I'm feeling alittle introspective at the moment. I read another's blog, someone I've followed for a number of years, someone I've felt a kinship with no matter what comes out of his mouth (it seems), and someone who inspires me when it seems he is at his lowest. This entry follows the same train of thought of one his more recent.

So I come here and tinker with words. I think back to past entries. The good ones. The ones I actually wanted to read myself. Ones I didn't hate. And I wonder where that girl went. Oh, some would say I'm still me, that that girl is still here, one in the same. But I don't think so. I think she's gone. She might make small appearances here and there, but she's really packed up and moved on.

And I shouldn't be sad. I mean, that girl got into a lot of trouble for her errant ways and ultimately led me to where I am today...alive and kicking. Still waking up each morning, breathing. But I still think back and admire some of the stuff she pulled off. And it feels like the art was better back then. I feel as though I am missing the passion, the fire that used to burn through me to do things. Well, I suppose it really is missing, given the changes that have happened over the past year. I guess that fire wasn't always so good. But it felt like it was.

The old me would have sent an email to my fellow blogger with a suggestion or a remark. Now, I just read and move on. It's almost an absence of feeling. The old me would have done *something*. Now, I just sit back.

Even though moving forward is apparently good, I still spend a fair amount of time looking over my shoulder. It's something I'm known for.

My rationale is this: how can I see where I am going if I don't know what I've done?

Labels: forgot, Gish, habits, how not to be an idiot, late night, layers, Matthew Good, we all lose in the end, writing

I was central. I had control. I lost my head.
Dvd's scattered all over my bed, things I've watched over the past week. I usually fall asleep with something playing, my glasses still on. A pharmaceutical lullaby.

3 or 4 years ago, I was intent on achieving and owning anything and everything I thought I wanted. I bought a house, had a steady and reliable social work-esqe kind of job, some family in the same town I lived in. A stereo system, surround sound blah blah blah. I even rejoiced in buying a hammock for my backyard, where I planned to lay in whilst looking at the cherry tree blossoms floating around me.

Instead, I spent all available time working because I thought that made me a better worker. That led to not my being able to spend any time in the house I lovingly chose out of 4 others. Very little to no time with my family. Leaving the house and coming home when it was dark in all seasons, which meant I had a frozen pizza to eat for dinner while I watched dvd tv, I think it was Millennium at the time. When the Cherry trees did bloom, I managed only a few hours stolen to lie in the hammock reading Hawksley Workman's poetry and talking on the phone. I spent my vacations waiting for the time to come when I could go back to work.

Then I became progressively more sick as time went on.

It's crazy what you coulda had...
Now, having given up or lost every material object I used to hold dear to me, I have this strange and dubious sense of clarity. It's almost like any veil, or pair of sunglasses, blinders I used to fashion for myself have been lost and I feel like doing things that are way beyond any scope of social work or the bare necessities of living that I had ever thought possible.

And I am able to take photographs that remind me of those that are in my life forever. A photograph of my youngest sister and my youngest nephew dancing to invisible music. It's so crazy what I could have had....



Country Feedback - R.E.M

Labels: bipolar, family, Gish, habits, hawksley workman, how not to be an idiot, inspiration, neurotic, photographs, photography, work, writing

You know, when I sit down to write something, it never turns the way I've expected it to. The same goes for telephone conversations. Those of you have endured, I thank you, and those of you that thus far avoided it, good job!

There is something inherently weak about the human race, that the smallest thing to tip the balance can become increasingly clear as new information is revealed. I'm a revealer of information myself, so I understand the concept.

For instance, I've been revealing things, personal aspects of myself to another for a number of months. But when it came right down to the last minute detail, which was whether or not he can handle the diagnosis, I saw in his face what he couldn't articulate. His mouth was saying all the right things, but his body wasn't. And I might have wept if it was for another reason, because in all honesty I don't know if I can handle my condition anymore than someone else. Why should I foist upon someone that I need to take time off work to get my head on straight. Or the medication I am on may decease my sex drive. Or that I will be a moody bitch for 2 weeks out of a month?

Do you see where I'm going, here? I have to adjust my vision to something with less expectations of other people. Because in the end, it's your breath you hear in the dark, your mind whispering things.

Anyhow, it feels like Fall right now. I had my bedroom window open for much of the week but had to close it today because I thought it was too cold. Now, though. I don't care. I'm prepared with a sweater. I can't bear this room if it weren't for the window. The weather makes me bring the camera out for thing like waxy yellow leaves, or vivid reds of Maple trees. But it's only June and those sorts of things are miles away.

