I’m a fairly pale, delicate-skinned, single girl with a finely-tuned sense of the ridiculous. I happen to live in a loft with no air conditioning and one window, sans bug screen. It’s been…how you say in my language…HOT over the last couple of days. So of course, I’ve had the window open at night to encourage some air circulation so that the cats, the litterbox, and I can sleep in relative comfort.

I awoke at 5 a.m. with that incredible, lucid awakeness that can only happen when you’ve been roused unnaturally…and which one later realises was a state of semi-sleep. I was dreaming about…something…something to do with my hands, and my shoulders, and my face. Something…vaguely distressing and repeated and…itchy. OH MY GOD I’M ON ITCH-FIRE!!!

What better prey for a mosquito than a pale, recumbent creature with a few patches of conveniently-exposed, above-the-sheets flesh? And what better mosquito for such reactively itchy, swell-like-a-puffer-fish prey than one compelled to bite a there-should-be-a-law-against-it number of times?

Several fingers. Shoulder (twice). Back. Eyelid. Eyelid? Yes. You’ve got to be kidding me.

I saw the little bastard(ess) shortly after The Incident. She saw me, too, and flew through a wormhole in the space-time continuum. Dammit.

But then…ohoho then…I saw her again. It was an epic battle, which culminated in my STOMPING her but good, and smearing my own blood (courtesy of fingers, shoulder, back, and eyelid (eyelid? yes. you’ve got to be kidding me)) across the floor. I’ve never been so satisfied in wiping up my own blood before, let me tell you.

So if you happen to be downtown in the early afternoon and witness Quasimodo lurching screaming from a building, that’ll be me, driven insane by hallucinations due to the combined torture of the itchy and the lack of sleep.

elementality

two drivellings, a week apart, here together courtesy of the weather.

Thunderperfect. Mine.
The soap ran down the windows
in the force of the torrent.
Mine were clean to the eye, I thought,
but not in truth.

It took an outburst
to show the residue left behind
(a clinging film)
Did it affect my view?

Can't see. Can't focus. Can't think.
Casual office talk of heartbreak-not-mine
that cuts me to the core.

I wish for a film, a skin,
a permeable membrane
to protect me from impingement
...but which would let the missing elements in.

A downpour, and a thunder canon.

* * *

The thunder between us
A cityscape apart; we're blue sparks in the ether
But the rolling sound
travels between, unfurls across.
An aural connection;
We hear it together.

I’ve decided I want to be a traveller in my own city. I want to see everything with fresh eyes. I want to make more art. Stick things to other things. Sketch. Play with paint. Go on adventures, solo or otherwise. Feed my brain with colour and ideas. Read poetry. Create perspective.

Art supply shops do this to me. I’m not an artist by training or design, but the vaguely grubby aisles, the the wet and dry media – gessoes, pastes, powders, inks – the plethora of surfaces – light and heavy and handmade paper, canvas, cold-pressed, varied in weight and tooth – the implements – rollers, awls, brushes, palettes and nibs – it all speaks to me. It feels familiar and foreign; home and far-off lands combined. It speaks of solitude and community both.

I drink it in, but nowadays stop short of playing with any of it. Perhaps because, deep down, I’d like to work with it, and I’m forever dissatisfied with my efforts. Or I’m so overwhelmed at the choice of media that I freeze.

I feel no need to make pretty, empty art (pretty empty?), but I’m paralysed when it comes to embarking on something with meaning to or for me.

Hence my refuge in words…though my fear of the pretty empty and the tragically terrible has kept me from producing anything of substance even in words…if words can be said to have substance.

I think there’s a dichotomy within – creativity (freedom) and structure continually batter at one another and none of us wins.

And so I’ve decided I want to be a traveller in my own city. I want to see everything with fresh eyes…

trucking hell

I'm overhauling a document (no pun intended, as you'll see...), which contains many gems like the following. The editor in me takes a horrified delight in stuff like this, whilst my planner-self and my actual self cringe...for different reasons.

For example, instead of one vehicle with two drivers (one daytime and one night-time), each performing an eight hour workday, time of day restrictions (typically twelve hours) force use of a second vehicle because 16 hours worth of work cannot be accomplished in 12 hours because of time taken loading and unloading products.

