how much do I hate Ottawa? I don't know, really. It's more of an abstract dislike just because it was a city I spent 9 years of my life in, with a man I am no longer attached to. But every once in awhile, memories of our life together (mostly the nice memories) surface and I miss it. And I hate that I miss it.

I just got my itinerary for my flight schedule and such, and I have a 15 hour layover in Ottawa, meaning I have to spend the night. I'm in the process of making plans to spend some time with a friend there, but still...I don't know if that will be enough to take the sting out of the whole deal.

And the stupid airport is right in the same neighbourhood/end of town of where I used to live.

Am I making a big deal out of nothing? Probably. But it's my deal, and I decide how big it is. I think. Besides...the shopping is pretty damn good.

Labels: drama, flying, neurotic, Ottawa, past, travelling

I want to say that I have bad luck when it comes to electronics, but I think that maybe I'm just a laptop breaker. Someone who just happens to break any laptop they come in contact with. Which is something I should think about since I'm borrowing my mother's laptop to write this entry (and also to watch movies in my room). My second laptop, the HP Pavillion Entertainment laptop that I got in September in place of my old Compaq, has just sputtered it's last little breath and died whilst I tried to reboot it half a dozen times, in any manner. The Compaq died in a similar way although it's death was not as final as this one appears to be.

I've been putting off burning copies of all my music and photos because I'm lazy and it takes time, but for some reason thought it a good idea to do so this afternoon. Luckily (for me, anyway), I was able to do that *just* before the old HP told me to Fuck Off in no uncertain terms. It's sitting right beside me now, probably chuckling it's revenge. I always give animation to inanimate objects. It makes me feel better.

Also, I was supposed to send the HP away for servicing (when it first started acting up awhile ago) but never did. because, again...I'm lazy to pack it up in a box and find the nearest UPS place to drop it off....no small feat when in the North of Ontario. Seriously.

So, here I am, exactly one week away from flying out of here (to an even more remote Northern location) and NO laptop of my own. Do I simply go and buy a replacement and send off the old HP? Of course, that will mean I will have 2 laptops, and who needs that. Or, do I send off the HP and wait an indeterminate amount of time for it to be fixed and sent back to me?

And call me crazy, but an 'entertainment' pc should allow one to watch unlimited movies over and over again without having various hiccups and needing to be rebooted *just* to get the internet back or even allow one to change discs. It's here I should mention I've only had the HP for about 6 months. I mean, why can't the darn thing just work, at least until it's 1 year warranty?

Something that does not outlive it's warranty does not bode well in my mind. I think I'll get a Mac.

In any event, I suppose that's the end of my rant about the laptop issue. It's probably about 3 pages shorter than it would have been had I not been able to borrow this laptop. Somehow, without a movie on, I feel lonely. Or at least the ability to have one on.

Heard from Craig the other day. He left a beautiful message on the answering machine. For some reason, I just want to tell him everything that's happening, but we can't connect. Literally. And I wonder if he will let me go, and if I'm fated to not have any stable relationships, for whatever reason. Just little things that come in at the night, when I'm trying to sleep.

In any event. Glad I was able to post. If nothing shows up for a few days, at least you'll know why.

Labels: broken, Craig, drama, laptop, Manitoulin Island, Northern Ontario, relationships, sleep

ok, I'm by no means an expert on Star Wars and the culture it has amassed since the 4th movie was released back in '78 (I think) but I do know that I have an issue with the whole balance take on the part of the Jedi in Revenge of the Sith.

Why so hell bent on killing all of the Sith? In order to have a balance, there has to be equally good and bad. Duh. Not that the Sith are any better.

Don't get me wrong, I saw every movie in the theatre (as though that makes a difference, if only to prove how freaking old I am) and had a Princess Lia (sp) doll when I was a kid (way back in '79).

And Obi-wan Kenobi needs to stop crying at Anakin about being the Chosen One. He was...just not in the sense they had presumed.

Labels: drama, theory, we all lose in the end, writing

my hospital room
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

I've been purposly ignoring my ailing laptop these past few days. Save for checking email and a friends' website, I've mostly been watching tv or re-reading one of my countless books. And thinking. Always with the thinking.