Now, though it's nearly, I'll just follow my warped instinct and keep my mouth shut. No more revealing for today.

Labels: bipolar, Gish, habits, love, sex, we all lose in the end

Ok, so I don't want to make a big fuss about anything, nor do I expect anyone to fall at my feet because of what I am about to tell you.

ok, first things first. It's a cool Monday morning, and I've just brewed my first pot of coffee in my new coffee maker. Not a big deal, huh? It is to me when I realise I've never owned a coffee maker before, nor was I ever interested in the subtle differences in french roast, columbian picked, or fair trade coffee.

I wanted the Fair trade coffee but because of the price, settled for something a little different. French vanilla roasted beans that I ground up in the gorcery store while my older sister watched me with my new treat. I'm enjoying this cup of coffee now, even though there isn't an cream to be found in the house, so I must drink it black.

Bold, hearty and robust, and french vanilla-y, is how I would describe this coffee. Tasty, even without cream.

Ok, so I was diagnosed as being Bipolar type 2 last week. It took me a few hours to get used to the fact that I am now labelled as having a potentially serious mental health problem. When I say hours, I mean that I drove around saying 'holy shit' to myself in the car. Clutching a new bunch of prescription notes, I went to the pharmacy and had them filled. The bottles rattled around in my backpack like a new song.

As Mattie would say: I felt like I could potentially open my own pharmacy with the amount of prescription drugs I now take. This is bothersome for me, because apparently I will have to take this stuff in order to avoid any serious 'episodes' in the future. The language of Bipolar is interesting, as well. Episodes, disease, hypomania, 40% of Bipolar type 2 population attempt suicide.

So that's it. I have Matthew Good as a friend who understands what I'm going through, he knows the lingo, he understands about the drugs. He *gets* it. It's hard for me to explain, but I could be saying something and he'll finish the sentence. And that's comforting. I also have the goodwill of my family, mostly because I think for them it explains why I do a lot of the things I do.

And you know, I was going to make this a friends only entry, but now I'm saying Fuck it. I'm bipolar, big deal, so is half the population.

the end (for now)Love,Gish

Labels: bipolar, depression, family, Gish, habits, how not to be an idiot, inspiration, Matthew Good, neurotic

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

Mother
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.
I took this photo a little while ago. The word 'mother' stood out to me. My mother is worried about me. I adore her, and it hurts me when she is worried. I'll talk about my mother in more detail at some point.

I've been listening to a lot of Matthew Good (for night time music) and Ani DiFranco (to get my Bitch on). Instead of cursing anything that has gone wrong the past month, I'm in the unique position (again) of concentrating on getting even, and looking at things to do that I would normally pass on.

The evil nasty down mood hasn't been around for a couple of days, I actually feel like my old self today. Yesterday was a little manic, I did some things pretty impulsive. I got two two new tattoos (small ones) for a very reasonable price at Addictive Tattoo here in London. I also bought some new skirts as the plan is to remain in skirts, tshirts and flipflops all summer. I also splurged on a manicure and pedicure (30 dollars) and some Starbucks coffee (which I normally don't bother with). I was a buying machine yesterday.

Today, I will see my two nephews, Riley and Danny for the first time in 2 years. I was able to work out an agreement with their father who used to be quite unapproachable (I think the court papers I prepared had something to do with it) and now, I and the rest of the family will have regular access to them. So, later on today I am sure my mood will change as I will have a lot of questions to answer.

The weather around here is on crack. 35 degrees one day, then 18 degrees the next. Consistency would be nice.

There are a few concerts I would like to attend this summer, but with having no job I doubt I will get out there. Buckley likes to eat watermelon, which I usually snack on before bed.

And thanks to Mattie, I have a thing for cheese now. Freshly grated Parmesan and asiago on top of any pizza I'm eating. I can only hope I do not move on to Tapas after this addiction, as I'm currently broke and can't afford such things *grin*

Anyway, my youngest nephew, Nicholaki is having a birthday party tomorrow, he turned 2 earlier this week. I got him a ball he can jump on. I better put a helmet on him, just in case.
Love, Gish

Labels: coffee, depression, family, Gish, habits, layers, Matthew Good, nephews, opinions, relationships, spending

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

There’s a manhole in my kitchen
I step around it when I’m reaching into the refrigerator for a bottle of cold water in the mornings. Lemon flavour. I don’t really care that it could be Listerine or maybe Mr. Clean, I just need something to wake up.