It is of such things as this that my work-days are currently made. In a cube farm, no less. Laugh? Cry? Have a quiet seizure? I've really got to get around to figuring out what I want to be when I grow up. I wonder how many more years I'll spend saying that to myself...

serendipity

I made the usual mundane trundle up to my tobacconist to buy cigs. Weird to say I have a tobacconist (whose name, I’m ashamed to admit, I’ve forgotten). Guess I must be a grown-up, huh. He was there, as always, but there was an unknown woman helping him behind the counter. “She’s a mixed-media artist,” he said. “Show Sophia your work.” She pulled out an expensive artsy magazine with which I’m familiar (“I know this mag. Very well.” “See?” she said to him), and showed me an article based on her latest project. She was apparently the cover last issue.

So we got to talking about collage, and carving our own rubber stamps, and painting, and inspiration versus darker moments of being completely overwhelmed and putting it all away. Finding structure in other things, like knitting, or, in her case, crochet. “See?” she said to him. “She knows. She knows.” Common haunts, common acquaintances, common interests.

She invited me to join her artist trading card group. I'm almost to the point where I just might.

best work e-mail exchange in forever

Manager: u there?

Me: yes.

Manager: Manager at college street entrance offering to buy soft serve ice cream from truck. any interest?

Me: hang on...we'll do up a memo... (i.e. hold tight)

Me: 2 say, yes please! 4 awol. should we come down?

Manager: Manager at college street entrance doesn't deliver.

And so her mind came unto her and said, “Why art thou low, spirit?”
Her spirit replied, “A host of tangibles and a gross of intangibles* doth plague me, and alas, if there be means of smiting these great and terrible daemons, I know them not.”
Her mind declared, “For each Thing that troubles thee, I shall attach a balloon replete with helium to thee, and thou shalt be carried aloft by conscious construction. Inhale not great quantities of the precious helium, for thine voice shalt be rendered funny, and thy subsequent plummet to earth a thing of legend. In time, spirit, thou shalt lift thine own self under thine own power. For now, let’s go with the balloon-thing.”

*equivalent weight in metric fucktonnes yet to be calculated

conversions--the new math

I love Mel for so many reasons. Here is but one of them (stemming from a conversation re: metric fucktonnes):

"A metric fuckgram is equivalent to the weight of one cubic centimetre of holy shit."

losses

...and in the midst of all my navel-gazing, I am alive.

So sorry, Ms. J, about your sudden loss today, and other Ms. J, to hear about Zaidy.

x

Igor not here

Change in the air. Masks coming off, others going on. New understandings of myself, coupled with a slow integration for once. I’m sad about it, in a way, but in the end it’s better for me. Why would I miss things that keep me weak? The basement-child romanticism is fading…leaving behind only the basement-child, but with a clearer view of the piles of ancient detritus needing my attention. It’s likely not possible to clear them all away—can any of us ever do that?—but at least there’ll be some breathing space. I spend far too much time in the attic (attic-child?), wishing the rest of my house didn’t exist. Am I past the point of being able to inhabit the rooms I’ve never seen? I don’t even know if they’re furnished—and with what, if they are.

***

Waiting for the bus yesterday, an 8-y-o boy declared: “Igor not here. Igor mind him own business.” “You’re lying,” his mother replied. “Sorry, master.” Igor repeated him lines several times before I realised him rehearsing for a play.

I tried to look it up online today, to figure out what play it was—and Google tells me it’s Igor Stravinsky’s birthday. I hope him have a happy birthday, even though him dead.

…and Sophia? Sophia not here. Sophia mind him own business. Sorry, master.

sadly accurate--but fantastic all the same

I love me a good turn of phrase. Today's, courtesy of a co-worker, commenting on yours truly:

"You are a cloud in a field of silver linings."