Sometimes, thinking can take me to places I used to dream about. Sometimes, thinking can land me in the right place when I've done a wrong thing. For instance, taking your life. Ending it all. Offing yourself. Whichever phrase you use, it means the same thing in any language. And I've been known to try stupid things. Lots of stupid things. But I've also been lucky in that it only took until I was 31 to find out what the answer to all my stupidness *and* greatness stems from. I mean, I'm not a rockstar, nor a famous painter or photographer.

But I've got this brain that never seems to stop. From that, good and bad things happen. At this point in time, I'm focusing on the good things. Like this photograph of my nephew:

taken but his Aunt Niibin.

I also did a lot of thinking in the hospital. Not really much else one can do when they aren't allowed to leave. I've been thinking about Bipolar and my creativity. Or what to do with the issue of school. My family wants me to wait until I'm more 'settled' which seems silly to me. Why would one get settled only to up and leave again? Or a job. Or a real life, instead of the half life I was living.

I don't know the answers to anything small. I just have one big answer that I have to break down into something more manageable.

And dammit, I want to see some new live shows.

Labels: Daniel Johnston, depression, drama, family, how not to be an idiot, job, Matthew Good, nephews, neurotic, New York, photographs, photography

I'm sure in the grand scheme of things, my depression and as of yet undiagnosed neurosis are small potatoes compared to the suffering that is going on in other parts of the world.

But I can't even think past what I will be doing in 15 minutes, let alone the loss of countrymen, civilian lives and other pieces of humanity in general.

My theory is that despite all of our wishes, hopes and dreams....humans are locusts with brains. We consume, build, destroy and paint ourselves into corners. We do this knowingly, if you believe the environmentalists. Or we do it unknowingly, if you believe all those proud Americans for all the wars they actually had no business starting or being involved with.

My theory is finite. We don't have a sustainable future. As a race, humans aren't meant to perservere. This whole earth thing, as in planet earth is a one shot deal. Unlike Sim City, we don't get to start over. We think too much, and we don't think enough. We act too quickly and do not make up for the damage we've done to anything we've touched.

The only thing I can think of that even remotely interests me in life, is art. And trust me when I say that it's only a matter of time before that's soiled with the leaking parts of my radioactive brain. Love? you ask. I don't have any faith in it. I think it's for certain kinds of people, and I just happen to be the other kind. I'm not a girl that gets to have love.

It's with those thoughts, that I ponder the usefullness of my own existence. A friend tells me that we have no other option but to keep slogging through the mess we've made of our lives. But, somewhere inside of me, I know that it's only a matter of time before there are no more words from me, and I am underwater.

The past few days have been bad. I've had worse, but I can feel myself sinking below the water line, and knowing there isn't really anything or anyone that can thrown me a life saver. And really, who cares anyway?

The Fine Art of Falling Apart - The Matthew Good Band

Labels: drama, neurotic, song, Sylvia Plath

Jeans and a t-shirt or t-shirt and jeans?

Rose and I are *supposed* to go out tonight, but it's getting later and later and neither of us appear to be anywhere near ready to the meet the exceptionally high standards of downtown London, Ontario.

I felt the need to clarify 'Ontario'.

I'm also debating high heels. If I do heels, I'll have to stay reasonably sober so as to not fall flat on the finely arched eyebrows of my face. If I choose a lower heel (most are 3 inch or higher) then I can rest assured that I won't end up tasting concrete tonight.

On the other hand, I look freaking *HOT* in highheels, and with the black bustier I was sort of planning on wearing...I'd be like...molten. Molten something, anyway.

And also I'll admit here that I will use the slow and sleazy comfort of gin and tonics to wash away the day. I saw my nephews Riley and Danny for the first time in over 2 years today. We spent 6 hours laughing, eating and driving around looking for yard sales. Eating ice cream. Their father has finally agreed to contact and access. And I know it's good. It was good to see them, parts of my heart must be scabbing over while I type this, but the look in their eyes when they asked me I didn't come back for them sooner, nearly did me in.

I guess they dont know I'm emotionally fragile. Not their fault.

So, now I am listening to ancient Daniel Johnston songs and wondering what the hell 30 years old women wear to clubs. I'm afraid of the answer and will likely show up in a black tshirt and a pair of blue jeans. I'm not a club girl, never will be and can't even imagine the TIME it takes for one to get ready. I slap on some makeup, make sure my teeth are brushed and my underwear isn't showing (long story) and I'm out the door.

