The devil made me undo it

Last night, I dreamt I was watching 2 criminals being hung beside each other. One accepted his fate without any fuss. The other one fought like a cat being put into a bathtub of water. He was still struggling against the noose and evading all efforts to be subdued when I woke up.Which leads to the below update.

That feeling of glowing relaxation turned out to be a fake out. Or maybe I was actually relaxed, but my subconscious freaked out from the crazy new feeling and decided to wind me back up. However, however, I fought the law and I sort of won. What I mean to say is, the past 2 weeks have been a Mexican wrestling match between my propensity toward being tense and my desire to feel relaxed. I won't recount the damn details but I think I beat being tense down to a whimper. It's still knotted up somewhere in my small intestine but that will do for now.

I've got to say, I have been enjoying the Christmas season. I've been keeping very busy, mostly making and remaking a certain present about a thousand times but I got that little bugger right finally, today actually and I say Hurrah. That's the last of the presents now. All done, all wrapped and all good. I had some mania yesterday and made a skirt out of nowhere, and it's actually not bad. I'll wear it at Christmas and take a photo in case you are even mildly interested. If you aren't, you can avert your eyes at that point, I'll warn you before hand.

All that's left is a little baking, some packing and then Saturday, the new adventure of an 8 hour road trip with a very active cat will begin. Our cat's new official name is El Diablo. It's suits him very well. We still call him Kitty mostly but officially, his full length name is Prince Diablo Hotdog Zanzibar. I stole part of that from Family Guy. It comes from an episode where Peter takes up writing erotica. He names one of his characters Captain Leroy Hotdog Zanzibar and it is one of the funniest things I have ever heard on TV.

So what else? Well, else-wise, ain't nothing else. Happy holidays hotdogs!

Glowing core of okayness.

Ahhhhh.

That's the sound of me uncoiling my tightly, uh, coiled psyche.

So how has it been, being unemployed, so far? Deeply, profoundly appreciated is one way to put it. Every couple of hours I feel myself un-clench a little more and think, wow, I'm really getting close to relaxed here. It's like getting in a hot bath that somehow, magically, gets more relaxing every few minutes, as if that initial feeling of "aaah, that's nice" keeps happening but makes you one layer more relaxed each time. It's very strange. Onion peels of tension and anxiety coming off one layer at a time.

I take nothing for granted. Sleeping in past 7am, having time to prepare breakfast, lunch AND dinner, seeing the afternoon light and being able to walk in it...

I've been keeping pretty busy. Tidying is a pleasing activity. I have time for it now. I've become quite efficient at building a fire (in the stove of course, I've not taken up pyromania(the disease or the Def Lepard album)), I'm learning to play a Bach Minuet (Menuet BWV anh. 16? I don't know what the hell any of those letters stand for) very very slowly, knitting certain things for certain people, playing with my spoiled and rambunctious kitten, and enjoying a snifter of brandy here and there. Not really that last one. I have rather developed a taste for Kahlua and vanilla soy milk though. Such a girl drink. I'm okay with that.

I have the tree decorated. It's tiny and high up on a shelf but still irresistibly tantalizing to kitten claws, so I had to stuff pillows around the base to keep him from accessing it. Does the job all the same. Oh evergreen, oh evergreen, how true are your boughs. (Oh, I'm also learning the words to O Tannenbaum in German. What a weird song.)



I'm getting there. I am learning to chill - slowly, slowly unwinding. I can feel a glowing little core underneath all the layers. Getting to it is a pretty decent feeling. Kiss my ass stress. Seriously, I've dealt with you enough for a long while now. I'm getting in this bath of free time and stress and guilt can kiss my ass.

So I'm going to go listen to Buck 65's new radio show on CBC and have some of that aforementioned Kahlua and continue knitting a certain item for a certain person...all while I get closer and closer to being okay. A warm, glowing okay.

Murder murder murder!

So we were invited to a murder mystery dinner party. We blocked it out of our minds since we are anti-social dorks. We figured it would be a bit of a chore but it turned out fun. I must say, I think the spiffing costumes I came up with 2 hours before helped us get into character. I'm pretty proud of the costumes and at the same time, a little worried that I have that much ridiculous clothing in my regular wardrobe.

My character was a traditional feminist. T was a piano bar pianist. I went for the Simone de Beauvoir look and was shocked at just how matronly I could turn out. By the end of the night though, I was really digging my look. As for T, I was digging his look straight away. Dude needs to grow a pencil mustache for real. He was hilarious as his character all evening.

It was played in french and I barely understood what anyone was saying but I made my character to be from England so at least I could speak in English and play my part with some gusto. I summoned up my best British accent as compensation and that seemed to go over well. Everyone else got into it their characters too which made it more fun. I didn't ask permission to post everyone else online so I haven't included their photos in the set.

Colonel mustard did it in the salon with a candlestick. Ahh Clue. I am definitely playing that soon.

Happy endings and happy beginnings

Well well. Look at me trying to type with my cat blocking the screen as he tries to kill the cursor. Why is my cat with me at work? He's not because, ha ha, I am also not at work. Oh no siree. My last day was yesterday. Goodbye bank. Smell ya later. Smell ya later forever.

I was presented with a card and a mug, in an excruciatingly awkward manner, with the 5 dollar price tag still on the box. I accepted it like a dork, as is my way. I wrote my own reference letter. I scoffed some pens and a glue stick. And as I stepped out into the open air, at the end of the day, imagine me throwing my hat in the air and spinning in slow motion like Mary Tyler Moore, only under a dark grey Montreal winter sky. Then I put my glove on one of the beer bottles as it passed me on the line and then I hit the jukebox to make it work and gave the thumbs up and...wait that wasn't me...

In any event, you could say, that yesterday as of 5:01 pm, I was an employment-free lady feeling pretty damn good about my decision. Last night, I celebrated with a repeat viewing of Napolean Dynamite, some pizza and a Brio and DiSarono cocktail.

Now, the kitten is purring nicely on my lap, the snow is falling outside, the fire is toasty and Vince Guaraldi is playing Christmas music on my CD player. I can dig it.

On other fronts, tonight is Tennessee's engineering ring presentation ceremony. He tried his suit on last night and looked pretty darn spiffy. I am super proud of him and extremely happy for him. It's been a goal and dream of his since he was a child and I have never seen anyone work so hard and with so much dedication toward something as I have seen T work these past 4 years. With his degree of natural talent and smarts he could have easily coasted through with less effort. However, instead of resting on his laurels he pushed himself (sometimes exhaustingly and painfully) to excel and got everything he could out of the experience to become the best kind of engineer; one who does it for the love and belief in the principles of engineering. I saw him do it and I saw how much work it was and he deserves that ring without the slightest doubt.

You will make the finest of engineers T. I congratulate you muffin pants!

So we will get dolled up and get him his ring and go eat some tasty vegan chinese food after.

