Now that I am in my right mind, I can write an ordinary sort of post and not that nonsense of the last one. But since I never edit posts...it's up to me to leave it up. Punishment for my own indulgence in silly, silly affairs of the heart that I should have grown out of a long, long time ago.

As for the subject line, I shouldn't say soon. It could be long time in the making and god knows I change my mind often enough. But keep your eyes peeled on this page. Something is going to show up eventually and it's going to be kickass. I promise.

Just wanted to pop over here really quick and update (like I used to, daily). I have a guilty confession to make. I spent the entire day on the internet. And I mean, since I woke up until I am about to log off to try to sleep because I need to be up by 5:30.

Nuts, I know. Crazy, hells yeah. But I've been pretty absent from the internet for a few days and I like to keep in touch with everyone and everything, so I sat down for a serious session today. Got a lot done, too. Some writing. Photo editing. Made up a photobook to get printed at some point. Mostly when I feel less guilty for blowing almost 300 dollars at Amazon.com the other day, and then another 100 at Sephora.com today. But it's been awhile since I've indulged (Ireland doesn't count in this equation as I mostly bought stuff for other people). So new makeup and the entire series of The Wire will be arriving for me soon.

I wish I could say that I am more excited about the dvds, but in all honesty...I wish I had the television with which to see them better with. Insurance still hasn't gotten around to figuring out my claim and so I watch everything on my laptop. Which is fine. But...I kinda wanted to watch The Wire on a big screen.

Other news: I'm going to figure out how to make my own stretchers and stretch my own canvas if it kills me. I'm not the most dexterous person when it comes to assembling wooden things, but I'm determined. If the hardware store was open today, I would have had some kind of result by now, but nope. Must wait for more time off, even though technically I was working this weekend. I have more canvas ready to be stretched/gesso-ed bought from the hardware store the other day, so it's all in motion.

A photo of my feet, relaxing at the cliff's edge on one of the Aran Islands in Ireland.


Time for sleep. It's midnight here. I'm kind of jumpy, because I keep waiting for my beeper to go off. But I'll try for sleep in any case. I am totally liking where I am right now. The inspiration is pouring in for words, colour and photo clicks.

Stay with me, baby. I'll wake you when the telephone rings. It's all just nonsense, anyway.
Love,
Gish.

Labels: inspiration, painting, photography, sleep, work, writing

December 13, 2008. 2:00 p.m.
get the wheel, lets go for a ride...
Jesus Fucking Christ. I love going to places. Staying in one spot for too long drives me a little batty. But the getting to the plane, being in the plane also drives me a little nuts. Sartre was totally spot on: Hell is other people.

Let me repeat: Hell IS other people.

No one has any consideration for anyone else. They are all just yackity yack at you no matter how engrossed you appear to be in your book. They listen to music (which in istelf is completely fine) but with ear phones that seem to be broadcasting the music to the rest of the plane rather than the person they are actually plugged in to.

I wasn't planning on pulling out my iPod to listen to music during the shorter flights because I've been totally lost in A Dull Roar by Henry Rollins (who, by the way totally gets what it is like to want to be alone) but the guy in the NEXT aisle over is listening to his iPod at some insane volume on the worst headphones, ear buds whatever...they are obviously not doing the trick. And I think it's old ACDC he's listening to. Great, the trailer trash music follows me everywhere.

go ahead, I said....erase
So, I'm sitting here, typing up a new entry on my laptop, trying to drown out the smells and noises of the people surrounding me. I guess I've been in the North too long, living it up on my own with too much relish, because last night I went into a bar to get a G&T and got a little twitchy for all the people in the place. All of them loaded, leering and loud. That didn't stop me from snorkeling down 4 drinks in 45 minutes before tottering out, but it wasn't the most enjoyable experience. I went back to the hotel room, listened to music, read and surfed the net.

I can see the airline ladies serving food ahead of me, and pouring drinks. They actually have wine. I wonder if I will have any. I don't think so. I am more hungry than anything else. It's a long plane ride (for me, anyway) of three hours, so maybe a bit of wine will help me conk out for a bit. Interesting to see my thought processes, isn't it?

Food time.

