fall asleep...next to me...
Well, it appears that my old friend Insomnia is back for a visit. I don't know how long she will be staying. I've always thought she was a bitch to begin with, but a very smart bitch. She always seems to know when I'm vulnerable, or when I'm too tired to think of what to do next. She springs up out of my body and my mind with party balloons and unmade plans on how to spend the next few hours in her presence.

I just hate her. I know she knows. But she keeps coming back to see how I am. Either she likes me or she's a sdist. Maybe she's lonely, too. I don't know. But it doesn't make me dislike her any less.

I'm still Igloolik. I couldn't sleep the first night I got here and I seemed to be ok the following day. But I'm tired right now. My body is tired. I had a hot shower, the usual meds and I'm still up at 4 a.m. contemplating anything interesting that comes to mind as I lie there, breathing deep and praying for sleep. I've got a few things on my mind, but nothing that is overly pressing or stressful. My mind is mostly on the future.

I can't really decide where to go next when I'm done with the Arctic. I know I talk about exotic places like Paris or New York. Maybe even Vancouver. But I can't decide where, I don't want to miss out on anything, so I skim different job postings in different areas. There are a lot out there, and so it would really just be a matter of picking a place, applying and hoping for the best. But that's the hard part: picking a place.

I know that I am not likely to put in the 2 years I had initially planned on in the Arctic. The main reason has to do with work, I guess I'm just not feeling as though this job is worth the hassle and expense I go through just to be here. So, the current plan is to stay as long as I can, save as much as I can and continue to debate the merits of one new place over another.

Sometimes I have dreams where I tell myself that they would make good stories. But upon waking, I run them through my head and usually decide against them. I had one such dream last night and had thought it might be worth a 2nd thought, but the details slipped out of the slippery slope of my mind and were gone. Shame.

But, I suppose I will see if I can kick Insomnia out and try for 2 hours of sleep before I have to go in for work. I hope I don't feel like the walking dead tomorrow. Black and Blue - The Counting Crows.

Labels: insomnia

find somewhere to go...
In the wake of accepting the job in Nunavut (well, at least accepting in my mind), I've been shopping like a mad person. I've bought a lot of tv dvds that will carry me through some semi-dark nights, as well as the full light ones. If I have insomnia now, I am afraid of what it will look like when I am in a place where the sun doesn't go down for 3 months (June to August). I guess that is to make up for the two months of darkness in the winter months.

More shopping included a gigantic parka, proper winter boots, thermal underwear and a gazillion tshirts to layer up with. The parka. I hate it. It's brown, puffy and reaches to my knees. When I wear it, I feel like a big, brown, puffy Michelin Man. There's nothing for it. I have to wear it. My only consolation is that not a lot of people will see me in it. Yes, my vanity is still alive and strong.

I took this the other day. I'm a passenger.

We can slip into the fog together and get lost for awhile. It will insulate our noises and sounds. We can relax on a broken log and sip hot coffee, our edges blurred even to each other. It was just a thought.

Speaking of Lost. I'm Lost in Lost. I mean, I've become addicted to the show (note: dvd purchased). And it's a darn good thing I've bought all those dvds. I would be very upset if I had to wait for the 2nd season to come out after watching the finale last night of the 1st season. All in one bite. That's my kind of thing.

So, the fact that I'll be living in the Arctic circle has me thinking of things to do to pass the time. So far, tv is taken care of. I've decided to take my guitar, teach myself to play. Books, maybe some knitting stuff to see if I can figure that out on my own. Other than that, I can't think of anything....

I can tell you of the things I will miss. Summer shoes. Fresh fruit. Fresh vegatables. Chinese food. All night convenience stores. Driving. Gin and Tonics on the front porch. My nephews. My sisters. Wearing a tshirt and jeans while out shooting pictures.

But, then I remind myself this is for a better cause then some summer flip flops.

Labels: insomnia, inspiration, Island, job, late night, Manitoulin Island, money, Nunavut, travelling, winter, writing

Sleep is evading me. Again. I don't really have anything interesting on my mind, and I've been vigilant in the 'sleep hygiene' regimen I was given awhile ago (by some idiot doctor). Nice comfy bed. The dogs are calm (mostly). And still no deal. Sleep and I may have to come to an uneasy agreement in that I know it's supposed to come through and it tells me to get lost.

