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'm not allowed to smoke in the house, but occasionally I have one since it's freezing outside and I'm cozy in bed watching something. It's some insane hour of the morning. I have been up off and on for the past 8 hours so it's not surprise I'm sitting here twiddling my thumbs like a good monkey.

I spent some time with an old friend for a couple of days, came home yesterday. She really wanted me to go into the city to hear this three man band that was coming in to do a show, then spend the night. She said singer/songwriter and I managed to move some things around on my busy schedule and poof, I was able to make it.

We had a great time the first night. I don't talk so much anymore, I've morphed into a listener. Lots of Gin & Tonic to be had and it was hard to fit all we've missed in each other's lives into a scant 9 hours of straight talking. I tried to introduce her to Matthew Good, she made me look up every little 3 man band she could think of. There is some truly great music out there.

After the band guys arrived it was like a free for all. Two days of travelling fast in a minivan could do that to you, I suppose. In any event, the show was good that night at a little venue in Sudbury. Afterwards (feeling my age) I'm ready to go home, but scads of girls that look (and sound) 14 have gathered about the guys. I can see where this is going, having spent too much time with friends backstage at one show or another. I'm older now, so I'm used to people talking and such, not the screaming groupies I encountered the other night. Then they somehow managed to come back with us. I had to listen to the sound of chirping and screeching girls all evening.

Ugh.
The whole thing was just a rewind of past shows.

Down to the last wire for submitting my application to the university.
And another one disappoints me. I really have to lower my expectations of people. Some aren't made to give.

Labels: Matthew Good, underwater, we all lose in the end, zopiclone

out of gas
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.
The level of fuel in my car is usually low, and now that I don't have a job, I've noticed the 'out of gas' light light up more often than as previous. But this time, I think I hit an all-time low.

This is where one can say, ah she's hit her plateau. What I would say in response is that there is no plateau for me. Not yet. I'm not running around with a sticker on my forehead that says I'm crazy, but on the other hand, close friends of mine know what's going on. Because there are quite a few hours I spent on my own, but do not recall, no matter how hard I've tried.

It's morning time, where I am. The air is a bit spoiled from the brewery behind my house. I live near the Labatt place and sometimes when the wind is right, you get a wiff of something that just makes you want to retch. The sun is out, and it feels like a cool Spring morning. The weather online say it is to thunder and storm later on. But looking out of my bedroom window, one wouldn't have any idea.

lying on the gurney, staring up at the blinding light. Thirsty. So thirsty. Nothing floating through my mind, with the exception of getting home as soon as possible. You weren't there, and neither was the other one. None belonging there, I suppose. It's been awhile since I've felt there was someone below to catch me with a net, like all those silly Saturday morning cartoons from 1983.

Only it's not 1983, it's 2007 and I have no excuse for my behaviour. I need to take responsibility for my actions, not my family and/or friends.

Oh, Interpol was just playing on my clock radio, and I had a sense of Deja Vu where it felt like I was living in the house I bought 2 years ago, but sold one year ago. Early mornings spent in the hammock with coffee and cigarettes. The knowledge that no one knew I was back there unless they came through the back yard.

I miss that house. But its just a material thing. And lately, there isn't much room for fancifull day dreaming.

Labels: depression, family, Gish, Matthew Good, underwater

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

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

Matt Good
Originally uploaded by Dan Lilly.

This is a photograph from Dan Lilly who has the excellent opportunity to take in studio photographs on the work of the new album.

It's hard to look at pictures like these and not feel jealous. They're clear, sharp and evoke something in my head that won't shut it up. Nag, Nag, Nag.

Just the past few hours I feel like I'm slowly going invisible. Like a ghost that never was. We can be invisible without being dead. I look at the girl's insulin vials and push thoughts from my head. Their blood is too sweet, I suppose.

I'm alone right now, except for Buckley. There are some I can call, but I don't feel like talking to them. I feel like talking to someone who knows how it feels to slide under the haze of the lorazepam pollution and not feel the guiltiness that should come hand in hand with how often I feel I need to slide one into my mouth.

The job is making things worse. No routine, no set sleep schedule so I feel like I'm high when I'm at home, and part of the real world when I'm outside.

I thought I was getting better. You know? Getting away from somewhere, setting back up in a 'real' life, fighting my moods, and the stupid highs and lows, my impossible thoughts and aruments about existentialism and my place in the world.

Like water going down the drain, I wonder what happens when we shut off the tap.
Won't someone help me hold this flashlight?

Labels: Gish, how not to be an idiot, lorazepam, Matthew Good, neurotic, underwater

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

once I was invisible for all the world to see
During one of the numerous bouts of insomnia, I caught this 'documentary' (more commonly referred to as a Mockumentary but I dislike the word for whatever reason) about a fictional character called Guy Terrifico. It was great. Hands down, fabulous. The cinematography was amazing, it felt like I really was watching old video clips from the 1970's. I love the feeling of authentic, even when it's not. If you want to catch the movie, it's called The Life and Hard Times of Guy Terrifico. You'll love it, it wil make you laugh....and remind you of how pretty Kris Kristofferson used to be.
Mr. Terrifico...

turns out to be some talented pretty boy from Halifax, Matt Murphy (in real life). He's become part of a new band called City Field, which is pretty good if you ever happen to be around to catch a show. Fun times.

Ok, so the painting of the kitchen is not going very well. I'm too short (yes, even I am too short for some things), and the idea of perching on the edge of a counter trying to get behind my weird kitchen cabinets, doesn't really appeal to me. So for now, I live in a half painted kitchen the colour of Marigolds. I can deal, there are worse things right? Like melting ice caps and Global Warming....

Eventually, I'm going to get pissed off and procure a credit card so I can discover iTunes like every other normal person on this planet. Just so I can get full Twilight Singers albums. Does no one else listen to these guys??? They're amazing. GO forth and Google, I say.

I've taken to drinking decaf coffee in an attempt to cut out caffiene so that I'm wired for only part of the day, as opposed to the entire 24 hours. I have gotten more sleep (god bless pharmacology) and my bed has become a haven, once again. Plumped up pillows, and soft weightless sheets. A nest that I settle into, when I am finally ready to slip underwater.

Like now. Let's go for a swim, you and I...

The Conversation - The Twilight Singers

Labels: Guy Terrifico, home improvement, Kris Kristofferson, Twilight Singers, underwater