9:03 p.m.
are you still there? Yeah, I'm here
In Toronto. At a Perkin's restaurant next to the hotel I'm staying at. They lost my bag, which I expected. I don't know why. I just presumed that there would be an issue. Any time I am not dragging my luggage off a conveyor belt at each airport I ghost through, I just presume no one else will do it for me. And apparently I was right (this time). Luckily, I am used to travelling somewhat lightly, and packed everything essential in my backpack which comes on with me. Camera, laptop, sleeping clothes.

December 14, 2008. 9:08 a.m.
On a small plane to Sudbury, Ontario. Met up with Pam, a friend of mine from a few years ago. We keep in touch but so weird to run into one another just out of the blue. Took a photo. Will post later.

Bag found. All harmony restored to present state. Looking forward to landing and getting a coffee and having a long cigarette. This is only an hour long flight. Had one last night as well from Ottawa to Toronto. Watched a small part of The Dark Knight. I have a little thing for Heath Ledger. But we landed too quickly for me to get too far into the movie. Will have to pick it up at some point.

Almost 'home'. Where is home exactly...?

December 18, 2008. 10:32 p.m.
Updating journals. Alone in the house in Northern Ontario. Parents have gone to pick up one of the nephews in London. The christmas lights are on, the house must look like a beacon of sorts. The northern ontario winter is in full bloom and the snow falls while I'm outside smoking. Buckley and Marble in some sort of glory, with the treats I hand out and Beebs sleep beside me at night. I wish they were packable so I could bring them with me wherever I go.

Small road trip planned for tomorrow. Just me, music and the road. Black ribbons of it rising up in front of me. My mascaraed eyes and plumes of cigarette smoke.

Can you picture it, beauties?

Get the Wheel - Greg Dulli
The Lure Would Prove to Be too Much - The Twilight Singers

Labels: 'North', music, Northern Ontario, Nunavut, packing, pets, The Twilight Singers, travelling, Twilight Singers, writing

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 this urge to write. But my story pool is dry. Rather, it's not dry but there aren't any story-fishes swimming around in it. None I want to catch, anyway.

I go outside and smoke furious cigarettes, kicking at the crusted snow gathered at the bottom of my office building's stairs. I've watched so many episodes of The Office that I think I've now forced myself to like it. Or appreciate it, in any case.

I'm eating my way through all of the new books that I've ordered and I can never seem to remember if I had salted my plate when I'm eating lunch or dinner. I have to claw my way out of bed these days, the bed itself feeling like it's some sort of black hole that I fall into every night. The dreams are the shroudy-things that I try to avoid like jelly fish, but they get me anyway. Stinging, wrapped around my neck...and no vinegar in sight. Ah, well.

At work right now, I'm absolutely furious with myself for not having caught a story-fish. A good one. Because I'm getting up there, and before I know it, I'll be an octogenarian who claims she's a writer when really she hasn't written anything more than a grocery list or this online journal in her entire life.

Nutty, man. Just plain nutty.

Labels: story fish, writing

Labels: photographs, photography, writing

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

Dear Chicago,
There's always something left to say. I type this, my fingers numb from cold. My fingers hitting random keys whilst I try to spell words correctly. If that happens, then maybe this time, you'll get my note.
Do you remember those fiery nights in front of the fireplace, smoke occasionally sputtering from the fire, the light allowing us to see our work. Papers upon paper, scribbles and notes all in the margins. Creased photographs and glowing red bottles of wine. It's ok. I remember enough for the most of us.

words fell like water...

Sometimes, I don't know where these words come from. Are they like that Ryan Adams song you liked so much...just merely words? Could I be reading more importance to them then it's worth?

Right now, I light my cigarettes from burning candles that are meant to be in churches, prayers said for the dead. But I'm here in my cold, little room. With these candles that burn for endless hours, even while I sleep. A cheap glimmering light that is just *there* when I need it to be. So afraid to sleep, and for it to be another day. It just means it's closer to the time I have to go. And we both know how much I love leaving.
Maybe this time will be different.
Love, Gish

Labels: David Usher, Dear Chicago, opinions, pharmacology, relationships, run, running, sleep, travelling, writing

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

I don't think I do well in interviews. Wonderful idea: If only I could hire someone to do an interview in my place, using only my knowledge.