I called A friend in B.C to say hello, then answered the telephone like I was Alice in Wonderland or something. Keep thinking of falling down rabbit holes. I guess the advertising worked, Matt. I bought an old rotary phone at a yard sale today, its sitting proudly beside my bed. It rings oh so gently when someone calls me. So I'll go out tonight, with two 50 dollar bills wrapped around my Driver's License (I'm a cheap drunk) and see if I can consume enough to dance in public.

For some unknown reason, I'm struck with indecision this evening.
I guess I'd better get on with it.
Love,
Gish

Labels: Apostle, Daniel Johnston, drama, family, gin, girls, girls night, habits, how not to be an idiot, Matthew Good, True love

the border
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

Dear Chicago,

It seems that some of us live our lives, aspiring or thinking of....'one day'. I have to admit that I'm one of those people. It's not a an issue, but the problem with that is...I'm not really sure what I want my 'one day' to look like.

I talk about these things with my friends. They tell me (which I think is a huge injustice) that it's ok, everything will work out and I'll be happy with whatever I end up with. One of my biggest fears is that I will wake up 10 years from now with 3 kids, a dog, an SUV and wonder what the hell am I doing. I'm afraid that I'll hate my choices. Afraid of boredom, the sense of having settled, the sense of not doing or being all that I can be.

Scary, heavy stuff. But, what the hell. I'm nearly 31 years old. At some point, I will have to stop thinking and start doing. Sometimes, I just don't know where to start.

I cross borders and look for new things, carrying on my love affair of maps.

I wish I could believe that my future lies in wait with one who has walked your streets before. Maybe he was shopping, or working, or just loving the way your concrete meets the ground. But, I stopped believing in fairy tales and fantasies in my 20's. I know there are those who, unlike me, are nursing hurts and broken hearts. Such luck to have held it for that time, and such luck to have another chance to find it again. And so much thought and effort devoted to and building up of achieving a single emotion.

It's foolish. And inspiring.

Labels: drama, fools gold, habits, how not to be an idiot, inspiration, layers, melancholy, opinions, photographs, relationships, underwater, writing

I got it in my head last night that I should be doing more with my spare time. I should be going out more, and attending to the things that I (think) I like. I was thinking last night that maybe a weekend trip to Michigan for some casual shopping would be a good idea.

Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that Michigan is not really one of the hot spots for shopping, per se.

Thus, I started looking at places in a broader manner. Scrolling around a map of the United States near my border crossing and I see that Chicago isn't that far. In fact, it's only about 6 hours door to door.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but there is quite a lot going on in Chicago. So, I called Rose this morning and asked her to come with me for a little road trip. An overnight in a classy downtown hotel and some night life. Photographs. Boat on the river. Just general tourist kind of thing. She's trying to make arrangements for her kids, I'm sitting here chewing my nails because now I *really* want to go.

However, given how quickly I change my mind, do not be surprised if I do not go.

Last night, eating cheese pizza in front of the television after coming home from spending time with my sister and her son, I was thinking about watching one of those gooey love movies just so I can be a little more brain dead for bed time. I decided on 'Say Anything...' with John Cusack. I have the movie because it was on sale, and I dig John Cusack (sometimes) and because it's the only time I've ever seen him act *that* way before or since in his acting career.

In that kind of mood, I'm thinking "Woohoo! I can watch this and goggle at Mr. Cusack in a manner in which I only would do so only in my living room, in my pjs with cheese pizza." However, once the movie started I realised that I was staring at John Cusack's rendition of an 18 year old boy.

That's when I stopped the movie and put on Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. It just won't do for me to be attracted to ANY kind of rendition of a child under the age of 20.

So. That's my exciting life. I'm planning an overnight trip to Chicago for the hell of it, eating too many Oreo cookies, and awaiting the release of Mattie's new album, Hospital Music. I refuse to listen to any samples until I have the disc in my car.

Oh, and I might be buying a new car too. But that is a maybe. You know me and making up my mind. It's a tricky business being Gish, let me tell you.
Love,
G.

