt's smug face and Angelina Jolie's barely contained contempt and the fact that it went on for so long. By the time the killing and action came, I was bored of the mindless explosions done without coherence, and then they have to kill each other: well? Kill each other! Have at with it! Stop psychoanalyzing your relationship and shoot each other in the face. Don't, I repeat don't have the tired violence-becomes-sex schtick occur, don't suddenly start caring for each other. Honestly. At least it got to be pleasant and even fun when they started revealing the truth to each other, ripping away the veils of cover story to get to know each other again. Passably well-written. And Jane Smith played by Angelina Jolie was so much better and more accomplished as an assassin than her husband; I enjoyed that metaphorical kick in the excrutiatingly smug Pitt-face. Gah. Other than that I was bored.

Bagels! After Michael helped me move a load over to the new apartment, we bought some bagels and cream cheese for brunch at my place, with raspberry juice. Then I drove him to school, borrowing the van for the day so I can run some book donations with me to work tonight.

I'm going to run another load over on Friday, probably with the help of Joy & Steph. I might wander over tomorrow for the purposes of straightening up and organzing so there's some room for the actual furniture. As it stands I have a lot of boxes filled with books and things over there.

Very much looking forward to setting my apartment up. I'm so oddly impressed that I'm going to be living there shortly.

Dumped the rest of the book donations off at work tonight as planned, three big bags full. That'll keep the black sheep quiet. Right? Right? More recently I've strolled home, eating cashews and working on "Queen of Coins." Lost in between PJ Harvey, the Streets, and Lauryn Hill - too much music! I started a second draft of what I've got so far to smooth out some of the edges while I try to figure out where the story is going, what exactly is on the other end of the character's quest for her Holy Grail. I've been working on one of the pivotal moments, her encounter with another charater, I'm finding it difficult to infuse it with crystalline clarity and appropriate attention to detail. Not enough of the scene has been described.

I think for my third draft I shall abandon all hope and get rid of all questions, rewrite them as statements. I will eliminate the question mark from this text. Why? I seem to depend on open-ending metaphysical/metaphorical questions too often in my stories and in my poems...while I don't necessarily think the act itself is lazy, I recognize it as one of my literary tics and occasionally you have to correct those for a while. Not unlike letting go of italics. It keeps the prose fresh and forces me to be more inventive with word choice and syntax.

I'd forgetten that tomorrow is Wednesday. I'd forgetten Wednesday! Suddenly more time has squeezed itself into my week. It can only go up from here.

How to quantify pages of writing that is then either (a) deleted or (b) shunted into a secondary file in a back-of-beyond folder? Either way, the road to Hell is paved with incomplete first lines.

Didn't get called in to work today, bought comic books instead & had butternut squash soup for lunch. Been writing, otherwise, and thinking about the more pressing issue of packing-- clothes, martini glasses, assorted leftover books and comics that I've been reading still, a domino set that should probably just get dumped or given away, the lava lamp, toaster, microwave...all my towels, bathroom stuff, clean sheets. I should dump some laundry in and do that while I try to write, fail to write, rage at the writing, squander my time away. Then I'll go out for coffee with Daniel tonight to Moka House.

Comic shop was suitably bizarre, as usual - there were gothic teen girl twins, and some slightly off fellow who laughed really loudly and kept talking to the guy behind the till, even though the guy behind the till clearly wanted him to go away. I bought my comics and left in a hurry.

The Colour Spectrum & Linguistics:
"Whereas I might say a jumper is blue or red, female acquaintances of mine refer to all sorts of gradations in between, such as navy blue, shocking pink, and many others that I can’t even recall. But does the richness of their colour vocabulary mean they can actually see more colours than me?" [Via]

The Life & Times of William Seward Burroughs:
"When the author switches from one character to the next, writing patterns also change. Not just dialogue, but the narrating and thought patterns of the character change. One moment the sinister and learned Doctor Benway may be making a speech, the next a semi-literate field worker may be thinking in stunted English." [Via]

The World's Strongest Man:
World's Strongest Man is the most important annual international event in strength athletics. Organised by the International Federation of Strength Athletes (IFSA), it is held around the end of September each year. [Via]

1. Cable & Hydro bills successfully organized with a minimum of computer-interaction. I was given access to a human-type voice (or a computer-type approximation of a human voice with accessible personality options) with a minimum of "on hold" time, and Danielle was on hand to open new accounts for herself at the same time. Brilliance.

2. Plants have been watered, and I learned a new fun fact that plants benefit from mould growing in them, forming a symbiotic unions. I love symbiosis.

3. I want to have a date with Michael. When we both have time, but I'm thinking not this weekend but next weekend. It's been a while since we madly went to the grocery store, bought things, and then cooked ourselves a gourmet meal together, with kibitzing and icky couple behaviours. I even miss him gently critiquing my chopping methods.

4. Coffee last night at Moka House with Daniel, we babbled at each other for a while about work, housing, life, et cetera. It was good, and I had cheesecake despite my better intentions, because I hadn't had chocolate in a week. Really.

5. I wrapped up the martini glasses in a towel, packed the lava lamp, packed some tools, a couple other things. By the end of the day I hope to good to go for moving this load over to the new apartment.

6. To that end, I'll be headed over to the Margaret Atwood Boarding School later this afternoon (once I've eaten) to straighten up, possibly unpack a box of books onto the shelf I've got over there, and prepare the space to receive furniture. Yes: organization. I am a habitual chaotic, but as we know this is partnered with a tendency toward manic organization.