This morning I head upstairs and come face to face with a hottie cable guy that is fiddling with the wires to get a clearer picture. My stepdad is perched anxiously on the couch, waiting for the verdict. I just sigh and look pointedly at the new satellite receiver. The satellite was installed last Monday (to my great joy) and there he was, worried about the cable (that we all agreed would be disconnected as it has no real channels, very fuzzy reception NO MATTER WHAT, and the cost is what we pay for satellite programming now). But I suppose old people are reluctant to let go of familiar fuzzy channels that are: a) in french (no one in the house speaks french), b) mostly entertainment channels (no one really cares about what weird thing Tom Cruise is up to now) and c) just plain LAME.

Now I can guess what you are thinking; why the big deal about television? Well, let me tell you. When you are surrounded by nothing but trees and 4 feet of snow (which will grow to 6 or 7 by February), then television becomes somewhat interesting. Especially as you've read every book in the house approximately 7 times each, and the nearest city is 200 kilometres away. So, forgive me if I worship at the alter that is satellite television for a little while.

In any event, the hottie cable guy talks to me and stoops down (about 6 feet of him, I would say) and pets Buckley (picture a fierce sneer on his face) but I'm not buying this in-house pickup. I tell him I would spend more time talking him up but I need to either renew my subscription with eHarmony or hope for the day John Cusack realises there is a northern girl in Canada (not Neve Cambell) who would probably be more than happy to go for vietnamese food with him (me, of course) then I go back downstairs (after grabbing another can of pepsi).

John Cusack, John Cusack, John Cusack, ok? I know I've mentioned him a few times in this space but who cares? Blogs are full of crap all of the time, so any readers who are miffed with the Cusack references can either stop reading or stop emailing me regarding the subject. Cusack! So there.

Ok, I'd better go.
Before anyone else gets hurt.

Labels: cable, insomnia, John Cusack

believe your truth is not my truth...
Just some thoughts that are rolling around in my mind at the moment. When I go outside to smoke a cigarette, I turn my eyes towards the back of the property where I hear strange sounds. Rustling leaves and tree branches kissing or maybe mauling each other. There are the towering cedars that creak when they rub against one another. The dark keeps the woods' secrets. I am not brave enough to discover them for myself.

My bed is warm on the inside. I keep my room cold, the pets invariably make their way underneath the covers. The snow and the cold have made Manitoulin Island their winter home. I wish I could keep chilled wine and beer for the visitors I don't want to have, but there isn't any room in the refrigerator except for real things like food and salted butter sticks.

Instead, I keep small bottles of champagne in the trunk of the car and smuggle it in when the mood strikes. Not tonight, too cold to venture out. Instead, my head is rolling around the room with it's own inebriation.
what was it like just to have it all slip through your hands...?
Oh...it felt like loss at first. Now I can't even remember what I had. And if I do, it only comes to me at night when I'm asleep. The images flit hither and thither. Then I awake to melancholic feelings that dissipates as quickly as a cool mist.

Most times.

the waters beginning to freeze here...solid by morning...
The lakes on this island have already frozen over. Whether or not I venture out into one of them for photos this year remains to be seen. It is cold in my bones tonight. I am not sleeping like I should again. Seems so easy to slip back into the welcoming arms of insomnia. Hello dear friend.

saw on your face such a curious grin as I let go your hand, was desperate to hold you again but you're sinking, too deep in the water......so easily gave up what I wanted....
So true. So hard to forget.


Devil By my Side - David Usher
Tomorrow Comes - David Usher
St. Lawrence River - David Usher

Labels: cold, David Usher, ice, insomnia, Manitoulin Island, Northern Ontario, winter

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

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

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

Sometimes, there are no exits. Or they are blocked off in such a way that you, as the person needing to escape, could not get through.

Everywhere I am, I look for the exits. It's rare I find one that fits me, so to speak. Thus, I am usually stuck in a jam doing something I don't want to, or in a conversation that bores me to sleep (which, in retrospect given my insomniac tendancies, may not be such a bad thing).

It's been a good couple of weeks. My new methods seem to be doing the trick. It will be interesting to see (if) how well I'll sleep when I'm back at work full time next week. In case you didn't read the last entry, I'm returning to the sort of Social Work I have a lot of experience in. I'm a social worker, and sometimes I get things done. At the end of this week, I'll be at the local women's shelter, volunteering with some crisis intervention sessions for the women staying there.

It's always easier to do for someone else, than it is for yourself, I find.

I was thinking about changing the name of this journal to the subject title. My current title is The Fine Art of Falling Apart. I admire Mattie in his daily struggle to keep breathing and perservering and at the time I started this new blog, I had completely fallen apart and thought it an apt title.

Decisions, decisions. I would just like for things to be easy for once, you know? I want to write like I used to. Off the cuff, sweet romanticising of 24 hour supermarkets and my humour. I miss my humour, you know?