We’ll just have to adjust
Ok, I didn’t have any issues with waking up today. It seems I’ve returned to my old routine of waking a few minutes before my alarm. I can tell I’ve been in one spot all night because Buckley is exactly where he was when we fell asleep. Sleeping like rocks. I didn’t know that rocks could get tired. Anything really is possible.

My new office mate is working feverishly on a document. It’s nice to see someone working so hard, not so nice because he doesn’t want any music or other distractions in the background. Which makes it hard for me to concentrate when there is nothing in the office but sounds of tapping keys and muttering from his corner. I even brought a new cd in to put on my work laptop so I could have a variation to the routine of Pete Yorn and Interpol that I’ve been listening to.

Also, I’ve sent out a variety of emails in response to some I received last week. However, my email inbox is now like a dusty old West town. Cobwebs hanging in the doorways, empty cans rolling in the wind. Tumbleweed ghosting by with every new gust of breeze. Not a single email since yesterday. I’m convinced I am the world’s biggest loser, the world’s most unpopular girl, or the world’s loneliest girl. Any way you cut it, it’s kind of lame, which is also annoying. I sent out some interesting emails which I think should garner interesting responses.

But nada thus far.

Instead, I’ve been concentrating on working on my admissions essay for Columbia. To say that I am stuck between a rock and a hard place would be the lamest description to use here, but it’s so true. I just can’t seem to get off my ass and answer the questions. They aren’t hard questions, but they feel like redundant ones. This of course, coming from the girl who thinks she should just be accepted to any school she *looks* at, let alone applies to. I know, I know….the ego of this girl.

In any event, that is what I will be doing in between taking calls from angry clients who insist I never call them back. Even my clients don’t want to hear from me.
*sigh*

Maybe, I've finally succeeded in getting all of the squatters off of my island.

Labels: habits, how not to be an idiot, insomnia, music, neurotic, opinions, School, work

401
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

A lost weekend, asleep in a curl beneath blankets and the soft whir of the ceiling fan above. Alternating between too warm and too cold, shifting covers when the need arose.

Been thinking a lot about people in my life, the ones that slip through your fingers or the ones you toss away because the sting of knowing them has lasted for too long. I'm not a good people person. In fact, I would be the perfect candidate for someone to be banished to a deserted island to wile away their days. Sounds comforting, even. But even more so, to just accept that you're not good with relationships of any kind.

Doesn't matter, though. There isn't any prize at the end of the road, awarding your outstanding performance in the relationship arena. No claps on the back or hearty handshakes. So why bother? Just hard to swallow sometimes. Like so many things.

Shrimp cocktail, gin and tonic and the Sopranos last night. My eyes deceive me, I'm not one for figuring out plots beforehand, so I was a little shocked to see what was unfolding. God bless me, I still love Tony Soprano. In a bad way.

Buckley and I in Springbank park this weekend. He gasps when we get there, straining on his leash to be let loose so he can rabbit around. Faster than a speeding bullet. That's my little boy.

Work time. I can't find words to say. Maybe more later.

Labels: habits, how not to be an idiot, layers, neurotic

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

"I just did a Google search, and I came across this page. Sure, it may be nearly 3 years after your post, but that song isn't by Jeff Buckley. I don't know who performs it, but I downloaded it from a p2p program a few years back and it was labeled as a being by American Football, but I don't think it's them either.Strangeness. Very good song though."

This is a comment that was left for me at my old journal. The entry the comment was posted on is over three years old, something he/she mentions and I hate to be nitpicky, but I left a response to it anyway.

I said something along the lines of the song being by Jeff Buckley and that one can find it on his 'Grace' album. If he didn't write it, then at the very least he covered it.

Geez, at least know what you're talking about before leaving a comment. Although, it certainly livens things up around here, if not back at the old Blurty haunt where one can find over three years worth of Gish diatribe. Oh yes, I was vigilant. I updated almost every day. Here, I barely remember I have the journal. Trying to be better at updating.

Pete Yorn is really summer music. Not for the gusty cold days like today. If I weren't supposed to be chained to my desk today, I would go out and take care of some business. But alas, I must attend to duties here. Like a caged animal. Just kidding. I have an office at least, not a cubicle.