Gorgeously, terribly true.

freedom

“spider, let me go,” I said.
she spun me ’round with scarlet thread.
I thought it would disintegrate
and thus I settled down to wait.

as time went on, she spun more strands;
I lay quiescent in her hands.
surely, now, I thought they must
begin to break down into dust.

but still the spider added more;
I rested on her parlour floor,
hoping she’d seek other prey
--the bonds would break; I’d walk away.

ensnared in her nightmarish web
my confidence began to ebb.
remaining there was mother’s milk
as still she ’broidered spider-silk.

I’d thought my freedom worth the cost,
but now believed that all was lost
and so I let her poison me
with bitterness and lethargy.

I barely moved, so sure I’d fall
still held in greedy spider’s thrall.
half-dead, I stirred, then stumbled; rose
encased in clinging spider’s-clothes.

with ev’ry trembling lurch I made
loose threads pulled free; the spider swayed,
unable to spin fast enough
to keep me robed in silken stuff.

with all my will, I fought my plight,
began to see the spider’s might
lay in my studied apathy
--which let her keep ahold of me.

and on the silent battle raged;
the spider could not be assuaged
but finally, with strands undone,
I stood alone, the battle won.

I fought with body, heart, and mind
and left the spider’s lair behind.
a man, unlike a hapless fly
can throw a spider’s plans awry.

if you, like me, become encased
in clinging, choking spider-lace
take heart, and shift, and you will see
that, in time, you too will be free.

two worlds collide

With no sense of self-preservation, I approached the bride and groom standing outside their house in the twilight. “I’m just a tipsy stranger on the street, but I was wondering if I could read you something to celebrate your wedding day.” Right away, I knew it was bad. When strangers approached me on my wedding day—several did—I was charmed. I made the foolish assumption that these two people I didn’t know would have the same sentiment about these things. But they were simply two harsh, ugly people in fancy clothes, who brushed me off, mocked me, and ‘what-the-fucked’ at one another as I walked away.

I was shaking. It was my own fault for imposing myself on their day. It would’ve been a long, taxing one, and the last thing they were interested in was some decidedly naïve wingnut soliloquising them when they could be off fucking somewhere.

I approached, was rebuffed, and tried to rationalise with myself about it. It upset me more than it should have. I fought to keep from crying, and felt humiliated and angry. Was it my fault, or was it theirs, or somewhere in-between?

***
earlier that same day...

The little girl (about 7 or so) arrived at the intersection of two footpaths ahead of her parents. Though there was no sun, she pointedly shaded her eyes and tracked my approach. As usual, all I could think was how I was setting such a bad example by smoking. I started to pass her. Eyes still shaded, she tilted her head up to look up—waaaay up—at me, and declaimed, “HI!!” I responded in kind as her parents laughed in half-surprise, half-indulgence. As I carried on, buoyed by the happy laughter at my back, I bemusedly tried to recall if I’d ever been that confident as a child.

ninety-eight percent

Ninety-eight percent of human misery lies in anticipation.

I have no idea who originally said this, but dad used to say it all the time. And it's true. How much of our lives do we spend worrying about things that never come to pass, or that are nowhere near as terrible as we imagine they'll be?

I'm certainly guilty of this. I'm a total drama queen, creating endless horror movies in my head over things that really aren't as big a deal as I lead myself to believe. There's an element of prudence in thinking ahead, sure, but why do we make ourselves miserable about things that are beyond our control, or, when we step back from them, not nearly so awful as they seem when we allow ourselves to remain immersed in them? Wallow in them, even.

And yet I derive endless distraction from this unhealthy habit of distortion. Do I actually enjoy making myself feel rotten?

I'd like to challenge myself to spend more time sitting with what is, the good and the bad, and less time projecting myself into imagined futures where everything's falling down around my ears. Yes, that may happen, but there's an equal chance that things will turn out just fine.

We do have some power to create what we expect--like that other old chestnut: whether you think you can or think you can't, you're right.

And so I expect that my life will be fucking fabulous. I will make it so.

bollocksing

Sometimes there are no words, but there's a desire to reach out all the same. I'm a beacon, I'm the moth, battering my wings against the porch light.

the seven deadlies

I filled this out a few years ago on my other blog--and had forgotten how interesting it is. So I thought I'd do it again. Fascinating to see which of my answers have shifted, and which have stayed the same.

