Hear me out...

I still care for you...
Don't ask. I'll tell. I guess I always tell.

keep having this dream, in the night where it seems I can fly, but only when no one's around.
I was driving somewhere yesterday, caught sight of someone who looked so familiar that it went straight to my stomach and sat there like a happy little present. It gave me a little glow that faded by the time I lit my next cigarette. But things like that always bring stuff to the front of my mind. It mingles there with my Day Planner, my Post-it notes, and my endless cups of coffee that fuel my working day. In among all of the other names, and possibilities that are thrown my way (increasingly so, lately), you're still there.
Can't you see what you mean to me?
I know it's lame. But there it is. Again.

I write this in a moment of weakness. My defenses are down. My mouth still frozen and swollen from the dentist. My eye makeup is perfect But my eyes are glassy. I'm bruised and in some pain physically and that makes it easier for emotion to sneak in.

I keep having this thought that you don't even exist and I just made you up.
I'm aware that this is completely in the abstract, that I've most likely constructed a golem of you in my mind. And that I don't know you anymore. A figure of plaster and paint and mud, wearing the bright blue that grace the statues of the Virgin Mary's. Something someone puts on their dashboard. In hope. But I don't have any hope with your statue. It's more like a keepsake. A reminder of something that flared up so briefly in my bruised up little heart all those years ago that made a lasting sore there that aches every so often.

So, I'll take these thoughts to bed with me, under the covers with a flashlight.

Click on. Click off.





I Still Care For You - Ray Lamontagne
Becky, I Keep Singing This Song - Hey Rosetta!

Labels: abstract thought, Apostle, dentist, emotion, Hey Rosetta, how not to be an idiot, lyrics, music, Ray Lamontagne, The Apostle

The sun has come back for short appearances at 10 in the morning. It sneaks a peek up over the farthest southern horizon you can look to, then sinks back down like a balloon losing air. Truth be told, I hardly missed it's absence. The dark is so soothing.

the baffled king composing Hallelujah...

Well, its been a bit of a rough day. Work demands strain the quality of my time spent in isolation at my new perch in Igloolik. Just here for work matters until Thursday. I have a new roommate in Hall Beach and she seems great so far. But there always is the honeymoon period. So I'm not expecting much, either from myself or her. No expectations, means no disappointments later on.
One of my secrets has been aired by another. Despite the initial burst of anger and self-righteousness, things seemed to have calmed down in my mind. I guess this stage is what one would call: Damage control. So I've sent out my white flags, and can do nothing now but hope for the best. Silly really. I never hope for the best. I have just gotten used to expecting the worst.
but I'm not really in the mood for damage control, either. In this instance, I'm hoping (oops, bit of an expectation here) that we can all act like adults and move on. But I sense that is unlikely. I can blame the one who spilled the beans, or I can blame myself for indulging myself in his audience. Either way, the damage is done.

So, I'm sitting here in the chilly living room of the house I am temporarily occupying, typing this out and listening to an old favourite. A hot bath has been drawn and bloodletting is on my mind, little silken swirls of it in steamy hot water. Memories, I suppose. Or scenes of a movie I can't look away from.

My fingernails are painted baby blue, an opposite to the black I had gotten during my airport manicure in Toronto last week (feels like a month ago). I've only been home for a week yesterday and yet, it feels as though I've been missing in action for quite some time. Or that I've been underwater, swimming. Night swimming. And only coming up for air now. This past week has felt absolutely endless.

My thoughts have turned back to what to do, where to go next and the center of my mind has been focused on teaching english overseas. Vietnam calls me, has called me in the past and it looks like a reality. Or it looks like it could become my reality. If I so choose. The idea of social work in another community or back in Ontario is not an attractive one....just now. Perhaps later.

you know, I used to live alone before I knew ya'...

My bath water is waiting, but I just got off the phone with Craig who is on his own tonight with his very busy offspring, Benji, so he has to call back once things are settled down in his household. In effect, I'm on hold. Just not on the line. Nothing's on the line. He tells me about the song he wrote for me, the lyrics should make me uncomfortable, they are that close...but instead, I'm just eager to hear the finished product and add it to my collection. He's so dear to me in an abstract sort of way, this Craig.

I'm still even, I think. Despite my efforts to sabotage the sense of being even just to see what would happen. Nothing is what has happened. And this makes me feel content.

I just want to get moving. Time to go somewhere else. Time to plan, makes solid plans and follow through. My trusty little dog packed up with me, and off I go. But that's a little ways away yet. Now is the money saving time. Later, will be the fun time.

It's just a shame I can't combine the two and do what I do best....leave.

G.

Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley

Labels: Arctic, Bailey, betrayal, friends, Gish, how not to be an idiot, Jeff Buckley, layers, mistakes, secrets, stupidity, travelling, we all lose in the end

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 have actually been working like the proverbial dog, so haven't had any chance at all to do my ordinary internet activities. That is not to say there haven't been journal entries floating around in my head like little story fruits. Fruits, not fishes. Fruit I can eat right away. Fish, I actually need to prepare and dig in.

Work, of course has been crazy. Today it's still busy, but not so bad I can't sit here and quickly type out an entry for your feasting eyes and brain.

Home life, not so awesome. I'm starting to miss things more intensely. Like sushi. The Vietnam Restaurant (really, the guy should be paying me, the amount of times I mention this place). I miss my nephews. I miss my mom, and even my cranky stepdad.

I've been waffling on whether or not to go home for Christmas, not because I don't want to see anyone, but because of the cost it involves. I've been lucky the past few times to catch a ride on a south bound plane, but this time, I'll actually have to pay. To the tune of over $2500.00. Depressingly, I noticed I can fly to Hawaii for that amount. And I've pretty much decided to do it, because really...I can easily get my savings back up again (the trip home plus an arctic winter parka that I have to buy for the coming winter, wipes out pretty much my entire nest egg) and the trip will be worth it, really. I just looked at the dates and it looks like I can get in almost 4 weeks of family and 'being in the South' goodness before coming back here and waiting out the dark winter months.

The parka. Ok. I bought one down south before coming up here, knowing full well I would be needing a more 'bells and whistles' type of jacket for the -60 temps that are the norm around here in January and February. So I've been shopping around. Two problems, the parkas I've been looking at aren't what are necessary up here, and I need a larger size (which I rarely see). So, not only do I never see Arctic-hardy parkas but I also need them in size gigantic.

But then I find one. Even one in my size. But it's over $700.00 and I just cringe at spending that amount of money on a jacket that doesn't say Prada on it somewhere. They have it in size Fat, but it's a purple colour, and it's pretty darn big (I just know it will weigh a ton, goosedown and all that). Which all just reaffirms my theory that the clothing industry is trying to shame/embarrass fat people into losing weight by making them wear hideous clothes. I did eventually find a place that sells them for 400 dollars instead of the full price, and after mulling it over for a few days, I placed the order today. It's a good brand, and I've heard nothing but good reviews about it, so I know at least I won't be cold when I'm out and about enjoying the -60 wind chill action come January. I guess I'm just cheap.

A self portrait I took a couple of weeks ago.


Had a good Thanksgiving. I went to eat dinner with a couple of the teachers but I ended up drinking way too much wine and barfing. I would expand on that, but something tells me you don't really want to hear that part. At the end of the night, I tucked up my leftovers on a tinfoil covered plate and listened to Matt Good on my walk home. I remember really hoping I wasn't being stupid, carrying food around with me when there are apparently polar bears all over the place. One bad dream, and suddenly the white furry bears scare the crap out of me.

Last night, the chronic insomnia returned with a very mean vengeance. I fell asleep at a reasonable 8-ish (long day when you're kind of hung over) and awoke at 10:30, not falling asleep until about 6 this morning. I got 2 more hours in before having to get up and get ready for work. For some reason this time around, I don't feel like death warmed over today. Maybe it will hit me at quitting time. I'm tired, just not so much so that I want to quit my job and go hide under the covers until the spring thaw.

So, that's it. On my menu this week, it appears to be shrimp. I just need decent seafood sauce and then I'm 'cooking with gas'. I bought another bag of shrimp at lunch time today, it's in a grocery bag hanging off the doorknob to the back door, so it stays frozen for when I go home. I can be smart like that sometimes.
Later,G
.p.s almost forgot. midnight or early morning phone calls to people you'd never normally talk to...are usually a bad idea. Food for thought.

Labels: 'North', alcohol, Arctic, Arctic Circle, how not to be an idiot, Matthew Good, theory

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

God is speaking to Peter about how he's exhausted and would *love* to have some rest. Peter suggests the moon, God says no...there isn't any atmosphere. God says he wants to rest for a bit in a wonderful place. Then Peter suggests Earth. God says, "I went there over 2000 years ago and met a wonderful little jewish girl.....and they are STILL talking about it!!"
(not my joke, just something I heard tonight).

I've been wearing contact lenses for the better part of 5 years now. I occasionally wore my glasses, but for only short periods of time and very far in between. I decided the other day to give my eyeballs a rest and wear glasses for a few weeks. They make me look stern, my sister thinks I look 'smart'. Either way, they are the first things that I grab in the morning.

However, my first thoughts are usually: Oh my god, I'm going blind!
Then I remember the glasses. Everything looks so diminished behind my lenses.

You're wondering if I'm ok...
The nights are cool now, and I relish the breeze that floats in through the windows. Anything to stimulate my skin. Hot water. Buckley's fur, when he's rolling around in my arms like a wriggling fish. Beebeese's fur beneath my fingertips, she feels like a mink resting on the windowsill.