Labels: drama, Gish, how not to be an idiot, John Cusack, Matthew Good, music, neurotic, photographs, photography, travelling

Last night, I went to the first concert in a long while. To a venue I hated. Ok, I'll just be upfront because slander isn't slander when it's true. I hate The Drink, now called Cowboy's Ranch. The staff are rude and abrasive, apparently change of ownership or name of venue has not changed that. Simples questions are answered with grunts and seriously, they treat customers like gum on the bottom of a shoe. Cattle to ber herded in.

I can understand they may get a little tired of dealing with a rowdy university crowd night after night, etc but in all honesty...if that's what the issue is, then go into another type of business. Because hard drinking late teens, early 20's kids away from home for the first time...are not ever going to be neat and orderly and polite.

Ugh. So I endured Cowboy's Ranch aka The Drink last night for Interpol. It made me miss the days of The Tea party and Matt Good playing there. Even Thornley when I used to kind of dig their music.

I endured the smell of the people around me (I mean, really people....personal hygiene shouldn't be elective), the worst Gin and Tonic I've ever tasted (and I bought three just to make sure it wasn't a one off thing, nope. All bad). But the band was good. At first a bit flat, but things picked up after awhile. Heard a few old favourites and some new stuff from their recently recorded album. Didn't bother with the camera since the venue is also (surprise, surprise) a bitch when it comes to photography.

I was wearing 4 inch black patent leather platform highheels. They looked so good with my jeans. And made me tall enough to see over everyone so I can squinch my eyes and pretend the bass player on stage was Stuart Chatwood (close resemblance). I shared a soft kiss with some guy standing by a pillar during Leif Erikson, coincidentally also a close resemblance to Stuart Chatwood (I'm really not kidding). Then hobbled out of the venue when the band left the stage after the first encore so I could rest my tired and squished feet. I gave up 50 feet away and took my shoes off to walk barefoot on the concrete.

There is something so feral about walking barefoot on a cool Spring night. Something even more free and romantic about driving barefoot. I grabbed a burger then went home to rest. I fell asleep with the image of those piercing blue eyes searching my face for my intentions.

I wonder what his name was.

Labels: drama, habits, how not to be an idiot, late night, music, neurotic, song, writing

You know when your work life interferes with your real life? I mean, I know I have no life other than work to begin with but at this moment, that is beside the point. Like usual, I completely forgot about a show I wanted to go to. I know I had written down somewhere but because it's not in my face, I completely forgot. Until I stumbled upon the notice while surfing the net.

Interpol is playing tonight in a crappy club not far from my house.

Interpol!! So of course, I rush out to get a ticket, and I've been listening to Turn On The Bright Lights all freaking day. Even subjecting my clients to the music when I've had to transport them. And asking my younger clients if they listen to Interpol.

The reaction was less than what I desired. Turns out no one knows who they are, even the self-proclaimed 'music guy' in my office. Take that, Music guy. Turns out even though I live like a hermit and currently have an addiction to banana cream pie pudding and Royal Gala apples (of course, not together) that I eat while watching CSI reruns.

Oh, and sending funny ecards to my officemate, who as it turns out, has a sense of humour. Will wonders never cease. Just kidding. Mostly.

Anyway, I grabbed a ticket for tonight's show but it looks like I will be working late and may *just* have enough time to slide into town for when the band goes on. I mean, I could work late any other day but here I am, having to work late on a night I *actually* have plans. Like, really freaking late.

Figures.

Anyway, I do have a spare hour so I may sneak out for a bite to eat and a bit of black clothing shopping, so I can look at least somewhat street cred in the event I do make it to the show. Also, am looking for a way to smuggle my gigantic camera into the venue because in the past they have been jerks about photogs.

But it's Interpol!!!

Labels: drama, how not to be an idiot, job, late night, music, neurotic, New York, opinions, photographs, work

I am not leaving this desk until I update my journal. That means no cigarettes, no coffee refills and definitely no eating of the nasty, bad chocolate eggs that someone has left in a tidy green bowl on the filing cabinet in the hallway. They are clearly for only the mad people, and I don’t qualify. Yet.

The tailpipe on my car is just about dragging on the ground, I haven’t changed the oil in my car which should have been done about 2000 kms ago and I keep forgetting to call my sister back about seeing my nephew this week.

However, I did buy car insurance this morning and managed to blow dry my hair without electrocuting myself with the hair dryer. Kitchen is still a mess, and the bathroom kind of scares me, but…all in all, it’s going to be ok. And I was only 1.5 hours late for work.