Wrath
1. Who did you last get angry with?
myself

2. What is your weapon of choice?
a) words b) steel-toed boots

3. Would you hit a member of the opposite sex?
Depending on the situation (i.e. self-defence, or an impassioned request), yes.

4. How about of the same sex?
Same as above.

5. Who was the last person who got really angry at you?
my brother, as far as I know…

6. What is your pet peeve?
SUVs…and improper word use

Sloth
1. What is one thing you're supposed to do daily that you haven't done in a long time?
Floss.

2. What is the latest you've ever woken up?
3 p.m., if I remember right - but that was after going to bed post-sunrise.

3. Name a person you've been meaning to contact, but haven't?
my arch-nemesis

4. What is the last lame excuse you made?
I've got an errand to run, so I'll see you later (unspoken subtext being: ...and it means I don't have to suffer walking down the street in your company).

5. Have you ever watched an infomercial all the way through?
Only short ones. My hands-down favourite is the slap chopper.

6. When was the last time you got in a good workout?
Depends on what constitutes a “workout”. :) If we're talking in the traditional, exercisey sense, it's been years.

7. How many times did you hit the snooze button on your alarm clock today?
3 or 4…too sleepy to remember

Gluttony
1. What is your overpriced yuppie beverage of choice?
cinnamon dolce lattes.

2. Meat eater?
Have been known as one.

3. What is the greatest amount of alcohol you've had in one sitting/outing/event?
Nine pints on a pub run in 1994. The only time I’ve ever actually blacked out, and the only time I’ve woken up still drunk. I couldn't find my flat key, dissolved in tears and was taken in by another flat. I discovered the next day the key was in my pocket—which I'd frantically checked about 10 times.

4. Have you ever used a professional diet company?
No.

5. Do you have an issue with your weight?
No - more with my fitness.

6. Do you prefer sweets, salty foods, or spicy foods?
Savoury, actually.

7. Have you ever looked at a small house pet or child and thought lunch?
Maaaaybe...but more from a cuteness perspective over hunger.

Lust
1. How many people have you seen naked (not counting movies/family)?
Hmmmm. In person? Over 30 (this is counting streakers at parties and such).

2. How many people have seen YOU naked (not counting physicians/family)?
Somewhere between 25 & 30.

3. Have you ever caught yourself staring at the chest/crotch of a member of the opposite gender during a normal conversation?
Maybe once or twice.

4. Have you "done it"?
Darling, I have done many things. “It” may certainly have been one of them.

5. What is your favourite body part on a person of your gender of choice?
Women's torsos, and men's chests and arms…though there’s also that *great* line of skin on guys that runs from the top of their hip and into their trousers…

6. Have you ever been propositioned by a prostitute?
Nope…but I’ve been propositioned by people that think I’m one, thanks to the n’hood I live in. C’mon, buddy—I’m wearing polar fleece, for heckins’ sake.

7. Have you ever had to get tested for an STD or pregnancy?
Yes.

Greed
1. How many credit cards do you own?
One.

2. What's your guilty pleasure store?
Indigo.

3. If you had $1 million, what would you do with it?
Pay off student loans, look after my mum, and invest the rest.

4. Would you rather be rich, or famous?
Rich - hands down.

5. Would you accept a boring job if it meant you would make megabucks?
Perhaps for a while, but I'd have to quit eventually, 'cos I'd go mad.

6. Have you ever stolen anything?
Yes. From shops as a yearning-to-be-bad teenager, and perhaps a few hearts.

7. How many MP3s are on your hard drive?
A couple of thou. and counting, ‘cos I’m laaaaazy…perhaps this q should have been cross-referenced to ‘sloth’.

Pride
1. What's one thing you have done that you're most proud of?
Baring all.

2. What one thing have you done that your parents are most proud of?
Getting a 2nd uni. degree.

3. What thing would you like to accomplish in your life?
So many things, so little time. Learn to speak another language with fluency, rather than squeaking by on vocab alone.

4. Do you get annoyed by coming in second place?
Depends on what it's second place for. If it's something I'm good at, then yes.