I had big plans for an entry about my efforts to spruce up the shitty little apartment I've rented for considerably less money than I used to pay for my great apartment last winter. So this showerhead I had before (which I have brought with me) is not like a turbo water blaster or anything, it's like a rain fall, which I adore. I can feel like I'm in a rainstorm everytime I shower.

But perhaps it is not to be in this place. My continued efforts to remove the pipe coming out of the wall remain unfullfilled, despite trying a multitude of wrenches, pliers, a hammer and a knife at one point. It could be that I am too weak to do it. I don't mind admitting I have no physical strength.

result: the superintendant is sending a plumber tomorrow. Phew.


Time After Time - Cyndi Lauper

Labels: God, home improvement, how not to be an idiot

Dear Chicago,
Remember that one summer when everything felt like eraly morning suburban lawns. wet grass that stuck to our shoes from running across other peoples front yards, laughing like loons, holding hands, crimped fingers, sweet breath on each other's necks. ?

The most recent heatwave brings you to mind, once again. No sense wishing to tranform the years back to where we used to be, but it brings such a warm flush to my cheeks to want it so. I just want to wake up there again. Wake up with your hand on my hip. Your mouth on my skin.

I guess I get carried away with the memory most times. All the time.

Wet summer grass. Makes me want to walk through front yards at dawn, just to get the feeling right.
I'll look for you in the weak light.
Love,
Gish.



I used to be such a grammar nazi, way back in the day. Now, I don't really care as long as my words get out there, regardless of which order they arrive in. Same deal for spelling.

I've been watching Durham County. I forgot how good Hugh Dillon was at portraying an angry man. Check out the link below for his new(er) project. I'll pick up the record when I get a chance. I love finding out I've missed the boat by a few months.
http://www.thehdrc.com/

Labels: Dear Chicago, how not to be an idiot, inspiration, love, True love, 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

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

If photos were feelings, this is how I feel. This photo is from a couple of years ago. My slightly distracted/disinterested look while I suck back hot coffee.


london
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

It's only 10 p.m. and I am going to bed. I haven't been sleeping for about 2 weeks, and have instead been in a state of 'high as a kite', drunk off my ass, or cranky beyond belief.

Thinking it was a good idea, I tell a 'friend' he can come over and hang around the apartment. Now, I just want him out of my face, off my couch, out of the fucking house because the very pitch of his voice is driving me nuts. I'm nuts already, but I mean fingernails on a black board kind of way.

And it's hot. So hot that I just want to sleep in my underwear and not have to worry about how sexy or inviting I look, even though I feel the exact opposite. I have a bunch of movies I will put on before I fall asleep, ones I haven't watched in awhile. Based on Mattie's recommendation, I was trying to find Deadwood on dvd but haven't been able to track down season 1 yet.

Oh and the Sopranos. I can't tell if that last episode was really deep and totally flew over my head, or if they are just setting up for a movie. Movies of series are all fine and good, but you don't end the series which a freaking anti-climatic episode such as the last one of the Sopranos.

Kind of makes me want to watch M*A*S*H again, but on tv not on dvd. God bless Nick Drake. If that seems random to you, then I guess you don't know what I mean. *sigh*

Anyway, I'd better go. I have spare baggage that I am kicking out of my apartment and an early doctor's appointment in the morning.

Arg. go home.

Labels: depression, Gish, how not to be an idiot, Matthew Good, men, sex

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

sanctuary
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

I haven't had anywhere that I would particularly like to be. Not for a long while. No place to rest my head and feel that I was ok, normal, loved and most importantly, safe. This past year has meant a lot of changes for me. The first, obviously moving to this new writing space. Which I am still not sure I will maintain, future food for thought.

When I lost it, my mind I mean. I never thought I would have any kind of meaningful support other than an imaginary kindly old nurse that would pat my knee reassuringly while I was being fitted for the straight jacket. I know that in myself, in my speech and some beliefs I have, I perpetuate the old myths of mental health. I know this, it's not intentional, at the same time it's not something I can see changing any time soon.

Given the events of this past week, I now know a few more things. That when you check into emergency by sliding a note stating "I'm going to kill myself" across to the receptionist behind the bullet proof glass partition, they whisk you away only to make you wait in a chair next to a drunk throwing up what seemed like gallons of red wine two seats over.

From then on it was completely "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". You can all cheer and think it was a great thing when the indian guy broke the water fountain and walked away from the institution, but shit like that doesn't really happen. Instead, I was held in a room painted blue, they told me to put on the gown, I declined until further notice. I hadn't yet seen a doctor. The door, I remember, had a round fishbowl-like window in it, and they locked from the outside.

I lay down on the gurney, wrapped a sheet around myself and tried to be as small as possible until the ordeal was over. This is the latest in events that have been my effort to seek help for the severe depression I've been suffering.