Welcome December. Let's have a good time together you and I and you too reader. Let's all have a good December.

Houston, we have river ice.

Autumn weather is definitely over. Here's the last Autumn sky from weeks ago.



Now, here's the season's first river ice.



And my trusty astronaut sleeping bag coat.




And, for good measure, the sleeping kittycat.

Ready to rumble and dressed appropriately for it.

I've been training a new lady at work so I've no time to wander around internet land. One more week of work and then I am a free lady. You betcha.
Here's a quick list of the recent weeks and their happenings:

*turned 35. so far so alright.

*woke up to hearing Gordon Lightfoot or covers of his songs 4 times in the past 2 weeks. I like it.

*made some peanut butter flavoured granola and as soon as I eat it in the morning, I spend the rest of the day longing for the next day's breakfast. It's good shit.

*smacked on the window of a woman waiting at a red light in her car that nearly ran me over and gave her shit for it. Her response was; "The hand was flashing!", meaning, she felt she had the right to run me down in her car while I was on foot because the crossing indicator was a flashing hand. I told her she was a menace and a fool.

*nearly got in another fight when the woman across from me on the train was sprawled in her seat, reading a book, legs stretched out well beyond her reasonable boundary and leaning over onto the seat beside her, elbowing the woman next her to constantly as she obliviously read her book. She seemed to think the train was her lounge and all the rest of us were sitting up straight and respecting other people's space because we weren't as deserving of comfort as she was. I kept saying to myself: Pick your battles! Pick your battles! The poor woman beside her endured it selflessly. I would have had distinct "words" with her. But after I "rested" my foot on hers when she pushed it aside to stretch her legs, she made an effort not to touch me again. I was ready to rock if she did. Ready to rumble.

*Trained a nice French woman to take over for me at my job. She's an ex-librarian. Poor thing will want to quit in under 3 months. I can nearly guarantee it.

*Discovered my injured toe, whose injury dates back to being in California last year, creaks like breaking spaghetti or a crumbling cracker when I wiggle it. Hurts too.

*Congratulated myself once again on the choice of an excellent winter coat which I have employed again for the first time this year. 3 years so far, it has served me as the best damn coat ever. Light as a feather, warm as a tropical sunrise. I call it my astronaut sleeping bag because that's what it looks like. Other people may have prettier coats but they have been shivering and shaking down the streets of Montreal in them while I skip lightly in my confident warmth. Call me Canadian but I just love being well-dressed for cold temperatures. Makes me feel ready to rock. Ready to rumble.

*Updated my blog....wait, you know this part.

Unicorns and Shipwrecks

This morning, my radio woke me up to the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Still can barely understand a word of what he is saying but one day, I will learn the lyrics.

The gales of November have not yet turned gloomy. It's not even cold enough to wear my newly knitted and embroidered mittens.





Also, I didn't think it was possible for a cat to get more cute with each passing moment, but it is so:







We are most recently calling him Kitcat and Kitty and Cutey Poop etc...he is too cute to be tied down with one name.

Restless cat syndrome, not to be confused with cat scratch fever

Work is sooo slow. I have been watching comedy videos all day. I am so spaced out. I have only one earphone in, so that my other ear is free to half-heartedly hear my co-workers, should they need to address me (rare). The other earphone is dangling freely and due to screen watching catatonia plus lack of sleep from restless cat syndrome, I think I am starting to lose my capacities. I keep absent-mindedly trying to use the free earphone for purposes other than it's inteded one of being in my ear. I coughed into it, instead of coughing into my fist. I tried to use it as a paperclip. I tried to use it as a pen. I just keep picking it up without realizing it and using it for whatever, like a crazy lady.

Congratulations U.S of A

Well done United States of America. The entire world breathes a sigh of relief. Except for maybe Austria. They've got their own weird thing going on.

Maria Bamford is the Queen.

Okay seriously, I love this woman. I love Maria Bamford. Watch this and then go to superdeluxe and watch all of her episodes. Watch them all! All of them!! All hail the Bammer!



ps: I have spent an hour watching these at work. Uninterupted.

Bald, apathetic, monkey robots: Nature's candy

Let's face it, my job could be done by a monkey or a robot or a robot monkey. Instead, they pay me, quite well (all things considered), to do it. I guess that may spoil me somewhat when I go to another job and get paid less to do more? or the same even.

I guess it might also be hard to find another job that, for lunch, I can just leave whenever I feel like it, without looking to see what time it is, and wander back when I feel "ready". Or find a job where everyone else takes so many "personal" days that no one cares or can complain if I call in sick or leave early or come in late.

Yes indeed, my workplace is one big den of apathy. Dream job? Hardly. Apathy is not inspiring, enriching or fulfilling, did you know? It sure is an easy way to make money, if you don't count the mind-numbing boredom and emotional dullness. If there was just one person here that I could joke with or with whom I could have a decent conversation, I bet I could have stuck it out longer. Like in school, the classes where someone could laugh with me, I attended, the others, I did not.

And so, my cushy, well-paying job is nearly at a close and as the end day draws near, I feel lighter and lighter. Can you have a rut on your shoulder? I felt I was in such a rut here, but it feels heavy, like it's weight I'm carrying. Was carrying.

I'm glad I'm leaving. I might not feel so glad when I'm getting paid minimum wage to clean toilets in the Tim Hortons in January when no other job on earth is available to me...but I'm a daring lady. I'm willing to chance it. I have chanced it. I'm chancing baby. Chancing big time. Cha-cha-chance.

And so.

Work is sooo odd. So many of us, counting minutes, in limbo, life drifting past...
eating dates and listening to Tenacious D....getting paper cuts and burning our tongues on hot tea and/or coffee...steering clear of annoying coworkers and hiding gin in a water bottle...taking surveillance photos with our cell phones, up the skirts of colleagues and contemplating revenge plots in the bathroom...smuggling in firearms, "just in case" and drawing identifying sketches of the leprechauns that hide in our bottom drawer and who use psychic powers to control our will...

Yep, yep yep.

Is it too early to put up a christmas tree? Answer: No. Not according to commerce. Malls are filled with them. I have to admit though, the snow smell in the air has been giving me the hankering to listen to my Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack. So I'm a sucker. Sue me. Charles Schulz made melancholy children's entertainment. Who does that now? No one I know of. All the cartoons characters and child actors and adults acting for children all seem to be smiling so hard, you figure they are pushing their gallbladders out of their assholes with the force of their fake positivity. Cartoons about depressed, bald losers. That's what's what people.
That is what is what.

Anyhoodles.

It's funnier with a british accent

I'm curious. What do you think? This phone call to Fawlty Tower's Manuel has been causing a great deal of controversy in England. Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand have been suspended from the BBC over it even though it was probably the producer's fault for airing it rather than their fault for doing it. Funny? Personally, I think it is. Quite. What's funny is not that they are joking about having had sex with his granddaughter, rather, the way they keep making it worse and worse. I have done this. I wasn't trying to be funny when I did it, I was just making insane phone calls and leaving bad messages that I would leave more messages to try to correct. Anyway, they are both known for being little bastards. If nothing else, you've got to admire the insanely, mania-like quick wit of Russell Brand. Is it offensive enough for all the flack they are getting?