5. Have you ever entered a contest of skill, knowing you were of much higher skill than all the other competitors?
No.

6. Have you ever cheated on something to get a higher score?
Yes, but not on anything that would have cheated another out of their rightful laurels. Usually on computer games and such, to get somewhere that’s been damnably out of reach for far too long, despite my best efforts.

7. What did you do today that you're proud of?
Summed up the emperor's lack of clothing with articulate flair.

Envy
1. What item (or person) of your friends’ would you most want to have for your own?
Wow. This is a toughie. I can think of no attached anyone I would want to have—totally non-negotiable. Thingwise…Mel’s print of the girl in the tree.

2. Who would you want to go on "Trading Spaces" with?
Kaffe Fassett.

3. If you could be anyone else in the world, who would it be?
That's a tough one, not knowing what darknesses folks may have. I'm not going to answer, because I've spent several minutes thinking about it and am at a loss.

4. Have you ever been cheated on?
Yes.

5. Have you ever wished you had a physical feature different from your own?
You know, I did when I was younger (either violet or green eyes, instead of blue-grey, wanting to be taller [yes, really], wanting less problematic skin), but now, I'm not so sure. I just want to be fitter - and if I got off my arse, that could be a reality.

6. What inborn trait do you see in others that you wish you had for yourself?
Patience with stupid questions like this one.

thanks for coming out

"At this time I would also like to formally thank Sophia Rosalind for her contribution as the Senior Issues Advisor for P&P Division during the fall to early spring. Her attention to detail, her knowledge of and passion for many P&P issues were an asset to the team during a busy time. Personally, I particularly appreciated the sense of humour she brought to lighten up my mood on many an early morning!"

pruning

I removed a dead tree from my bedroom last night.

My neighbour knocked on the door back in January or February. “Are you good with plants?” he asked. I warily responded that I had been known to keep them alive. “I just put a sick lime tree in the garbage—we’re tired of caring for it—but it’s so cold outside and I feel terrible about letting it freeze to death.”

I already knew the fate of said sickly tree (given my paltry reserves of energy), but I weakly agreed to take it in (given my paltry reserves of energy), complete with a bottle of spray for scale, which was its dire affliction. I religiously washed down the branches and remaining leaves for about a week before I decided to move it out of my narrow entranceway and into my bedroom…where it subsequently languished and died under my splendid inattention.

I got around to sweeping up the fallen leaves in mid-March.

Since then, I’ve been angling myself around its skeletal presence as I navigate my bedroom, thinking, “I really should get around to chucking this thing.” Apathy and embarrassment kept me from doing so for far, far too long.

Last night, I finally braced myself, hoisted the gargantuan urn, and, with its spindly occupant stabbing and scratching at me all the way, wrestled it to the garbage room and interred it in the giant skip housed therein.

This morning, I caught myself ducking around a non-existent wraithtree out of habit. Sometimes even positive change needs time for adjustment.

While in some ways it was a small action, it felt huge to me. I removed a dead tree from my bedroom last night.

the curious task of repelling a cat

Sometimes, occasion dictates that you must walk away from a cat--you might be going to the corner store, or the train station, or it might be a cat that you greeted on the sidewalk. Though it's sorely tempting, you must not look back as you walk away from the cat. Ever. Even if it's just to sneak a glance and see where the cat is in relation to yourself. The cat will take any glance--friendly, hostile, indifferent--as an invitation to follow. You might, in a fit of well-meaning, or later in a fit of exasperation, attempt to lecture the cat, and encourage it to stay where it is. You might even lead the cat back to that spot. All will be in vain. The cat will continue to follow, because you've paid attention to it. The type of attention doesn't matter--any attention at all will cause the cat to follow.

The only thing that will stop a cat from following you is ignoring it. For a while, it might trail behind you--it might feel as though you will never shake the cat--but provided you keep your gaze firmly ahead of you, it will eventually lose interest. This may take a long time, but it's possible to do--provided you can keep your eyes off the cat.

Look! Up in the sky!

It's a bird! It's a plane! It's...wow. I think it's the lung I just hacked up.

apparently it *is* rocket science...