I hear things like 'bi-polar', 'crazy', 'she's just one of those that are never happy people'. In ways I can't even explain, moods come over me and I'm helpless to stop or manage the emotions. It feels like I'm crazy, so I often refer to myself as such. It could be a lie, who really knows.

My family is angry and hurt that I didn't reach out to them for help. But even if I had, I wouldn't have had the words to tell them what's wrong.

I still don't.

Until then, I'm floating on a very thin carpet. I eat icy green grapes for dinner and pet Buckley whilst reading old Margaret Atwood books in the hope I make it through another night in my sanctuary.

Labels: cry, depression, how not to be an idiot, insomnia, layers, lockdown, lorazepam, Matthew Good, melancholy, neurotic, pharmacology, Sylvia Plath, writing, zopiclone

Out Now
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

I'm not a positive person. In that I don't look for silver linings, or rainbows, or expect the best from people. This hinders me in some areas, however it also saves me the crushing disappointment I may suffer as the result of someone's lack of....follow through, if that makes sense.

I've been on the Lam for quite awhile, ignoring both Flickr and my journal, as though they are simply more places I need to report to. But today, the sun is out and it's warm on my skin. I ate an apple this morning during my commute and for some reason, things do feel like they are looking up.

I was applying for a new car, I had decided on a Ford Escape Hybrid, however due to financing issues it's not likely to happen at this point. And right now, I'm ok with it. Earlier this week, my electricity was cut off because my landlord failed to pay his bill. However, the deal was that I would have the bill in my name and make the payments. Genius-guy, however never closed off his account and thus, I was not able to set up my own. Then he just decides to not pay the bill at all, resulting in two nights by candlelight. And thawed groceries in the freezer that had been bought the day before.

I was livid. Now, I've paid the bill *for* him and deducted it from the rent, have the utility in my own name and things are running smoothly again (for the time being). But then my laptop decided to have a fatal error and while it was nice enough to give me time to TRY to get some documents from it (mostly music and my art), it is slowly coming to a stop. The good thing: it's still under warranty. The bad thing: potential loss of my entire music library, and it will take about 3 weeks for the company to ship me the repaired laptop.

I know, when it rains, it pours. Instead of sitting here and being a big baby, I have decided to go to the Island and surprise my mother for Mother's Day. It's a long trip and only over night, but I might as well do something lovely for her.

Work is still work, and I'm still doing it. Buckley was scheduled to meet with a trainer for his bad behaviours this weekend but that will be rescheduled. Unfortunately for him, his neuter surgery is scheduled for Tuesday. *grin* Poor guy.

In the meantime, I've misplaced Mrs. John Cusack (my iPod) and I have to go out and buy a bag I can pack with weekend essentials. I know, I'm the best of the drama bitches. There's more to it than this, I just can't seem to scratch the surface.

Labels: how not to be an idiot, late night, melancholy, music, relationships, work, writing

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

Hawksley Workman once wrote a song called "Tonight, Romanticise the Automobile". Now, whenever I hear the word 'romanticise' I think of that song, hum a few bars and continue on with whatever it was I was doing.

The word reminds me of what movies do to my psyche. They make me believe, for short amounts of time (around 5 or 10 minutes) that my life could be like the characters in the movie. That I could casually walk along Amsterdam avenue in New York City and buy flowers for my little kitchen table, or maybe come across a stand that sells apples. As if there would be flower sellers or apple buyers on Amsterdam avenue. Wrong neighbourhood, Gish.

Crisp Royal Gala apples (currently one of my little addictions) and sunny yellow tulips that sit in a clear vase in the throes of death, but looking stunningly beautiful whilst they die. Simple things like sweeping the floor, watching Fall leaves drift to the ground.

Oh, and consuming products like Coke Plus, or Diet Cherry 7-up, eating blueberry donuts and smoking Capri slim cigarettes. Those are the things that I managed to experience while driving around small town Michigan yesterday.

And of course, the reference to life romanticized into tiny manageable bites, is because You've Got Mail is on. Which I am sure is not an accurate portrayal of life in New York, but I suppose that it doesn't matter right now.

I'm going to fall asleep in clean bright red sheets that I picked up in Michigan, and dream of possible, attainable things.

Not things like buying apples from a stand in New York or ideas of snorkeling gin and tonics in a swanky bar in the Upper East Side. Although truth be told, I am not all that interested in the swanky bar bit. People don't really live like that, right?

People shop at Target, they eat at Chili's once a week, and then go home to their bedroom communities of large cities with matching bed sheets and non-slip decals in the bath tub. I've got to just give up the ghost and find my place amongst them.

Bed time. Red sheets, an apple and a novel I've read 10 times before.

Labels: hawksley workman, how not to be an idiot, layers, neurotic, New York, travelling

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

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

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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

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