And now, Manuel. Ahh Fawlty Towers....

Canned meat mastication

Snow! Snow I tell's ya. S-s-s-s-snow.

There is snow on the ground. The wind was ice and it smelled like winter. Hoo doggies.

The below post was actually written yesterday. They cancelled the pizza party due to technical problematicals but our pizza was already ordered so we ate it anyway. I had to do it with my head sideways on the table though. That freaked my coworkers out. Sometimes, my inner ear gets all screwed up from sinus pressure and whatnot and I suddenly get super dizzy. It's relieved only by having my head to one side. I figured I might as well eat some pizza before going home. I'm sure it was disturbing to everyone to watch me maneuver salad into my mouth with my head, sideways on the table. Ha ha.

Speaking of gross things. Count on the train to provide. A woman sat down beside me with her cigarette stinking fur coat. I think she was in her early 40's but looked 80 due to smoking 18 packs a day since birth. Plus, she had crappy headphones for her mp3 player that make every piece of shit song she listened to audible, which drives me mental. Listening to other people's music is one of my main grievances. Agreeably, not the most profound of grievances in the grand scheme of grief however...

So I moved to another seat. Then, as further punishment for mingling amongst humanity, the guy standing in front of me whipped out 2 sandwiches and ate them in a vomit inducing manner. Did I mention they stank? Canned "meat" sandwiches on white buns with mayonnaise and cheese. How do I know? Because I could smell each ingredient most sickeningly. And the lip smacking? Gott in himmel. Smack smack smack, masticating his canned meat and mayonnaise, smack smack. Are you ready to barf? Well I heard it in person, friend. It's still haunting me.

Leisurely augmented

There are vending machines for French fries. Have you seen one? I did, this morning in the train station, “opening soon”. I don’t know whether or not I will ever try this. It just doesn’t seem right, yet, is attractive by virtue of its novelty. Probably the angle “they” were going for. “Let’s hook’em with the novelty and then cram some rancid, oil-soaked, mould-laden potatoes down their throats. Suckahs.”

For some reason, I just love central station in Montreal. I think I’d like to work there. It’s underground, but not gloomy. It’s bustling without being overwhelming. It’s got good chocolate and pastry and magazines and now, vending machine disposed French fries. What more could you ask for in a central station? I would like to work for Viarail. Their customer service agents are surly. I can be surly. Or I could stand around in an ugly uniform like a lot of the other workers with undefined positions seem to do. They have good parkas though. I want to work in one of those parkas. I wonder if they provide them or make you pay for them and if so, do you get to keep it after you stop working for them?

I was thinking this morning that when I am out of work in December, I may take a train into central station and hang out there in the morning anyway, as a part of some kind of inspiration routine. For what purpose? Not sure. Character sketches? Short stories? Resume writing? Job searching? Assassination plots? At the very least, a nice cup of tea and some toast and some people watching. Like a true crazy, unemployed person. Don’t say I don’t have aspirations.

The servers are down this morning at work, which means I can sit here and obviously, unapologetically, not work. All my work is done online. No server equals no worky. T-shirt slogan?

We are having a pizza lunch today. The Toronto office is having a formal introduction of the take-over bank’s people and we get to sit and watch via video conference while we eat pizza. Pointless? Yes ma’am, yes sirrah. But pizza is involved so it can’t be entirely awful. That’s not at all true. If, for example, I was being drawn and quartered, but they gave me some pizza while it was happening, it would still be entirely awful. Pizza does not redeem all evil. Also a t-shirt.

I can’t remember the last time I wore a T-shirt with a slogan on it actually. Sign of aging? Probably. No more, wearing my record collection on my chest. I still have my band t-shirts. I’ve been trying to figure out something clever to do with them. Maybe I’ll use my time in Central Station for that. Only one month left till unemployment. That sounds so negative though. How about workfreeness, or leisure-augmented... One month until I am freetime enhanced.

Well, back to sitting here and staring out the window at the gray Montreal skyline. I will miss that part of work. I will miss the view. I probably won’t get another job with that luxury. Then again, maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll just find another way to see it. I still like you Montreal. Soon, I will look for a new way to be a part of you.

Even Australian babies drink beer

Awww. Someone from New South Wales in Australia did a google search of "i'm a guy and can't drink beer" and google called up one of my blog pages. I'm sure it wasn't what he was looking for. He is probably the only man in all of Australia with this terrible affliction. He should move to New Zealand.

Juicy Steak Meats

Hey, have you heard? There's some financial troubles going on in the world. What that translates to, is me getting paid to surreptitiously read junk on the innornet and wonder if fat cells can pool and expand in the abdomen by remaining seated all day. By me remaining seated all day, not the fat cells. Although, I get the feeling, even my fat cells are lazy enough to sit on the job.

To summarize: not much going on at this here bank, except for people getting axed. Not fired, axed. The economy is so bad, they are actually going into the smaller branches and bludgeoning the workers with axes, to death! It's saves dollars.
Well, no one's been axed at this particular office, but in the states, well, whoo doggies is really the only way to put it.

There's a stinking, grey, filthy band of haze on the horizon of Montreal today. Last night, I woke up choking and couldn't breath and had to use my brand new, recently acquired asthma inhaler. That's twice now I've used it. Seems like I done gone and got me up so asthma. At 34 years old. Right on.

Why not take a break in your purposeful day and enrich your blood with some juicy, raw, old-fashioned comedy steaks. DO IT!

What would Aristotle say?

This morning, tiny, feeble, sparse drops of snow did fall. It begins.

Fall was pretty until now. The leaves were fiery and the weather was right. Cool and crisp. Now, it is the time of rain and gloom and frost. Everyone is feeling the panic of winter's roaring approach. It's palpable, the panic that is. Well, so is the approach of winter. Funny how some countries don't even go through this. They just wear the same moderate clothing all year round for their moderate weather. I think Canadian identity is essentially just the pride of enduring weather. Of course, there are other countries that endure harsh seasons, but they all seem to have other things to be proud of. Not that I'm complaining. I like Canada. I like Canadians. I like weather.

So I have work until the end of November. Then, the void. As predicted, having set quitting in motion, a veil of misery has lifted which, ironically, makes me feel more capable of working. Catch 22 indeed. Sometimes, actually often, depression doesn't allow for sound and reasonable decisions. I want to move forward anyway, in spite of it. I'd like to believe that's possible no matter how crappy a decision is intentionally or unintentionally made. Of course, probabilities dictate certain outcomes, but pure randomness has it's influence as well. What am I trying to form here in my rhetoric? Ethos, pathos or logos? Or a weak combination of all three? Sigh.