Friends come and go, but zopiclone is forever. Charging up my camera battery, ready to take some new photos and post them. I haven't posted anything I've taken in over a month. Mostly lack of inspiration, but that will change. I want to catch leaves jsut as they unfurl. Morning skies with the promise of sunlight, but the reality of clouds. Tomorrow after all, is another day.

Later, beauties.
G.

Lose You - Pete Yorn

Labels: habits, how not to be an idiot, inspiration, music, neurotic, opinions, work, writing, zopiclone

It's funny how one night of bad sleep, and I wake up pissed off and cranky. How one day I can go from content with things in general, planning for the future to a cranky, uncomfortable, indecisive mess of a girl in her early 30's.

In the dark, I get all kinds of weird ideas. Things like how it would be so much better to get back together with an ex boyfriend. How things would be decided for me, the path of my life set out and I can mosey on along at my own pace, sure of what the next morning will bring. Day in. Day out. Comfort in the familiar.

then I talk to him. And I get pissed off that he's enjoying the tall poplar tree I planted in our old backyard so many years ago. I get pissed off when I hear it's grown taller than the house and looks great next to the crab apple trees. I get pissed off because he's gone on without me, happy in his 'new' life and unconcerned that I'm not there. Of course, there's a younger, prettier replacement warming his bed. Someone who's health and animal conscious. Someone who doesn't mind he stays up until 5 in the morning downloading games and his ambition to own an enormous house that they will never fill with a family. Just dogs, apparently.

This isn't what keeps me up at night, it's what sneaks into my mind when I can't sleep and I watch the light from cars driving by, make patterns on the ceiling of my bedroom. Lighting up for one moment, how empty I perceive everything that has to do with me, truly is at that moment in those hollow early morning hours.

I know it's wrong. I know it's not really what I want in the light of day. Is it normal, or healthy to be mad that he sounds like he is doing better than I am. Everything for me, in comparison seems to jumbled. Part of a bigger mess that I'm not really all that interested in cleaning up. It's hard to explain. The wants and apparent needs of the middle class group I should belong to aren't anything I normally aspire to. So when I yearn for the simple bland suburbia of modern life, it just makes me nauseaus and cranky.

I get cranky when I want the uninspired sort of life so many seem to lead. Because wouldn't it be a relief to be unaware for awhile? No more thinking.

Labels: fools gold, habits, insomnia, layers, neurotic

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

my new writing machine
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.
If I were the classier sort of girl, that typewriter up there would be an Underwood. I have to find some ribbons for it. It will be a bit like being a detective to find the right ones. I really have no idea how to start.

I've eaten about 5 chocolate Popsicles tonight. Something about the texture is really appealing to me every time I pass by the fridge. And now that I want to go to sleep, the guy who lives upstairs is testing out his bass equipment. I wonder if I have enough moxy to knock on the ceiling with the broom handle, as though I live in prewar New York City.

I've rediscovered the song Black by Pearl Jam. So, I've been falling asleep to the sad story every night.

I really am going to die alone and Buckley will chew my knuckles and wrists for food while he waits for family to realise it's been a couple of week since anyone has heard from me and come calling.

yup.
Whatever.

Labels: Gish, habits, home improvement, how not to be an idiot, insomnia, neurotic, opinions, Sylvia Plath, zopiclone

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

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

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

All evening, in between my sunday afternoon (which are a day late due to the holiday) activities, which in my world doesn't really matter anymore. No frothy coffees at a local Chapters, no reading the weekend edition of the newspaper in bed with toast. No walking of Marble in Spring Bank park.

I know. I know. Everyone tells me I can do the same things anywhere. But it turns out, it's not the same. The feelings generated from completing those tasks isn't the feeling I used to get. There's no satisfaction.

Tonight, my first task will be to take a sleeping pill, eat some popcorn and read the new Fiona Walker book I picked up at Chapters last week. I will read until sleepy. I will then put on Identity and fall asleep while it's on.

I know it sounds pathetic, and neurotic. But, if I manage to do this without waking up at 3 in the morning, unable to fall asleep again, contemplating the meaning of life. Then I know. I feel that I will be somewhat satisfied.

My new favourite photograph is one Matt took himself. It's called Lorazepam Angel.
I can't articulate what it means to me that someone else on this planet who has everything...is in the same kind of state I am.

Labels: habits, neurotic