Found this online, which, while ostensibly about a particular scientific concept, fits life at this moment with comical beauty:

to sleep, perchance to not-think

Am doing relatively well, overall, what with knitting pasties, hanging with Mellificent, and fighting a cold, but I'm tired of thinking. My brain is weary. Sadly, 8:30 seems terribly early for bed. Heh...tea and pornography, anyone? Oh, right. I don't have any of option 2 floating around in my monk-level-chaste apartment. Yarn porn it is, then.

*snorfle*

Gah. Am suddenly snorty with cold. *refrains from wiping nose on sleeve*

musings

My brother and I split the cost of dinner. He paid with his credit card; I gave him $60--all the cash I had. Mum offered to loan me $5 so I could get a coffee en route to work tomorrow, freeing me up to hit the bank later in the day; I said I'd pay her back the next time I saw her. My brother started telling mum that she should never give either of us money; that we didn't need it, and that neither he nor I would ever ask her for money. I protested that we loaned small amounts like this back and forth all the time. He looked directly at me and said "You have more money than she does," as though I'd never actually pay her back and my borrowing $5 for the sake of convenience was reprehensible. At that point, it didn't matter that he had a chip on his shoulder. I felt about an inch high, and about to burst into tears. I took the money back out of my wallet, and as I let it float back onto the table, declaring that I was going to the bank, he accused me of being spiteful. I left. I didn't know what else to say, since he'd declared this wasn't the time to talk about this.

I'm trying really hard to figure out what I could have done differently, short of not borrowing $5 from mum in the first place, which really didn't feel unreasonable to me. We all have issues, but why does it have to end up being so poisonous, with me spiralling into feeling like a shitty excuse for a human being, and my brother feeling self-righteous and unable to see that maybe he's channelling his anger at bigger issues into a tiny thing?

I feel as though we're never going to be able to connect. This was such a little thing in the grand scheme of things, and yet I don't know if I'll ever feel able to address it with him. Short of completely sorting my life out, becoming financially solvent and changing my personality so I don't withdraw/obsess/get depressed, I don't know if there's anything I can do to be good enough in his eyes.

I wish I could let it roll off my back, but I can't.

hmh...so much for dire prophecies of angst.

I'm actually feeling pretty good...though I've likely cursed myself by saying so.

Work's been rather productive, though purely from the perspective of self-reflection. You can do a whole lotta navel-gazing with 8 hours unsullied by actual things to do. That said, I'd dearly love to do a whole lotta under-desk sleeping right about now. But I will not. I mean, if I did, I'd miss cake at 3 p.m. And I'm all about cake.

My design-m'own-sweater is progressing...though, I hasten to add, not at work--even I have limits.

Have declared my complete lack of interest in being a comet, and am feeling peaceful about that.

After tearing apart just about every as-yet-unpacked box in my place last night, I sat under my computer desk and chewed on my arm at my failure to find my Oblivion discs. After reading Living in Oblivion in its entirety, I'm jonesing for a serious hit of game. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is. Now then...do I pick up where I left off with an old character, or start a new one? Hmmm. Best start thinking of names now, since it takes me a painfully long time, made even more painful when I'm torn between wanting to play and wanting to come up with something good and staring at the screen. But if I'm going to spend potentially hundreds of hours with whoever-it-is, then dammit, a Name They Shall Have (tm).

A pair of blue sneakers passed me on the sidewalk last night, and strangely, they made me smile.

Impending events: Drunken Knitters on Friday (hooray!), and the Balloonacy Cabaret on Saturday with my superintendent and his girlfriend (hooray!).

So the angst may well rear its head, but right now, I'm muddling along in good spirits. How long has it been since I've been able to say that?? Go me.

my life is a dark pit of darkness

I can feel my hormones asserting themselves for their occasional orgy of the insane. I will fight to remain logical—fight as hard as I can—but I can feel the paranoia sneaking in. And the despair. Oh, the despair. Dark pit of darkness, indeed. Anne Gwish knew well of what she spoke. It’s like watching a black tide rising around me, closing above my head, and while I’m aware of it, it’s hard—so hard—to refuse that negativity.