I used to be funny.
love,
Gish

Labels: how not to be an idiot, insomnia, inspiration, Matthew Good, music, underwater, witness, 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

OK first things first: Has anyone other than myself, heard Willie Nelson's version of Leonard Cohen's SMASH hit Hallelujah? Raise your hands, if you have heard this cover. Don't worry, no on can see, just raise your hand for a final count.

There are so many versions out there ought to be a cut off point somewhere along the line.

So, I officially here and now, declare the cut off point. No more covers of this song that is called Hallelujah by Leanord Cohen. The man has enough money at this point in his life, and even if you think it's the crowning glory on your newest record, he probably doesn't really care. The time to stop is now.

Don't get me wrong. I dig Nelson's (we're on a last name basis now) cover of the song. In fact, I would put it as my second favourite cover of this particular song, given there are about six different versions to be found ranging from Johnny Cash to Rufus Wainright. And those are only the versions that I personally know about.

Enough already.

Because in the grander scheme of things, hands down, the best version of this song is by Jeff Buckley and that is all there is to it. The end. But not really. There have been a lot of changes taking place in the industry they call 'music', when it encompasses so much more than that, these days.

For instance, a lot of the musicians and songwriters are taking power back by spending as much time in the sound booth to ensure what they hear in their heads, is what comes across when you purchase and listen to their art. In this particular cover tune, we have Ryan Adams to thank for the help Nelson recieved in the production of his new record, Song Bird .

I know you think you know what music is. But I have this theory about it. I think of music as an art form, inasmuch as painting, poetry, writing, or sculpting something with your bare hands. And although emulating someone else's sound could be the highest form of flattery.

Sometimes, it's just time to say ok, enough.
So...enough.

Love,
Ms. G

Labels: cover songs, how not to be an idiot, insomnia, Jeff Buckley, late night, music, music opinion, opinions, Ryan Adams, song

Someone, please...
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.
I miss the Tea Party, I probably have said that somewhere else before. I was called into work this afternoon, having only just returned home an hour ago. Long enough to change clothes and take some pictures, since I missed the 365 photograph of yesterday, being so tired, so blah, so Gish that I didn't bother with the tricks of light and lens.
if you could see this world with my eyes...
I remember getting excited for new albums coming out, but now that I'm older, I wonder. If there is anything to it. My older sister used to always tell me (usually at a Tea Party show) that is wasn't real. I could interpret that any way I like, but I took it for the music. Not real. We can listen, and love, and appreciate but in the end, can we feel it in our hands?
with a sweet wine....
Of course, she probably meant something else.
I think she's gone again...
In any event. I'm not really real. I'm only a ghost of who I used to be. Speaking of which, some weirdo on Flickr wants to worship my feet. I told him I demand money and time. I'm terrible, I shouldn't encourage them.

Track 12 - The Tea Party Triptych album...too lazy to look up liner notes, and you'd think I'd know this by heart. now strife won't let me go...

Labels: how not to be an idiot, insomnia, inspiration, late night, layers, Matthew Good, music, neurotic, photographs, photography, The Tea Party, writing

false hope
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

It's not so bad, this underwater business. I came up for air today to meet up with a couple of friends, then slipped quietly back into that black, black lake when it was time to go home. My camera has been at my sister's for the entire week, having only gotten it back today, I take photos of what used to be my miracle pills. The ones that put me to sleep, tucked me in, and just let me sleep. My little blue pills. Now they're just like my Fool's gold. Or in the world of doctors and pharmacists: Zopiclone.

The insomnia is getting worse with age, but I kind of expected that. Like skin, hair, teeth, things degrade as time slips by. That's ok. Although, for some reason it reminds me of this book I once read . Maybe I'll lose my last bit of string, after awhile.
I'm not the only one on this planet that can't sleep. I expect the problem to remedy itself sooner or later, regardless of what I actually do or don't do.

Listening to Simon and Garfunkel a lot lately, or Pete Yorn when I'm in bed, pretending to sleep. In a Zen-like madness I completely changed the bedroom around so that as soon as you walk in, you can fall into bed. I like that idea. Of falling into bed.

Took some frosty photos tonight, as Buckley ate snow in the front yard. I can't decide which movie to watch, so I'll probably end up reading instead. But then...

right?

In an effort to stop consuming so much sugar, I picked up some of that new Pepsi, jazz sensations something or other. It is supposed to be black cherry vanilla flavoured pepsi. So far, it just tastes like diet crap. I'm disappointed. Although, if I keep drinking it...eventually it will win me over. It's amazing what one can acclimate to if given the opportunity.