In any case, perhaps I can just believe that somehow, I will find a way to make it all work out and stick with that feeling, otherwise, what's the point. Another rhetorical question.

Meanwhile, I must admit to a perverse delight in the first sign of snow. Winter is harsh. It's also powerful and beautiful and I like how it takes us all over and commands us to adapt. Like Good King Wenceslas, looking out on the feast of Stephen, I enjoy the snow laying round about, deep and crisp and even.

At least this December, being out of work, I can go full on pagan each day. I think I will enjoy that. I think it will help me feel happier. Seeing the snow and bare trees, the cloudy skies and sparrows, the trickling of cold streams or the freezing or puddles. I will delight in them. I will mark my footsteps (my good page) and try to tread them boldly. Or something.

I'll figure it out or I won't. That's all.

GWAP'in it.

One more thing. You must go here and play these games if you care about idling at all. It's not regular, stupid games. These are games with a purpose my friend. Supposedly, they teach computers to learn while you are having fun. Which computers, and why? I don't know but the games sure are neat. The point of all them is to basically see things the same way as an anonymous opponent. Just go try some out, you'll see.

www.gwap.com

Vote for the moustache.

Also, today is voting day. Please citizens of Canada, don't re-elect the chunky robot. If you are rich and don't give a shit about anyone else, I guess you would vote for him and you would suck for life too. It's a full moon tonight. Anything could happen.

Sinking ships

So, here I am. I didn't have to actually burn the art related tools and products, but I have put them away. After the initial violent adjustment, I feel good about it. I'm free to find another path. I am still me.

And, I did give notice at work because I can't go on there. I am very depressed and I need to take steps to get back to feeling like there is hope. Leaving this job, surprisingly, gives me a glimmer of hope, even though it's financial suicide. Poverty and misery do tend to go hand in hand but I've lived poor for a long long time and I can continue, so long as I have a home and food to eat. The rest is just extras and my mental health is more important. Quitting gives me hope that I don't have to be stuck. Hope that I can find, if not better work, something new at the very least. It also gives me hope that I will have some time to physically recover and stop looking and feeling like death warmed over.

As it turns out, it's probably quite timely. I work for a European bank that is in the news these days (especially in Scotland) for sucking the big one, as it were, financially. The government has bailed my employer out. Once the second biggest bank in Europe, now 60% owned by Gordon Brown. Talk about a sinking ship. This was a Dutch bank that was very recently acquired by this monolith of Scotland so before you could even say hoots man, it will probably be sold by the government to a brand new bank. That should make it real easy to get a raise or a permanent contract or anything like that...pfft.

As a contract worker, the new bank has really been working hard to isolate me and make me feel left out. This is all coming from people in Scotland who have no idea what's going on here in our little office of 9 people. They sent everyone welcome gifts of ugly knapsacks and mugs and stuff. Except me. I'm not a real employee somehow. They sent me an email asking me who I worked for. You, I replied. They had everyone go get photos taken to make identification cards. Except me. They sent me the same plastic card but in the place where a photo would have been, I have a big blue capital T. Temporary. Branded, don't you know.

Anyway.

Forget them. I am not a complete fool. Surely I can be employed elsewhere. Maybe Ikea will hire me to drive Flurgen Flooven around on a forklift. I could wear a hard hat like a Dozer and eat lignonberry and peanut butter sandwiches during my lunch break...

We shall see.

Giving up the Ghost

In answer to my previous posts' questions: yes. Yes I should burn it all, truly and metaphorically. Time to grow up and accept some reality. Someone once told me I wasn't an artist. I guess she was right. Probably, I should have killed the urge long ago as it's caused nothing but grief and failure, sort of like adopting an abomination of nature and dragging it through life, instead of mercy killing it in the shade of the forest trees where you found it and putting it out of it's misery.

Ah yes, the drama of grief and mourning.

I've been struggling with my life, feeling the soul destroying emptiness of spending one's days and precious time working at something that means nothing to me (ie working in a bank),while it depletes my will and energy and while wishing I had the time to do that which I really do care about.

I thought I would take a leap, and try it but I doubted my ability to and was torn. Such a risk for someone with such a history of failure in the same area. Such an agonizing decision, but why should it be? Why should be following your path be an agonizing choice? Finally, I realized, it wasn't worth the risk. I don't have what it takes. I never have and I have example after example to prove that. It is a painful loss to let it go, but a necessary one. Like living in the bedroom of a dead loved-one, you will never move on unless you tear it all down and throw it all out.

Maybe then, after I let it go, working in a bank or any of the other realities of life will seem less painful. Maybe I will discover what I'm really meant to do, which could be anything or nothing. In the meantime, creative pursuits must flame into ashes and smoke. They have walked along beside me like ghosts I can't bring back to life for too long.

Thanks for reading and wish me luck.

I can't quit my job. I can't afford it. Life would spiral into abject poverty which brings it's own significant set of misery. So on I go, trudging through the days, hope dying out. Nearly 35. Life is not what I hoped it may turn out to be. Pain is desire; Desire for a life that can't be led. Can I kill hope? Do I burn my art supplies and throw all material and thread onto the bonfire? Is that how to get through? Do I smother any lingering flicker of a dream of something more? Will that make broken dreams less painful? Is that what liquor and cable tv is for? Just give up? I don't know how to keep drudging through the days while holding on to a measly scrap of an ideal that just keeps getting more filthy and disintegrated. What is there to even blog about when I'm just a shell of human, crawling through calender squares, silencing hopes that can't come to life? All rhetorical questions of course. Life.

For the ol' factory. (i know I know. ole. )

I couldn't agree with this man more, HERE!! Please everyone go here and buy a scent if you must wear one. I HATE perfume. It never, ever, ever, ever smells good. Ever. It smells fake and cloying always always always and I'm so pleased that someone industrious feels the same way. Read this article to learn more.

"Smells like subway....(cough, cough)ha ha, cigarettes.......snow." They are just like Maude's odorifics and I want Winter 1972, Russian Caravan, Fire From Heaven and Violet Empire, I do, I do. Plus, oh my stars, Snow. Snow! Which ones would you choose?

Waking up with hindsight.

I don't know why I haven't listened to my iPod at work before. I am now. It feels different to be working to Loverboy.

On another note: Holy carpcrap, I am soooo bored. Perhaps the current global economic situation has some influence on the fact that I am mostly sitting here doing nothing all day. Here at this bank. Doo dee doo. Twiddle twiddle (of thumbs).

I had a dream last night that I saw a booth in a mall that told fortunes. Like, with a genie inside and stuff, and when you pressed the button, it played an Ozzie Osbourne song. The exciting part is that it was a brand new Ozzie song that even Ozzie doesn't know about. It's called "She Says She Woke Up With Hindsight."