And I’m still eating sugar. Which could be seen as a failure or (as I see it) an unconscious decision to continue on with my unhealthy lifestyle. Despite the fact there are two heads of lettuce and numerous bottles of un opened salad dressing in the ice box. Yes, you read that right. I am now calling it an ice box.

Had a quick conversation with Craig this morning, I feel like my head is on straight now. I love talking to him. I really ought to start paying him for my whine services.

Rose and I walked our dogs in the park the other day. Apparently, it's supposed to snow here tomorrow morning, but the past few days have been really warm (where I sweat like a pig if I do more than swing my arms while walking outside) kind of weather. Anyhow, we walked the dogs in the park, where I looked like a bad, non caring sort of dog mommie, and Rose looked like the perfect english nanny kind of mommie. Her dogs were heeling, listening to her commands and following her lead. Meanwhile, Buckley was clawing at the ground and barking himself hoarse as soon as our feet hit the ground.

And he still only weighs about 9 pounds. Rose's dogs are rottwheilers (yes, I am aware I probably spelled that wrong. And used the word 'spelled') who are pushing 100 pounds each. So I guess I should be glad that my little dog is being the jerk, and not her big gigantic dogs. I think I told her I wanted to do this once a week with the dogs.

I must have been nuts. Anyhow, I should get going. They do expect me to work around here, not update my journal and leave cutesy messages for my friends on Myspace.

Werd.

Labels: Craig, drama, electrical, Gish, habits, how not to be an idiot, inspiration, late night, layers, neurotic, writing

Oh my god, I hate the first day at new jobs! And oh my god, I said oh my god!!!

I feel like I've been walking around wearing a pink tutu with green tights or something. I feel like my hair is all wrong, I'm too fat, I'm too tall, I'm too me, to be here. I want to run home and hide under my new blue blanket and pretend that money is not necessary for life and I can live a perfectly happy, if secluded life of my own, underneath that blanket. I could take the occasional call from my mother, and I would call Craig all the time to hear what it looks like in his neck of the woods.

I could do that. Me and Buckley. Two peas in a pod.

I'm just being a baby. Here I am, with what I wanted, everything is falling into my lap and all is well, I should be happy. I know it's just a phase. After the first week, I will be fine. I just need to find my sea legs. Work legs.

Something like that.

It's funny, though. They all expected me, waiting with baited breath for me to arrive and it's such a triumph for them to get a new worker, I feel like I have been on a parade float all day, waving and shaking hands. I wonder if I will have the guts to ask for a raise. *grin* Just kidding.

Arg, and I forgot to take off the week old blue nail polish last night, it's flashing up at me while I type this. I've been up since 5:45, drinking coffee and slowly getting ready for work. I only changed my shirt three times. And the one I have on still doesn't feel right. But it's ok. It's ok.

I wish my new shoes would arrive. *sigh*

Labels: coffee, drama, how not to be an idiot, job, work, writing

cleavage {18/365}
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

First, when I think of love, marriage, or the connection two people can experience in two second standing over a candy machine being introduced, I think of little photographs I would like to take. His kissing of the inside of my knee. Whoever he is, sleepy eyed and freshly awakened by my moments in bed on a sunny Saturday afternoon. His hands on my face. His hands in mine. Him. Whoever he is. That's what I think of, when I think of what it would like to be in love. I think I have it all wrong. But that's ok! Because I wouldn't want to spoil my near perfect record.

Some news drifted this way about a Hawksley Workman show, and I think I will attend because it's been awhile since he was my man. *grin* Sorry folks, only Matt Good and Hawksley fans would 'get' that last little bit.

I just realised how melancholy the song; Purple Rain is. Melancholy in that all I didn't know I had, when I had it. Shit, I hate when that happens.

I'm practically chain smoking over here, about to go lie down and try for some sleep, read a bit and listen to a movie in the background.

Let's see what is new with me: new fridge (landlord paid for, of course), new gym membership (because I really am too fat for words, at the moment), new webcam (which is so seedy but I couldn't resist the portability and the fact that I have never ever, ever been on a webcam before), and I guess that's it.