In a way, it’s akin to the sensation of being drunk—my observer-mind (that little core piece of you that remains compos mentis throughout) is there and functioning, but can’t assert itself enough to really affect what’s going on. At least this time I feel a little more together—but still. There’s a lot to overwhelm me if I let it. Dammit. I do. not. want. to let it. In fact, perhaps I'll experiment and turn it on itself and see what happens...

Another analogy that’s just come to me is that of a prisoner (my rational mind) in a cell, guarded by a raging, paranoid fundamentalist (my emotions, hopped up on a deadly hormonal/biochemical cocktail). It’s well-nigh impossible to reason with it; it parses every nuance of every exchange, every thought (which I’m wont to do anyway), but logic just does not factor into the equation.

So if anyone has an exchange with a more-manic-than-usual, raving lunatic wearing my guise, please excuse me as best you can.

I’ll see you on the other side.

here I am! ...kinda

Still working on getting a complete pic, but here's a teaser fo' yiz'. Thanks Tim!



p.s. ...is it just me, or does my left eye (on yr right) look ever-so-slightly insane? Thinks to self in inside voice, see? I really am half-mad...

vectors

These are only half-formed thoughts, but I’m pensive enough about them that I thought they were worth committing to the ether.

I’m different from your average person (whatever that means). I mean, yes, we’re all unique, but I do believe that, in our outward presentation at least, some of us are more unique than others, whether by accident or design.

Maybe it’s like vectors: We have common vectors—shared points of personality, belief, behaviour, interest, pop culture norms, etc.—but some of us share more of those common vectors than others. And some of us join up with only a few of the more common ones, but have whole separate constellations of vectors besides, that reach off into space, completely apart from the familiar points. We’ll all have our own vectors, of course, but maybe some of us have more than others.

Sometimes I think I have whole solar systems that stand alone. I despaired—despair, sometimes—of ever finding anyone whose vectors overlap sufficiently with my own…or whose are even visible from my own constellation with a telescope...or who’s able to see enough of mine via their own telescope to actually see me.

…but this doesn’t mean that I should limit myself & just go with someone because they are, for a time, all that’s there. That’s where I was at earlier this year. Despair can make us do stupid, damaging things. I was in danger of gracing someone with my presence who, when it comes down to it, has little if any interest in me, in my mind, my feelings, or my life. To them, I’m nothing but a shooting star with a nice tail that they still are firmly confident that they can catch. They can’t and don’t want to see that I’m much more than a sparkly comet.

And yet I was considering the pretence of being nothing more than a chunk of rock, burning out and disintegrating, because my despair at being recognised as anything more was that great, that all-encompassing.

Thanks to some deeply welcome perspective from a few sources, I’m now spreading out again into my vectors, inhabiting more of my constellations, contemplating the exploration of parts of my star systems that, until now, I’ve ignored. And recognising, once again, the vectors that I do share with others out there in the universe, whether they’re physically here or out there in the ether.

Ultimately, this is a personal equation to which I hold the ultimate solution (insofar as there is one!), but I’m so grateful for those that have contributed—and do contribute—to the calculations.

Thank you, from the ends of my earth.

why I LOVE my city

Decided that, as a single nerd-girl on a Sat night, I should go to Sonic Boom and buy CDs. Which I did--a Smaug-sized haul, encompassing everything from Pure and the Northern Pikes to LL Cool J and Whodini.

En route to Spadina, eager to get home and bliss out down memory lane, I encountered a crowd on the sidewalk, and assumed it was a bizarrely disorganised queue for a new club...until I discovered they were listening to a band...performing from the back of a Budget cube van.

I was going to listen for a bit then wander on, but ultimately I spent about an hour and a half in the chilly evening, mesmerised, delighted, and dancing with a crowd of strangers to the Calrizians and the Slaxx (the former surf, and the latter bluesy rock). It was a priceless, priceless piece of wonderfulness, just watching people looking shocked, walking up and peering in to discover there actually was a drummer back there, then grinning, stopping, listening, whipping out camera phones, dancing, talking to strangers about how cool this was...drivers going by on Bloor, slowing down, rolling down windows, rubbernecking, honking, and driving away cheering. Cyclists pulling up, people running down the street to see if it really, really was happening like someone had said...