I guess I will have to wait for the invention of the good kinds of robots.

I stubbed my toe the other night. And I also cut off most of my hair. The two are not related. My hair used to be about 15 inches (from my shoulders) long, and I decided that I'm tired of it, want a change, lets pretend I can pull off a short hair cut and voila! a hair cut the stylist *swore* was the perfect cut for my face shape. Think Meg Ryan hair style (You've Got Mail) only not as thin and not as cute. The great thing about hair is that it grows back. (Hopefully).

I never did seem to pull off thin very well. But it's just the way things are in this world.

When I hear the words: snow drops, I think of smooth melting edges of snow. Cold water dripping and birds fluttering around the nearest trees. They cry for things I have no knowledge of.

Its damp outside right now. The snow has melted down a little. Snowman making snow. Buckley leaves little footprints you can follow, although you may look a bit like you're having a seizure because he is always all over the place. He loves it here more than I do.

The trees don't speak to me on this part of the planet. When I do manage to drift off to sleep, I wait for the sounds of raining water, or crashing seas. I always hope for the sound that I can listen to, for the rest of my life. But I haven't heard it yet.

The entire family will be descending upon the city of London (Ontario) for the holidays. It will be loud, there will be many people (on the Greek side) and I will try to fold myself into a dark corner where I will smoke cigarettes and drink champagne. Then, maybe I will rent a cheap motel room and sleep there with the dogs.

I feel the tug of the current and it jerks me down like a shark taking a bite. Topside cigarettes taste the best.

Labels: cold, Gish, Manitoulin Island, melancholy, Northern Ontario, smoking, winter, writing

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

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

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

Then I became progressively more sick as time went on.

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

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



Country Feedback - R.E.M

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

ok, I'm by no means an expert on Star Wars and the culture it has amassed since the 4th movie was released back in '78 (I think) but I do know that I have an issue with the whole balance take on the part of the Jedi in Revenge of the Sith.

Why so hell bent on killing all of the Sith? In order to have a balance, there has to be equally good and bad. Duh. Not that the Sith are any better.

Don't get me wrong, I saw every movie in the theatre (as though that makes a difference, if only to prove how freaking old I am) and had a Princess Lia (sp) doll when I was a kid (way back in '79).

And Obi-wan Kenobi needs to stop crying at Anakin about being the Chosen One. He was...just not in the sense they had presumed.

Labels: drama, theory, we all lose in the end, 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

Dear Chicago,
sleepful nights in a new place, my sheets are the same. A cracked lightbulb and cool evenings spent on the roof like 3rd Rock From The Sun. I feel like rainbow coloured paint inside my head when I'm trying to write, but the cigarette smoke tastes better than it ever has before.

Hewlitt Packard has my laptop hostage so I make sojourns to welcoming internet spots on my way to other more important places like the coffee store.

Listening to Matthew Good's new album is sharp like jagged edges but feels so good at the same time. In a none-hurting kind of way.

Go to go now.
Love,
Gish

Labels: bipolar, blue pills, coffee, cover songs, Daniel Johnston, Matthew Good, we all lose in the end, work, writing

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

Showering was starting to get difficult these days. In the past, I really enjoyed the whole routine of gathering the necessary items I would need in order to slip beneath the spray of slippery warm water, and have time to be alone. I’d select a clean t-shirt and pajama bottoms from the laundry basket of clothes I hadn’t gotten around to putting away, place them on the little upholstered stool at the edge of the bathtub. I’d make sure my yellow, thigh-length robe was hanging on the outside of the bathroom door. Check to make sure the jasmine-scented soap was still in the wire basket hanging from the shower head. Enough shampoo and conditioner for another wash. A brown towel hanging on the towel rack, ready to grab.

I loved the routine of things. The general state of being. My professors used to say I responded well to structure, pressure. But really, it felt like air trapped in a box. A simple thing, a shower…yes? It is. Every day, in nearly every household, thousands of people had their own little routines and took millions of showers, on every street, in every house. They did it unknowingly, just another step in the train of their days. Shit, shower and shave, so to speak. A general state of being.