Go ahead, sing it to yourself, you know what it would sound like. Number 1 hit. Done. What else can I do for you world? What other bits of genius can I dream up to enhance every one's daily life?

Dreaming that song made me wake up laughing. Now just writing out the title has made me laugh, blowing my pretending-to-work cover. No one likes their bank job enough to guffaw at their screen and then tee hee for a little after. Pushing money around just isn't that amusing. Not for me anyway.

Sheee saaays, deer ne ne neer neer, neer neer, she woke up with, dunn de ne dunn dunn, dunn de ne dunn dunn, HIIIND SIIIGGHT!

Anyway.

I miss the old, chubby, acid-tripping, frosted hair Ozzy.

I love pink ponies too and rainbow unicorns

I know, I know, this is sooo self-indulgent but look at this CUTEY CUTE CUTEST CUPCAKE OF A KITTY!



Oh look, 2 cutey cute smoosh bums!

Candy trails and leaps of faith

Ayep, yep yep. Still quitting work, although it's been a tornado of indecision. They asked me to think about it for a bit, meaning, DON'T GO!!. I did think about it, because really, I'm not independently wealthy nor terribly qualified for non-annoying, well-paying jobs so...I'm really leaping off into the void by quitting, but here's the thing. What's the thing Monsterteeth? Tell us.

Okay, the thing is, every time I reconsider leaving and entertain staying to make money and ensure that at least my financial life is stable, I want to give up on life entirely. I want to just lay down on a choice piece of ground somewhere and not move while I slowly become compost.

Sounds like an easy decision right? Here's the little bastard of it all though: As soon as I decide that I will indeed stick to my decision to leave, I feel so great, I feel like I can handle anything, even working at my stupid job, which is in and of itself, not clean logic.

Anyhoo, anyhoo, great leap of faith on the horizon, for both me and T. All the more scary for both of us, since neither of us can really get each other's back on the financial front. T's thinking of Mastering up an old masters degree. Professors are leaving candy trails to their office for him and promising their first born and such. And why not indeed! He is quite worthy of candy trails and first-borns.

So what the hell, running jumps with eyes closed and fingers crossed, hoping for the best will be undertaken.

In the meantime, the leaves have turned, the trees look like candies. Trails of candy leading me back and forth to work for a finite time.Hello autumn. Nice to see you, you old stinker.

I think the light therapy may be helping. If nothing else, it helps me draw ridiculous things for half an hour each morning. Can't be all bad.

I did a Google search for "leaps of faith" because I was pretty sure it would turn up some hilarious images. Insanely smiling christians leaping into the arms of a Santa Claus looking jesus or puppies giving the thumbs up as they leap into a pile of bones or whatever...Google did not let me down and even one upped me with the above illustration.

I'm thinking of getting this enlarged and painted wall size in my place. In the bedroom. To remind me of the awesome power of leaping faithfully? Or the awesome power of old dudes with swords? It's represents me lolling my tongue in rage at the demons that would hold me back from moving forward, look at me forging onward, wielding my mighty sword, aging considerably...I must say, his clothing looks quite comfy for such a powerful guy. Looks like a velour leisure suit he's sporting. Anyway.

New Plan, Stan.

Rather than force y'all to view the results of my daily light/art therapy (BOORRRINGGGG!), I've made it a separate blog, so it's optional. See how much I care about your needs! So if you want to see it, here ye go. You can also find the link to any of my blogs by clicking on my profile. How neat and tidy.

Hey raven dude, why so sleepy?

There was a dude this morning. A dude lying on the grounds of the church, on top of newspapers, arranged into a crucifix shape. He was just having a little morning, newspaper crucifix snooze. Perfectly normal.

Today's light therapy drawing is brought to you by the letter C. Cookie. Crusty crud. Crap attack. Thanks letter C, for your support and contribution to word formation...

Uh.

See now, I'm just making fun of myself with the below. My self-conscious is mocking me.

making grape jelly, as a metaphor

One of my co-workers just came up to me and said: "I'm making grape jelly."
"What?", I said.
"I'm making grape jelly."
"What does that mean?"
"Grape jelly."
"Ok, like right now, as we speak?"
"Oh uh, no, at home. I was just talking to my husband and I said something about jars and it made me think that I have all these grapes, well, not as much as last year because I had to cut back the vines from these bugs that invaded but my neighbour has tonnes and tonnes of grapes but I have about 4 pounds which makes about 7 or 8 little jars as nice little gifts to give..."
"Well good. Grape jelly is good."
"Yeah, sorry, I guess I was just thinking out loud."
"I thought maybe you were using some sort of vernacular I didn't know about or that,'I'm making grape jelly' was a metaphor for something maybe."
Blank look. "No, just thinking out loud I guess. Sorry."
"No problem."

I skipped the light this morning because I needed the extra half hour sleep. My cat was learning to polka with an elephant late at night, or at least that's what it sounded like...

The wheel of mice death.

Here is today's installment of light therapy art:

"So, what do we have here?"
"It's a wheel full of impaled mice."
"Mmm-hmm. I notice also that one of them is a baby, that's particularly gruesome."
"Yes, I guess I'm not feeling so great."
"One of those mice is about to be run over and the other is watching helplessly."
"Yeah."
"What sort of a wheel is this anyway? It's bad enough that the mice are impaled but it has extra spikes to hurt whatever gets in it's path? This is a very unpleasant contraption indeed."
"The point of drawing while doing the light therapy is not to censure myself, you know, to just let the subconscious purge itself."
"And this is what you come up with? An impaled mice wheel?"
"What sort of therapist are you anyway? Not a very encouraging one."
"I'm not a therapist. You are having a written conversation with yourself."
"Right. Well. I guess I can't really complain then."
"Try drawing something less childishly tragic tomorrow why don't you."
"You're not the boss of me."
"I am you."
"Well you are the part of me that's sucking right now so I'm going to stop typing out what you say. So there."

And that, ladies and gentlemans, is how you win an argument with yourself. For more tips on being very sane...look elsewhere.

what the light made me do

Hmm, disfigured, cracked and bleeding heads. I think I may have a theme going here. Wonder what THAT'S about, she said, not wondering at all. It's like I've transported back to grade nine, subject-wise. Great.

There is Light That Will Never Go Out

Well well, someone hasn't been keeping you very informed. Didn't you hear? I'm quitting my damn job. Let's just say depression and bad PMS, plus a tenacious and perhaps foolish propensity toward idealism has brought months and months of deep dissatisfaction to a breaking point. Let's not linger long on this rut of a topic. The short story is, I gave notice. I will be done, at the latest, by mid December.

Onward and upward hopefully. Onward and sideward or onward and downward are more likely, but let's keep hope fresh, shall we?

I have purchased a lamp for light therapy at great expense in the hopes that it will help to keep me from falling apart all together, as is my wont. The fall is so bittersweet. I love the crisp air and coloured leaves and the cooling days, but with it, comes a deepening depression from the change in light.