I'm excited, because it's Monday tomorrow. I will clean the bathroom and the nooks and crannies of my orange kitchen with one eye on the phone. I'll will the job offers to come in. Or whatever.

You know, I blew a fuse the other night. I was rewiring an old lamp into a hanging lamp (not such a good idea with limited training, let me tell you) and when the moment of truth came (meaning, I plugged it in) there was a bright spark and then nothing. I was confused. I had followed the directions for the other lamp (swag lamp kit) and figured a lamp is a lamp is a lamp, no matter what. Right? Right. Turns out I forget to tie a knot in the wire.

Curses! Foiled again! Just kidding. I already got the lecture from two sisters, who also took the opportunity to laugh at the crooked bookshelf I built. Seriously, it's still standing, and doing what it was made for...how bad can it be???

ok, that's it. I think this is long enough for an entry.

Good night, thanks for dropping by.

Labels: blue pills, diet pepsi, electrical, fools gold, insomnia, zopiclone

We
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

I can change, I swear...
I smoked too many cigarettes today. One call from a job in Philly. I didn't take it, it wasn't what I wanted. I wish I could forget the days that hurt and easily remember the ones that heal. I took this a few months ago before my art show. I'm really not quite sure what to do with it now. I guess it can go into someone else's private collection. It doesn't seem to strike a chord, the way it used to. Sometimes, I hang on to things forever. Other times, I barely realise they are gone before I turn out the lights for the night.

I'm in full lockdown mode now. It's my own fault. A specific blend of pharmaceuticals to help get me through the night, a couple of novels and some photographs. I don't know when I'll resurface. Maybe sometime next week.

These little 'slow downs' happen once in awhile, and from experience I've just got to keep taking breath, and hoping that it will be over soon.

I want something that won't let me dream anymore. My dreams (they say are wishes) hurt me, big barbs lodged into the sides of my arms, little thorns in my side, the nicks and scrapes that my life has brought me. Sometimes....they just keep coming back.

Ok, I lied. I posted a photo of that painting because I know the next time I log on, I'll see it. And maybe it will make me feel better. Silence those stupid ghosts from the past, the whispers that eat away at my self esteem and self worth (Oprah talk). Maybe I'll remember the orange glow of love and then my world will turn upright again.
Maybe.

But now, it's Black Cherry soda pop and another chapter of the sad book I'm reading. Climbing under my covers, tinfoil on the windows, drugs in my system and the prayer that I don't dream of you anything, tonight.

Don't bother calling me, I won't pick up the phone. aloha.


You're a Big Girl Now - Bob Dylan

Labels: Blach cherry pop, Bob Dylan, how not to be an idiot, insomnia, lockdown, painting, pharmacology, Sylvia Plath, underwater, witness

To come at last to be undone...
I can't sleep. It's not something that ever comes easily for me. I have to grab it with both hands and somehow convince it to stay like an errant lover. if you just stay for a little while, I promise I won't see anyone else. Please, baby.

I want to make it promises that I'll never keep. Maybe sleep is something that visits only the good, the healthy, the happy. Or the desperately sad, the ones that numb themselves with it. Nothing for the inbetweens, I guess. Instead, I get to twist around in my white cotton sheets, my head under the pillows, My hair these waves of dark brown weaving in and out of the covers. My skin, warm from the heated air under my blankets. The bed is a tricky place, sometimes.

I'm supposed to be up early tomorrow. Maybe I can't sleep because I know this. Must get up early. And no music is like soothing. Maybe I should fall asleep listening to the weather channel or the sound of the furnace grudgingly kick itself into life. More hot air.

I shovelled the driveway today. My car was completely covered in snow, like a newspaper box. Looking at snow (and I had this exact conversation today) makes me want to romanticise everything. The sweet way it lands on your eyelashes, on your skin. Last week, it snowed for 17 hours straight. We got 5 feet. I was snowed in for a number of days, only released this afternoon from my little icy castle. Maybe you know this already.

Christmas party at my sister's today. I chased my little nephew around (not allowed to post photos of his sweet face) and ate spinach and ricotta pizza from Angelo's. It used to be my favourite, in another life. Funny how one strives for some kind of normality without even really realising it. Must maintain equilibrium.

I would like for any readers that dig music, to go and look at my friend Craig's page. He's really good. Reminiscent of Dylan, a bit of Buckley in there and the sweetest voice that I've ever heard on telephone wire. Just click on the banner below and have a listen for yourself.




Every Name is my Name - The Matthew Good Band

Labels: insomnia