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

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

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

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

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

Not really working on anything right now. I was actually looking at this photograph and missing the girl I used to be. That must be part of age, or maybe it's just egoism. I should embrace any changes that have been made to my molecular make-up and see them for what they really are: just a part of life.

But I hear the clock in this room ticking, and it feels like it's timing down to something. Like a quiet clicking race, one that I'm going to come last in. Then I feel like listening to The Tea Party, and my over-the-counter heartburn medication isn't working even though I've taken two tablets and it's supposed to be 'extra-strength'. So, I just sit here with the music on, lighting cigarettes from the ends of candles and trying to pick a movie to sleep with, but I can't because everything I've seen has already been seen and we all know what happens when they end.

My dreams are filled with the matching bed sheets of past relationships and the kisses of those that I coveted but never felt. Those pairs of brown eyes both exciting and disappointing me, at the same time. The sleeping pills maybe make these people more real than they actually were, and because it was so long ago, maybe that's true.

Or I feel like a keyboard you can click on, a link that leads you to spam pages and pop-up windows. Free cursors, smileys you don't want and ads for Viagra or penis extensions. Click, click, click. Close.

The dogs sleep at the foot of the bed, they don't know I will not be here on this day at the same time next week, that they will be sleeping alone with each other. And I wonder if they care. But that doesn't matter because that's just the way things are. That's just the way they are.

Labels: Apostle, depression, Gish, late night, melancholy, neurotic, pharmacology, sleep, underwater, we all lose in the end, writing, zopiclone

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

Waking up this morning to my cell phone screaming it's sound for text messages. I had put a Matthew Good ring tone on it to let me know when email came in...you know, just in case I was getting a super sized, time sensitive secret document from Viagra Super Plus store.

I don't know of such a place, of course.

I used to like that ring tone, but it's wearing on me now. I'll probably change it to my old Johnny Cash that I had used for the past 3 years. Sick, I know. But I don't really care about that either, at the moment.

So, awake. Sort of. The movie I fell asleep watching still on, ah the miracle of the 'loop' option. It used to be music that I slept to, but it's been not so the past few months, running around trying to pick up the loose parts of my mind. That in itself not a project nearly finished by any means.

Here I am, hours and hours later, having read all of the morning papers (in one article, my previous doctor gave up his license to practice medicine *anywhere, ever again* for crimes such as narcotics prescriptions, sexual abuse of patients, etc). I can't say I'm surprised, although he was never more than he had to be, when I was seeing him. Mind you, I never needed narcotics, either.

I suppose I should be grateful, to have a place half decent to wake up in, ring tones, cell phones, movies, and doctors that don't try to feel me up when he's dispensing standard medical procedure to all my known parts.

Which is it, thankful or dubious?
I'll decide when I wake up tomorrow.

Labels: cell phone, doctor, layers, neurotic, 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fine Art of Falling Apart - The Matthew Good Band

Labels: drama, neurotic, song, Sylvia Plath

weapon
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

here by my side, it's heaven
here by my side, you are destruction...

I'm not one of those girls that has a gazillion huge tattoos all over her body. I have 5 small ones, one is a drawing and is about 1.5 inches in size. The other four are choice words or phrases that I like and they are all hidden from view, or can be with bracelets.

For instance, the latest one is Weapon. I put it on my right wrist. We hurt other with our hands We type or write words that sting like nettle. It's also the title of my favourite song by Matthew Good. That song came from a time I believe as having woken up from a suburbia-induced coma. My right hand is connected to my heart.

The only problem with that is, once you're awake, you can't ever get back to sleep. careful...

I wanted to write something more whimsical, but I'm sleepy now. The telephone was ringing off the hook yesterday but I hid from it under the sheets. Today not such a good day, I guess I was crashing from the good days I had earlier this week. I feel as though I can slowly wind myself up in the red curtains Sylvia Plath was making when she killed herself. What a poet.

So...bed time.

Love, Gish

Weapon - Matthew Good

Labels: blue pills, depression, Matthew Good, melancholy, neurotic, photographs, song, Sylvia Plath, tattoos, zopiclone

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

I've just noticed that I have a lot of movies from the 80's in my meager collection.
But I can't find my copy of Pride and Prejudice. I guess I am lonely for Mr. Darcy.

Reruns of Six Feet Under, The Ice Harvest and fevered hours staring at the Documentary channel have been how I've passed the time. Tried to back up my system a few times, but apparently it's idiot-proof, I can't figure it out.

A really long hot shower, and the guy who lives upstairs thumping on the floor because my music was too loud. I may complain here about his penchant for Shania Twain at 2 in the morning during the week, but never have I thumped on my ceiling for the volume let alone for his bad taste. I left it on. Let him call the police on a sunday afternoon on May-long weekend.

No matter what I do, I can't shake the bad taste friday night emails have left in my mouth, it's my own ego that won't stop telling me what a moron move it was.
Wish I had some ativan left.

Labels: lorazepam, neighbours, neurotic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Figures.

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

But it's Interpol!!!

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

"I 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

Ok, not really. I mean, I'm applying for a Master's degree at a University in New York City, but nothing is written in stone. I know my parents will wonder why I didn't choose Toronto or Vancouver, or even (god forbid) the city where I got my first degree but I have no answer.

Maybe I just want the accolade of having gone to an ivy league school.

Maybe I just want to be closer to Ryan Adams concerts.

Maybe I'm just nuts.

I'll choose the nuts option. I knew wherever I decided to get a Master's degree would matter and for some crazy reason I thought that two degrees from the same university would be...lame. Which just looks lame typing it out, but what can I say? I get weird things in my head sometimes.

And I told Craig he would have to look after me while I was in New York. So, I'll have a little guardian angel while I'm there. That sounds cushy, doesn't it? I thought so, too.

Of course, as with anything that has to do with me, we don't know if this will really happen, but it's been on my mind for a little while so I thought I should look into it. It doesn't mean I will get financial aid, or help from anyone other than my own pocket (which is currently empty, I mean if I were wearing pants that had pockets). It doesn't even mean I will be accepted. I do know though, they are still taking applications for the Fall and I want in there just to see what's what.

God, I get nutty ideas sometimes. Next thing you'll know I'll be taking flying lessons in red tights and a tutu. Or decide I can be a chef and go to some obscure chocolate making school in Switzerland.

With me, anything can happen.
Scary thought, huh?

p.s imagine the photographs? *sigh*

Labels: neurotic, New York, photographs, photography, School

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