Yesterday, sitting on a park bench overlooking the river, I saw the shining leaves of huge trees framing the the sparkling waves on the water and felt a cool fresh breeze tempering the warmth of the bright sun. I explained to T that I could see intellectually, it was all so pretty and lovely, but emotionally, I was completely numb to it's pleasure. As if I was a ghost or a machine. A sad ghost or a sad machine.

Let's hope that light, in front of my eyes each day and light, at the end of a long, boring work tunnel, will help that to change.

Meanwhile, having to sit in front of a lamp for a half hour first thing each morning, does give a person a pretty good excuse to draw while they are doing so. So may I introduce the new feature to my blog, of a light therapy induced drawing a day.
I have no specific goal in mind, nor do I claim that these drawings will have any merit. They are what they are, so let's see if we can dig it. Here's the very first one.

Unwashed Feet Crew

I saw ole Allistair Winslow Thurston etc...again. He's still reading "Dictatorship as Experience". I'm starting to wonder if it's a fake out. He should be done by now. Although, he probably reads as deliberately as he eats, chewing each word until it's mush before moving on to the next. He placed the bookmark so meticulously at the end of the ride, deeply, squarely, into the spine, one eigth of an inch showing over the top. I wish I could take a picture of this guy to show you. He is straight out of a book about Victorian ghosts. Speaking of ghosts...

I've recently aquired a CD by the Ghostbees, twin sisters from Halifax. Listening to their music makes me feel like taking up reading tarot cards and casting spells in the forest at dawn. You know? Only wearing shawls knit by orphaned virgins and adopting 26 cats and naming them all after the fairy queens. Stuff like that. Paula, you will use it as more proof that I'm just turning into a big old hippy. I staunchly deny any association with that unwashed feet crew. Hey hiphop artists, feel free to steal Unwashed Feet Crew(UFC) as a name, from me. I will buy your records if you do.

Wallpower

Sigh.

I was rinsing out my glass after having some strawberry soy milk and I remembered the Catholic retreat I had to go to in grade seven for a weekend. It was out in the middle of nowhere in an ex convent or private school, what's the difference really...

It was run by 3 creepy creepsters, one being 300 years old and stinky-Rex. His big deal was word art. Word art to inspire the love of Jesus. And not changing his clothes ever.

Bizarre rules were all over the place. No leaning against the wall. "Wallpower!", they would shout if they caught you doing it. Wallpower? Bloody hell. Unsaintly weakness, like wanting to rest your back since there are no goddamn chairs, will ultimately send you screaming and flaming to hell. How about Fuckyoupower.

Another useless rule was that you were not allowed to rinse your glass out to refill it. They served milk for all meals, and if you wanted water after, you had to drink milky water. Everyone knows a dirty glass with a blend of remnant liquids brings you closer to god than a clean one.

They kept you busy all day and night and made you get up at 6 in the morning. Not surprising that I've blocked most of it out of my memory, except the little bits that were more or less innocuous. Let's not even go into everyone sitting in a circle in the pitch black dark and passing a candle around while confessing a shame. Ok well, let's go into it a bit. I utilized cunning to avoid this "healing confession" by working with the dark. When the candle came 3 people away from me, I got up, moved to a part of the circle that had already had their turn, shoved myself between 2 people and threatened murder if they told on me. As for listening to kids helplessly confess their shames, I tried to just block it all out by singing Duran Duran songs in my head.

Did I mention how godawful the food was? It was godawful. Dishes called: "Teenager surprise." and the like. Things made with carob.

Not a word about anything that happened that week to anyone was mentioned by any of the kids in my class when we all got back to school the following week. Everyone just wanted to forget the whole thing had ever happened. I could think of waaay better things to do with an empty convent. None of which would involve milk or stinky old men.

Gee, more kitten video

A river of beaver tears. (Rhymes with beers, not bears.)

Been a while since I blogged. Indeed it has. It's all too boring to recount. Life sometimes just floats past, wordlessly, like a water logged spongecake in a river of beaver tears. Speaking of beaver tears...here's some photos I took tonight.

Can't judge a book by it's cover, unless that book is reading a book, thus allowing judgement of former book by said cover of latter book.

Remember Allistair Winslow Thurston-Sackville? The pale, simple Victorian child-headed chap from the train. I saw him again this morning reading a book! I was so excited. Finally, some illumination on the essence of this strange person. As he was holding the book and reading, I could only see a partial title at first. I saw "Dict..." Dictionary, I deduced, must be a dictionary. Dictionary of Simple Phrases for the Man-Child? Dictionary of Commonly Used Words for Asking Mommy to Make a Jam Sandwich? What could it be???

I watched him concentrating, on the book, almost seeing the information process in his brain. All of his actions and reactions are so slow and deliberate. He blinked and swallowed and raised his eyebrows at intervals, never taking his eyes from the page. I stared at the cover of the book for 8 minutes, waiting for the title to be revealed. There was no bloody way I was going to turn my head for a second and miss seeing it. The rare occasion to get a key into a mystery like this is too precious to screw up.

At last, as we pulled into central station, he closed the book and I saw the title:
Dictatorship as Experience: Toward a Socio-Cultural History of the GDR. What the HELL???

The Google books description is as follows:

A decade after the collapse of communism, this volume presents a historical reflection on the perplexing nature of the East German dictatorship. In contrast to most political rhetoric, it seeks to establish a middle ground between totalitarianism theory, stressing the repressive features of the SED-regime, and apologetics of the socialist experiment, emphasizing the normalcy of daily lives.

Right, so...not what I was expecting. I stand by my assessment of this chap being odd as hell, but I guess he's not as simple-minded as I thought. Can't judge a book by it's cover, or rather, can't judge a man by his bizarre appearance? But can you judge a bizarre man by the cover of his book?

Grow operation

I don't know how it happened, but I've turned into a morning person. I got up early this morning, even though it was saturday. It's hard to figure out what to do when you have to tiptoe around. I don't care for just sitting and reading first thing, so the out of doors is usually a nice option. Plus, there's my fascinating garden. I wasn't sure it would happen this year, due to the copious bug predators and incessant cool rainy days but I have cucumbers en tabernac, as they say, and zucchini, tomatoes, peas, yellow beans, lettuce and even a strawberry or two. Come autumn, I should also have onions, carrots and beets. Look at me growing stuff! I'm so cool! Really, I just put the seeds in the ground, water them and hope for the best. Please enjoy this photographic document of this morning in the garden.

1976-1980, the years of influence.

For some reason, I've always had the urge to give myself bad haircuts. I have a perverse enjoyment of having terrible hair, much to the dismay of any hairdresser I go to. Conversations at the salon usually go as follows:

"Hmmm. Did you cut your own hair again?"
"You know I did."
"You should try not to do that anymore."
"I know, but I probably will anyway."

or

"I don't understand what you want me to do with your hair exactly. What look are you going for?"
"Well, like a trucker, who's been at a 1973 disco all night but maybe has a tendancy toward mania and with a touch of like, viking prince, like in Bergman films, you know, but not too 'I take belly-dancing classes and eat stew all the time'."
"Could you please leave and never come back?"