Ok, so here is the end of the entry. If you've read this far then you'll know that what you read below, is not my writing but that of Hawksley Workman. And if he were real and not an apparition, he is the sort I would fall in love with.

written by Hawksley:
the downy feathered chests of proud hawks sitting timeless in highway sidetrees. and this morning i was up so early. pissed outside under thestars. 5:30 am. i thought of winter ravens. that maybe they fly atnight. imperceptibly. between the dots of bright galaxies. and the batsmust be asleep through this. skied through the cold today. a pure blueconnection from me to the beyond. the horses wore blankets in immaculatefields. there's a natural order to things. harmony is the only option.did aristotle say the birds flew under the ice in winter? i'm incrediblypositive these days. i see possibilities. i see hope. it's been a funnywhile in the music biz, i must admit. over the last year or so i'verecorded a lot of music. my love and faith is restored every time i playlive these days... but the studio is testing me... my patience, myfaith. i feel the deck stacked against me... but i've never felt morefocused and fresh... i made a record... finished it before christmas.somewhere between then and now it was shelved in favour of starting over again from scratch. the record felt like a lover i grew apart from...when it was finally completed we looked like strangers to each other.kiss... it's been lovely... i need to be alone. i've been working with my brilliant neighbour and friend andre wahl... he's a real clever kid who, back in the autumn picked me up and dusted me off... so we're planning to start again for real this time... early march. as i said earlier... playing reminds me of the importance of connection... i feel blessed to be able to travel and play. the starling tour saved my life... again i thank all those who shared those nights with me... it was amassive reconnection with myself and the music. over the next while i'm going to play a few shows... get back in shape... i want my voice to soar (not a sore voice though) when i get back into the studio... so please i say... reach for what's positive... cherish love and peace...seek it in heart and mind... i have such a wonderful feeling for the year. may wisdom be yours too. h.

Labels: Apostle, cold, drama, fridge, habits, hawksley, hawksley workman, how not to be an idiot, inspiration, late night, layers, love, Matthew Good, melancholy, neurotic, opinions, Prince, webcam, writing

Buckley and Gish
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

Dear lover,
It's snowing where I am. Not that fluffy romantic kind, but the kind that gathers in thin, mean layers on the ground. Crystal onion layers. The wind is harsh, too. When I walked into the store this evening, I had to bend my body against the force of it, and curled my hands around my collar, as if I were a person in a movie.

I am stuck listening to Ryan Adams. I told Craig to tell his bass player friend to tell Ryan that I want to marry him. Sounds complicated, but it's not. How can one not want to marry a man who writes songs like Please Do Not Let Me Go ? I mean, really. 43 seconds from the end of the song, is my favourite part. You'd know that, though, being my lover. You'd know that I love harsh weather even when I complain about it, because it's what reminds me of the comforts of home. And you.

I know it's been awhile since I've seen you last. The days in between are many. The sound of your voice is a balm on what ails me. I pretend I don't miss you, or need you, or want you...but in the end, it feels like the sum of all I am. Terrible, to let emotion rule the daily being of a person, yes? Can you read/hear what I'm saying?

What keeps you, I know I can't get past it. Passed. I just have to let the days slide by, and have faith that I'll see you again. Soon. Sooner than I had thought, but not soon enough to stop my missing of you.

Please don't go skating in Central park without me. Don't check into the Chelsea hotel without my half of our signature. When I get my shit together, I'll come. The last train before the end, the sleeper cars are all full, I couldn't get a spot. I'd say meet me at the station but I'm not sure when I'll arrive.

Just send me a Valentine in your heart, miss my face even when you have no idea. Our time will be here soon enough.
Love,
Gish.

Labels: Craig, Craig Bancroff, drama, how not to be an idiot, inspiration, love, music, neurotic, relationships, Ryan Adams

mirror image
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

It occurs to me, as I sit down to write out an entry, or attempt to tweak the fiction I've managed to force out with pure brute strength, that I may remember other people's funny stories before I remember mine.

I say this because I distinctly remember a thing Matthew Good had commented on, about a hundred years ago, about cleaning his shower. With pictures. It made me laugh. And to this day, gives me a ghost of a smile, at the very least. Of course, this could very well be the neurotic part of me, right? Right.