But every time I went to gather my things, to set the taps running, it was like a tiny needle, moving under my skin. A small pinch. A small hurt. I don’t really think it was the shower itself, the water moving over me in small rivers and lakes was enjoyable, beautiful, moving poetry on my skin. Being there, reading the words of the love letters he had papered the walls with, years before. Yellowed, some of the lines unreadable, condensation long dried, wet, dried and wet again. A thousand times over.

It was those letters, I think. Every time I slipped into the shower, every time I let the water run through my hair and over my skin, I read those letters. I’d read them, standing up in the shower, peeking over the shower curtain, eyes following the lines even when I knew what they read.

When he started pasting them to the walls, I laughed and said they’d never stick. When one fell down, he’d carefully place it back from where it had fallen. I’d laughed and said it was a silly idea, I already knew how much he loved me and I certainly didn’t need to read about it while I washed my hair. He would say nothing, and just smoothed the paper on the wall, his hands running along creases and yellowed paper. So, they stayed there. I left them where they were and read them as I slid the bar of soap from my wrists to my shoulders, hands on myself.

All I remember is how he looked in the moonlight, while he was leaning over me, trying to catch my eye as we moved like two ribbons tangled in the wind. If I closed my eyes, I could see his slim body, white against the black. His ribs making their own shadows in lines with the moonlight sneaking in through the window. I’d watch his chest and how it moved with every gasp. I’d draw tighter around him. Trying to keep him in.

So now, I delayed the whole showering business an hour or so past when I was normally getting wet and wild under hot water. Instead of rising and hopping in, I would slip out of bed, pull on a pair of pajama pants and stand in the kitchen while I waited for my tea to steep. The window in that tiny room is long and thin, it looks out to the space between my house and the neighbors. I’d notice the change in seasons during my five minute tea making sojourn in the kitchen. The mists in early morning would be gathering between the houses, curling in the goldenrod that grew in profusion out there. Steeping tea, I’d watch the sun come into the space and burn the mist away, leaving little droplets of dew on glossy leaves of grass.

Labels: practice, writing

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

Last night, I went to the first concert in a long while. To a venue I hated. Ok, I'll just be upfront because slander isn't slander when it's true. I hate The Drink, now called Cowboy's Ranch. The staff are rude and abrasive, apparently change of ownership or name of venue has not changed that. Simples questions are answered with grunts and seriously, they treat customers like gum on the bottom of a shoe. Cattle to ber herded in.

I can understand they may get a little tired of dealing with a rowdy university crowd night after night, etc but in all honesty...if that's what the issue is, then go into another type of business. Because hard drinking late teens, early 20's kids away from home for the first time...are not ever going to be neat and orderly and polite.

Ugh. So I endured Cowboy's Ranch aka The Drink last night for Interpol. It made me miss the days of The Tea party and Matt Good playing there. Even Thornley when I used to kind of dig their music.

I endured the smell of the people around me (I mean, really people....personal hygiene shouldn't be elective), the worst Gin and Tonic I've ever tasted (and I bought three just to make sure it wasn't a one off thing, nope. All bad). But the band was good. At first a bit flat, but things picked up after awhile. Heard a few old favourites and some new stuff from their recently recorded album. Didn't bother with the camera since the venue is also (surprise, surprise) a bitch when it comes to photography.

I was wearing 4 inch black patent leather platform highheels. They looked so good with my jeans. And made me tall enough to see over everyone so I can squinch my eyes and pretend the bass player on stage was Stuart Chatwood (close resemblance). I shared a soft kiss with some guy standing by a pillar during Leif Erikson, coincidentally also a close resemblance to Stuart Chatwood (I'm really not kidding). Then hobbled out of the venue when the band left the stage after the first encore so I could rest my tired and squished feet. I gave up 50 feet away and took my shoes off to walk barefoot on the concrete.

There is something so feral about walking barefoot on a cool Spring night. Something even more free and romantic about driving barefoot. I grabbed a burger then went home to rest. I fell asleep with the image of those piercing blue eyes searching my face for my intentions.

I wonder what his name was.

Labels: drama, habits, how not to be an idiot, late night, music, neurotic, song, writing

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later, beauties.
G.

Lose You - Pete Yorn

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