One of the drummers told me they'd rented the van for something else, then decided to do this at midnight last night, on a whim. They're playing a venue next week somewhere, and somewhere else the week after that. I do believe I may just go.

After the show, I asked if they had any openings for groupies.

Sometimes, I love this city so very, very much. Gorgeous, gorgeous night.

bombshellified

My hair is now teh sex...or people wish it was, at least. I know it's 4 a.m. and that I live in an unusual neighbourhood and all, but 3 cars pulling over to await my approach in a 2-block span is a new record.

Richard did a great job, but he took off a lot. I trust him implicitly, and it's still long(ish), but I'm kinda afraid that once the straight blow-dry is overcome by the rampant curliness to follow, I'll end up looking like Einstein. On the bright side, pre-Raphaelite ringlets, here I come! I'm all about the romantical pre-Raphaelite thing.

Had a great night with Beth and Tim, talking, music-ing and philosophising. Using his patented sneak-attack camera approach, Tim managed to get a couple of pix of yours truly which even I think are kinda cute. Good job, man.

hair today, gone tomorrow...

Execrable pun. I find myself quasi-unexpectedly hurtling towards a haircut. Hurtling.

Hair appointments usually unfold like this with me:
Self: Hmmm. I should get a haircut soon.
Self, 3 months later: Hmmm. I should get a haircut soon.
Self, 5 months later: Hmmm. I should get a haircut soon.
Self, 6 months later: Hi, Richard? I'm thinking I should come and see you sometime soon...
Self, 7 months later: Hey Richard--nice to see you. How many inches do we gotta hack off this time? (I should state here that Richard is very good, and would never do something so barbaric as "hack").

So this time, I finally got around to calling him yesterday after months of procrastination...and he called me back thismorningandI'mgoingtonightaieeeeeeeeee.

Haven't had time to mentally adjust to the idea. Must practice: Hi Richard--how's it going? Yeah, a lot's happened since I saw you last summer. So...how many inches do we gotta hack off this time...?

lyrics girl makes a discovery

It's her own blood that's much too dangerous--not her love.

Sometimes we hear what we need to at the time.

srsly...there's a lot with which to have fun

Feels like karmaaaaaaa...
This is what I was just doing in my living room...insofar as one can crowdsurf solo, that is. Clint Poppie, I am still in complete adoration of your bullhorn-nature, even 15 years later.
I've got to get me out to another festival sometime. Preferably overseas. And now that my adrenaline's kicked into high gear, time to hit the sack with a load of books and a bullhorn with which to gentle myself to sleep.

I was reading my old blog from 2001-2005 tonight, and was pretty impressed with some of my turns of phrase, if I do say so myself. Though I was also kinda sad to see some of the same questions about feeling blocked coming up over and over again. I've really, really gotta do something about that.

But it made me realise that I'd like to try and get back into posting little inanities, tale-telling about weird life-incidents (more snippets of conversation, encounters with random strangers, etc.). Which means I've gotta get out more.
srsly.

it's as funny as the devil...which is, frankly, pretty funny

This post contains feathers. Right here.
The beginning begins.
No end in sight.
I'm terrified, exhilarated, and looking forward...with trepidation. Roller coaster indeed.

There is world enough, and time.

total 360!

Snippet of conversation overheard between 2 co-workers:

"...if you could have seen him when he was 17 compared to now? --Total 360. He's turned his life around."

Heh--so far around, it would seem, that "he" is still up to his old tricks.

Does my language snobbery make me a bad person? At the very least, it's a source of amusement (when it's not making me bang my head against the keyboard...).

Marley and Robertson Davies

I met a pug named Marley last week. He was a happy guy, with that fantastic, lolling, curly-edged tongue characteristic of his breed. As I scratched his chest, he leaned against me, looking skyward, tongue still lolling. I scratched his ears, and his tongue bobbed from side to side like a metronome.

It's time to really acknowledge and record all these little delights.

"Happiness is always a by-product. It is probably a matter of temperament, and for anything I know it may be glandular. But it is not something that can be demanded from life, and if you are not happy you had better stop worrying about it and see what treasures you can pluck from your own brand of unhappiness." - Robertson Davies