Buckley had been barking all day. I mean as in barking, making noise, not barking, as in mad. He's been scurrying about like a mouse, skidding across the old hardwood floors as if skating. I thought for a minute maybe it was the full moon, but that was last week. And I only know this because I had attended a Full Moon ceremony that night. Freezing, wrapped in a blanket like a real indian (I am, honest), standing in front of a fire, and looking like I am praying hard for guidance. Really, I was thinking: it's fucking ridiculous to be out in this sub zero weather when we can very easily complete this part of the ceremony in the lodge where it's not exactly comfortably warm, but where the wind is not icing through me like knives of bitter cold.

Heh.

Anyway, I don't know what's wrong with Buckley. Maybe cabin fever. Maybe it's time to go to the park.

Ok, my neighbours. I live in a house, I have the front apartment and they have the back apartment. Their basement area is right below my bedroom. They have parties sometimes, not a big deal. But for some reason, the smell of pot really gets me going. And I don't mean in a good way, either. I mean, it drives me nuts. I don't care if they are smoking the amount of pot that would fit into a little red wagon, but do they have to do it inside? Where it's making my apartment smell like I have a serious love affair with weed?

So, now, I just listen to music late at night when they are having one of their parties, singing along to The Most Beautiful Girl in the World by Prince with headphones on. I don't care if it makes me look stupid. Because if I'm going to smell like a joint, then I will at least sound like I've smoked one, dammit.

ok, that is the rant for today. Good night, and good luck, my beauties.

p.s should I die horribly and unexpectedly, then I would like Square One by Tom Petty to be the song played at my funeral service. Just an FYI, I'm expecting to live at least until I've finished learning to play the guitar, and the piano.

p.p.s I shouldn't do this, but I will mention the man who is taking care of my little Ash doll. I hope he is still safe. That is all.

Labels: Buckley, drama, habits, headphones, home improvement, how not to be an idiot, Matthew Good, music, native ceremonies, neighbours, photographs, pot, Prince

my picture of my photograph
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.
I'm all alone now, I can do as I please.....I don't feel like doing much of anything...
Spent time with some of the kids in my program. They were making hand drums. I don't feel much for editing or sorting through photos or else I'd post one of the kids with the slippery hide and tendons stretching to make taut surfaces of the drums. Time through our fingers, unnoticed.

I think of the new sheets and I just want to curl up in them, but it's still too early for bed. Grocery shopping with my older sister tomorrow. It gives us a chance to catch up, and she gets to pick what I eat (sometimes). I know I'm supposed to be thinking about some arty photography for the theme at The Cooperation, but the ideas I thought I had don't seem very good. And my 'get up and go'...kinda got up an left.

And I'm hooked on this song. My favourite part is 43 seconds before the end of it. This book I'm reading is not doing much for my sense of mankind. It's called The Demon Lover by Robin Morgan. Discussing the roots of terrorism. I don't know if it's something I can fully subscribe to. Because after all, we're looking for solutions, and one of the parts of that is to lay blame with someone or something. This book lays the blame on men. Man, in general. I'll either be a man-hating, frothing at the mouth kind of feminist by the end of the book, or someone who has just read a bad book.

I dreamnt about money last night. Lots of it. I suppose it's because I am constantly worried about not having any or enough. And when sad songs come on the radio, my thoughts drift towards the Apostle. I wonder what he's doing now, what he's thinking. If he misses me. Then I have to look in another direction or I'll get lost in that train of thought.

My face is just a disguise. Another layer to me that no one has really figured out. How many layers are there...? Not sure. Even I don't have all the answers to myself, I can hardly expect someone else to. Silly.

Maybe I'll rent Purple Rain tonight. Such a nostalgic movie, not to mention that Prince is 5'5 feet of pure sex. MMmmmm.

Please Do Not Let Me Go - Ryan Adams

Labels: Apostle, drama, inspiration, layers, music, neurotic, pearls, photographs, relationships, Ryan Adams, song

I have this picture in my head. I have a new(to me) chair that I can picture myself falling asleep in. But wearing support socks, and curlers in my hair, an old slip covering my gaunt body, and the light playing off my tissue-paper thin, shiny skin. I would have fell asleep reading the paper. I have that in my head. That's how I imagined Plath should have died. In old age. It's amazing how quickly it takes to put a decision into action, once it's made. One, 2, three, go.

If I can just get back to that level of unawareness, I could be happy again. If I was just willing to settle....