I usually get suddenly inspired and know exactly what I want to do to my hair. What's fun is, I never know why or where it comes from, until I look at it after and recognize what I was going for. This week's look is clearly derived from the tender years between the ages of 3-7. At first I kept looking at myself thinking, what was I going for?? Scottish soccer player from 1974? An extra from the Love Boat?? I was on the right track, but finally, this morning, I figured it out exactly.

Here's my cut.



Okay, so obviously Benny (second from left) from ABBA was a huge influence on this cut. I did spend many hours staring at all the members of ABBA while listening to their records around the age of 3 and 4. Very impressionable years. Why I wasn't more influenced by the ladies, I'm not sure...


And then there's the severe and unshakeable influence of the Bay City Rollers, in particular, Derek, the drummer (n the middle). Now, my preference was always for Les, the dude at the top right, so I can't explain why I went for Derek's hair, but if I ever do go for the look of Les, please put a stop to me. Thanks to my sister for warping my young mind by having this band inundate my soft-moldable-clay, years of 3 and 4 by having numerous teen magazines featuring them, their records playing constantly and even a saturday frigging morning, Bay City Rollers tv show to watch! By the way, my sister liked Eric (bottom right).


And finally, the deeply powerful, monolithical force, of the fashion stylings of Joyce DeWitt who, let's face it, influences us all in a profound way.


If nothing else, it gives me a good laugh when I look in the mirror, which is better than retching anyday and it costs nothing. Economic and amusing. Self-styled hair massacre, the Olympic Sport of the future!(In a perfect world)

Like a barn owl with 2 tickets for the opera

I went for my yearly check-up today. My doctor's office is right beside a hospital. There's always an array of people in wheelchairs, smoking outside the hospital entrance. This morning, there was a man, at least 375 years old, slumped over in his wheelchair, head dangling down and to the right, cigarette about to fall from his loosely lain fingers, with a ghetto blaster on his lap, styling some Temptations: "Papa was a rolling stone...". I'm glad dude still found a way to have some soul, despite being in a state of utter dilapidation. Rock on my brother.

So it's the Annual Fall Psych-out 2008. Always, in the last weeks of August, it turns to autumn weather overnight for a week or so. The air chills at night, cold breezes blow during the day despite the sun on high. Sweaters, stored for the summer are pulled out of their hiding places...then, the second week of September, it gets hotter than a barn-owl with herpes, which is to say, real hot. What?? Just accept it.

I do so enjoy this early fall weather though, I must say. Summer has sped past like an Irish barn-owl with strep throat, that is to say, very quickly. Fine by me. I'm not a big fan of summer. It was cool when I was a kid, simply because of the no-school thing, but other than that...what I'm trying to say is...very little. There's a crisp chill in the air is all. Nature is readying itself to wind down for the year here. Makes you feel like curling up in a big wool blanket and sipping hot, soymilky tea, while watching the river shimmer and the leaves flutter and fall.

And maybe busting out a Temptations song or two.

Me need cookie to staunch bleeding.

Deep breath. Severe run-on sentence ahead:

You know those bands you champion through your twenties and then, at the last concert you go to for them, you look around and everyone is about 10 years younger than you, and you realize that you just don't have the energy to push to the front anymore and you become the old people standing in the back by the bar, with a beer; the ones you used to look at wonder why they bothered coming; and then you do wonder why you bothered coming, because being at home, listening to the album while laying on the couch, seems more appealing than trying to see over the heads of 500 squirmy adolescents, who have unlimited resources of energy to devote to fanship.

So then, you stop looking for articles about the band or noting when their new album comes out, or the one after that or the one after that and all of a sudden your 34...

Brief interruption. A young jocky guy just sat down beside me on the train with his homemade peanut-butter and jam wrap for breakfast, with a bottled, Starbucks frappucino and he's voluntarily reading an article in a magazine called "International Standards of Auditing", in what I presume is an accountant's magazine? Accountants Monthly? Today's Accountant? Is it that much of a lifestyle that it warrants a magazine?

Anyway, so one day, out of complete boredom with everything in your record collection and possibly life, this band you used to love pops into your head. Like a grounded teenager, stuck in their room, that still has some childhood toys buried deep in the back of the closet, you pull out one of this band's old records (like the teenager pulls out the old Fischer-Price hospital) and start playing it and it's still awesome. You remember why you loved it so much. By the way, playing with the Fischer-Price hospital is still awesome, especially if you have the Fischer-Price Sesame Street characters they put out in the 70s. I have Susan, Gordon, the Cookie Monster and Oscar the Grouch. I like to make Cookie Monster perform surgery on Gordon with Oscar the Grouch assisting. "Me need cookie to staunch bleeding, STAT!".

After playing the album, you start to wonder what the band is up to these days, so you go and download that beeyatch from iTunes and are pleasantly surprised to discover that the band is still making great records. All of a sudden you feel so refreshed and feel that entropy has been held at bay, ever so slightly, for just a little while longer. Sometimes, you hear the new stuff and it sucks so bad and you regret even knowing about it...but that's not what happened today.

This morning, I tried out, not the newest, but the second newest album by Sloan (because there's nothing wrong with a little caution) and it's really, really good, especially when I make Susan and Gordon dance to it. So thanks Sloan, for not sucking yet and screw you Fischer-Price, for totally not making toys like you used to.

Amen.

Who's got the fuzziest poop of all the pretty kitties?

Who's pretty?? Who is a pretty kitty?? Who's a fuzzy fuzz pooper poop? Is the kitty
a fuzzy pooper?? Yes he is! Yes he is!!



Chippychip is finding new ways to encroach on all my activities at home. If he could drape himself across my face for the entire day, I do believe he would. Chippy chip! Chip chip!

Remember when I used to write blogs a person might actually want to read? Those were the good old day. (I think it probably only happened on one day at best.)

Sincerely,

Monsterteeth.

Worrying about Harry Dean.

I was vacuuming up kitten hair this morning and worrying about Harry Dean Stanton. He's really quite old. I love that guy. He has never been in anything that he didn't completely kick ass in. Even as the dad in Sixteen Candles. That tiny little part. Who wasn't moved by Andie's sad, lonely dad, trying his best to raise a daughter through his grief at being abandoned by the woman he loved. His character had more richness to it, thanks to him, than the entire rest of the cast put together! And The Straight Story, C'MON! How fantastic was he in that? At the end, the look on his face, when he realizes his brother drove all that way on a tractor. The heartbreak and regret mixed with being overwhelmed by the show of love it took to do that, all expressed in his face in under 5 seconds. Or how awesome was he in Wild at Heart? Alien, Paris Texas, even the Wendell Baker story, which sucked, by the way. I knew it would, but I love me some Wilson brothers so I watched it anyway.