1. The black track-jacket. I have had this black track-jacket since I was in Grade 12, back in Prince George, bought secondhand. I have worn this jacket since Grade 12. It is, in my opinion, the perfect track-jacket. Only, you know, it's maybe a little too short now and I've had it forever and I think that it is time to retire it. Yes. Short of burning it to release the memory-power contained therein, I think it needs to be donated to WIN so that somebody else can buy it thirdhand and hopefully inherit some of the power.

2. Clothing. Garbage bags? I'm dutifully folding & rolling it all up to fit as much in a small space as I can. Additionally, towels and sheets.

3. I went over to the Margaret Atwood Fictional Boarding House earlier today. I unpacked my kitchen things and moved all the boxes around so that there will be room to move the bookshelves in tomorrow, understanding that I will then have to move all the boxes so that we can get the desk and bed in on Monday.

4. Bought some groceries and took them over; it's apt that the MAFBH already has a chocolate ration, and vegetable broth. I wrote the grocery list on the back of a bill envelope. I'm somehow under the delusion that I will be cooking more in the new place, including soups. Made sure I had juice on hand to offer the gang tomorrow. I've decided to buy my produce in Chinatown as a cheap and nearby alternative. I packed up the things from my cupboard here, so that shouldn't be too difficult to transfer over and fill it up over there. I did not realize I had quite so much pasta, though; won't need to stock up for a while. Rice as well, and apparently I inherited a lot of hot chocolate from Christian.

5. I think I've worked out how to use the cupboard space effectively. There should be enough space for all my dried & canned goods, as well as the dishes and cutlery. I'm going to have a bit of a problem storing the pots, pan, and collander, but the pan's going in the oven's drawer and the pots can probably just sit on the stove when I'm not using them. The system is not going to be perfect but I'm an expert in getting by when I need to, and I may wander over to Zellars or Capital Iron for some kind of cheap shelving unit.

6. Things I need to buy: razors, an extension cord, a cheap curtain for the one window, a cheese grater.

I only seem to successfully write after 10pm at night. Damn. I'm going to have to work on that.

Before the girls arrive, I have to finish this last burst of packing, take out the garbage, go to the mall, buy razors & an extension cord, and go to the post office and get them to redirect my mail.

The Fear feels ambivalent about the move. The Fear feels that this may indicate some growth on my part, especially with regard to taking care of my health. The Fear feels that we may be growing apart. Moloch, on the other hand, does not feel I'm getting enough Paris Hilton in my diet.

I'm going to back up all my writing onto my USB memory stick and then I'm going to pack up my computer. Yes, that's right folks: last post in the old house.

I was up at about six this morning with the Fear. It has grown very dark, very cold, and very big - and very, very near. Luckily, Michael was there.

I have moved, completely, other than (1) wall mirror I forgot to take down, (1) razor, (1) bottle of Old Spice body wash, (1) bottle of Oxy facial cleanser, and (1) bottle of Head & Shoulders shampoo. I'll be running back and forth between both places tomorrow, with intent to clean up the townhouse and set up as much of the apartment as I can. I've already unpacked and shelved the books, although the order is haphazard. Pulled out an Atwood (Bluebeard's Egg) and a Carter (The Bloody Chamber) with intent to write up some kind of analysis of the Bluebeard imagery in a recent Superman comic.

My kitchen is unpacked, the bed is set up, the desk is perfectly placed in the room. I set up the Phantom Phonograph beside the bed.

Michael gave me a dancing Shiva statuette to go along with my other gods. I unpacked them and set them up on one of the window sills.

Need to buy a cheese grater, and a curtain.

Last night, we went to Jenny's house and played board games with my work people. It was fun - a round of Balderdash and a round of "Kill Doctor Lucky," put out by "Cheapass Games" - it's essentially the reverse of Clue.

I was called to work tonight, so I have the day to futz about and accomplish things. I should be finished at the townhouse but apparently Michelle's dad is flying down today and have a look at things and possibly make contact with the guy moving in, so he'll be looking at my room and giving me the damage deposit back directly. I would really like to be finished with the townhouse, I would really like to be finished with the townhouse, but there you go. Too many hands are on me, holding me down.

There's also the issue of the junk in the garage, which I'm pretty sure dates back to before I moved in, and has accumulated more and more with every body who's come and gone.

I have moved my things into the Margaret Atwood Boarding House. I have cancelled the bills and transferred them over to Danielle. I am ready to move on. Now I have to wait until after I see the landlord before I get to. Everybody else got to leave.

Moreover, I cut my thumb quite badly yesterday, and then later in the day my mirror shattered at the townhouse. I cleaned most of it but left the hugest shard in the garage on the grounds that it simply isn't safe to drop it into the garage.

I am. So ready. To move on.

I'll be meeting with the landlord & handing over the townhouse key tomorrow morning, probably around 8:30-9am. Then I plan to drop off Michael's van, go to the Margaret Atwood Boarding House, and flounce around in some random state of undress, typing away at "Queen of Coins" while smoking imaginary cigarettes. I might break out the typewriter and do ee cummings-style poems. After that, I shall head out to UVic to watch Great Puppet Death Scenes with my lover, for his birthday.

I shall also give him his present. He bristles to get his present. Bristles.

Otherwise: working tonight, booked for Friday night, have a couple shifts pre-booked for the end of February, all is strained and tight but well.