Labels: drama, neurotic, Sylvia Plath, witness

pretty bondage
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

Hi there, cowboys, gunslingers and all that pass by this page. I'm drinking a cup of really strong instant coffee because it's the only way I can handle it, these days. I have zero appetite, and when I don't hear the french fries calling to me, something must be up. Must be just my messed up sleep *yawn* schedules and such. Blah, blah, and blah.

Oh, and I've been internet-less for the past couple of days. I posted the above photograph one night on Flickr, went to 'work' (sort of have a temp job) then came home to a chewed power supply courtesy of Buckley. Two days for one to ship to my address and I think I'm in business. But nope. Then the internet wasn't on. Today: two techs, three modems and about 4 phone calls and it looks like we're cooking with gas now. Mind you, that's what I thought about an hour ago, but then that brand new modem expired with little to no fanfare. At least give me something to report, like a small explosion or puff of smoke. Instead, I come across to the 'men in charge of Roger's Com' that I'm just the little lady who hears a funny sound under the hood of her car.

Yes. I've been there. And NO, I still don't need to replace that strut mount, ok? But that's an old story.

I had a funny exchange with Matthew at Flickr a few days ago. It had me laughing out loud and cursing because I had no light in the bathroom to do the photograph that I had asked him to do. Of which he declined. Good idea, though. At some point, I will elaborate.

Interviews lined up for next week. An Incubus backstage pass for possible debauchery and tequila-drinking with D. and the always attractive Brandon whats-his-name. Mostly, Im looking forward to getting together with D, and snapping some amazing photographs. I'm not really a fan, but it should be fun. Oddly enough, my older sister calls me up tonight to tell me Thornley is playing in town somewhere tonight. But since Sekou left the band, I haven't been following their progress. The guy was always so friendly. Mind you, if they decided to do Under the LightHouse...then I may be strong-armed into going. However, the chances of finding out that information in the next hour requires quite a bit of detective work, and I gotta say...I just don't feel up to it.

Ok, then. I guess that is enough of an update for today. I watched the Road to Git-mo Bay this morning at about 5 a.m. and have been mulling it over for the day, while I learned how to properly restrain out of control people without hurting them. Man, the stuff that goes through my head. I'm a social worker. Capital S, Capital W, dammit. I should be out there social working.

Enough. Great photo though, huh?

Labels: coffee, drama, habits, how not to be an idiot, Matthew Good, music, neurotic, pearls

It's rare, but it happens. Who can remember the month or two (three, four, five) ago when I was contemplating Plath's ingenius ideas and the guts (or enough drugs) to punch her own ticket. It feels like this morning ago, or ten years ago. Maybe tomorrow it will come back in some kind of wave, overcoming and squashing any of the good I've felt the past month, day or week. Or maybe not. Maybe it never was.

Who knows.

There is never any real point to anything. It's just the joy or the good you can feel afterwards. That's what I think, sometimes, in my more cynical moments. You think I like you, when I just like the idea of how I can possibly feel with you. That's all. Harsh, real cold, reality. It's just the kind of thing that Ophelia would have said if she lived in my time (and wasn't a fictional character), she'd be some beaten down whore working the streets of gritty, dirty Toronto, not shaking anyone's hand and always always...always sizing you up for your last dollar. But her words would have been about money, not feeling.

Sometimes, I think Hamlet really knew the score. Down to simple animalistic urges. Then, the end.

But I'm not in that wave. I'm not depressed. I'm just thinking. Thinking about Plath again, and thinking of ones. Ones. Thinking of Thalo Blue paint spreading itself over rough canvas from my sweet brushes. Is that it? The tools are more important than the end result?

Something to think about.
I pulled this off Good's journal which you can find at the link provided way below. Sometimes, it feels like the man has his fingers in my brain.

"...Sylvia: depression, romanticism. Think what you will, but it’s the same deck of cards in the end. And still we smile and swim like beleaguered salmon against the current, hopeful of never ending spring. Winter, solitude’s bedfellow, is the smartest of all the seasons, simply because it knows that it doesn’t have to produce any heat."

It was the last line that caught me. Winter is the most honest of all seasons, it can hide all of your secrets underneath the perfect, truthful blanket of white.

read the rest at:
http://www.matthewgood.org/

tiny oval shaped blue pills, sometimes pink ones that make you gain weight. But always the ones that help me sink underwater. Do you get me?

Labels: drama, Matthew Good, Sylvia Plath