If you love Harry Dean like I do, I suggest you rent The Wendell Baker story just so you can watch the extras. There's an informal chat session with Harry Dean and Seymour Cassel and Luke and Andrew Wilson. He's fantastically cranky and existential, but he's struggling with the void. Yes, you can tell all that, just from a little 20 minute chat. I have a feeling all conversations with Harry Dean are that revealing. At the end, he does this beautiful acoustic rendition of an old Blue grassy standard, Rock Salt and Nails. Just him singing and playing guitar. It's worth the price of purchasing the DVD even to have that little gem. If the Wilson brothers were truly savvy, they'd have just made a documentary about him and Seymour Cassel. Just the two of them talking about their lives. Maybe I should call them up and tell them. Or just do the damn thing myself! I wish.

Anyway, if you were here, dear reader, I'd tell you to come over and have a Harry Dean marathon night with me. We'd drink whiskey and dress disheveled and bask in the glory of Mr. Stanton's brilliance.

"Out there Calistan way, hey hey."

I LOVE MY KITTEN!!

And I miss T out Calistan way. Lookin' serious.



That is all.

Emotional

Ug, it's been a hard couple of weeks. PMS, sick kitten, T in California, vet visits, bananas for dinner....

I've been relying pretty heavily on the Avett Brothers Emotionalism record to get through it all.

Check it out.

Introvert zone

So there's a male version of me on the train since I got back from California. It's creepy. At first, he stuck out because he's at least 6 feet tall, which few of the Quebecois men here, are even close to (which I have to admit, I dig. I like the smaller, devastatingly handsome, sprightly, quebec men). Despite his long legs, and athletic physique (he's not the physical male version of me, that's for sure.), he has this slow, downtrodden sort of walk and this way of moving very delicately and deliberately. I do this when I'm going somewhere I don't want to go. I walk and move exactly like that. He never smiles, never talks to anyone, hardly looks at anyone and always sits in the same seat in the back corner of the car, the "introvert zone".

Like me, he always has an ipod on and closes his eyes during the ride to block everyone out. I know he's not sleeping because his face never relaxes. He's always slightly frowning. He pulls himself in a little closer when others come and sit in his area, despite his size and leans against the window for support, looking outside, poker-faced. He doesn't seem psychotic or creepy. He's not unabomber queer. He just seems to really want to not stick out or interact with the crowd and seems also a little depressive but socially well-adjusted enough to be polite and civil.

Maybe I just notice because I have "extreme introvert" radar, being one myself or maybe we just stick out like that amongst everyone else who is chatting, snoring, rustling papers, barking into cellphones, restraining squirming children...and so on.

I found it interesting to watch him for a while, to see how much he reminded me of myself and to see what my manner projects to others. It's extra strange that he is so tall and actually, quite handsome and yet acts like a phlegmatic, reserved, outsider. His physique says : Volley Ball Team Captain, his manner says, moody lonely guy. That's our main difference, I feel like my physical self sort of goes well with my manner. My dishevelled, dumpy look matching with my moody plodding along in the shadows.

Of course, I could be projecting it all. It's possible. I'm not sure why I would bother. I think it's more likely that I've spotted another person who is a far down on the scale of introvert as I. We are rare as heck according to the Kiersey temperament sorter. T is one too. I would have spotted him the same way in a crowd. I don't think this chap has spotted me. He never looks at anyone, but then again, I might seem like I don't notice anyone also. I'm pretty sly. Maybe he is too.

I've started sitting at the other end of the car (we have chosen the same car. I chose it because it's the least popular and I bet that's why he does too.)and I face the other direction. I feel like there's only room for one major introvert per car end. Besides, if I stick out to him as much as he sticks out to me, I'm uncomfortable with possibly being that visible. We both move and act to be the most invisible and unaproached as possible for a reason. I guess I could go to another car entirely, but I also don't want to be turfed out of my territory.

You are insane, Monsterteeth. Look at you making it all up in your head.

Look, I know a vibe when I feel one. I can read between the lines, man. Plus, it's more interesting to focus on, than all the other, perfume and cigarette stinking, noisy, space-taking, burping, coughing, twitching extroverts ruling the world and the train.

This morning, we actually crossed paths a few block from the train station, on the way to work. Nearly walked right in to one another going perpendicular ways, but we both avoided collision, despite walking with heads down, and ipods on. Radar. I slowed slightly in my gait and he veered slightly to one side and we passed without meeting, looking or acknowledging. Quietly and impersonally, the introverts way.

On a side note: I noticed, for the first time, there is a little sign on the train platform with symbols indicating that upstairs there is coffee, tickets, information, a bank and...gloves and umbrellas. A little joint symbol of gloves and an umbrella. One of the first things anyone thinks of when exiting a train?? No sign for food or doctor or pharmacy (which are all in the station) but, hey, you need gloves and an umbrella?? Don't worry, sign says they got them. Maybe they should mark out the introvert zone on the train with a little symbol also. Maximum capacity: 1.

Drowning

I wonder if art is just about keeping one from drowning in sensation. Or at least, the urge to create may be about that. Art has such a loaded meaning for everyone.

I know someone lacking a sense of smell. She wonders what smell memories are. She’s heard people talk of them. I told her my life was practically built around them. They pivot me from one moment to the next, simultaneously reminding me as they generate anew. I live the moment, while I remember another. And the moment lived, will come to me later in the future, while another present takes place.

This morning, the smell of someone’s cherry lip balm caused a swirl around me of Vicks cough drops on an October afternoon in grade school. The sky overcast and dark like evening, the class quiet and reading. A sore throat blurred by cherry menthol and pencil shaving smell coming from the sharpener. Outside, orange and brown leaves glow on the sidewalk through the grey light.

A moment later, walking up the stairs from the platform to the station, toasted bread and pastry smells flood me with Easter at my German grandmother’s house. Her egg bread is cooling on the counter, and I’m too small to see over the top of the counter or reach it.
A bird cheeping through the open window above the sink blows cool spring air in a stream and the adults murmur in the living room. The cuckoo clock ticks and the fridge hums. Cold cement and ferment smell slips under the door to the garage and basement, where I go to play.

Coming up for air, back to the present moment, the big electronic board in the station, displaying the departures and arrivals is malfunctioning. Instead of Bon Voyage/Have a Nice Trip, Have = Nice flickers and flashes. Have =nice. Have can equal nice, depending of what you have.

Leaving the station, out onto boulevard De Maisonneuve, toward University, the cars push and shove, the clouds darken and tiny sprinkles or rain flip around in the wind. A moment I will store for later, because I’m still immersed in my own history of sensations. Sometimes, so overwhelming, like standing in front of a deep pool of Mediterranean blue, knowing you need, must, want to dive in, be enveloped and surrounded. I could lie down in the middle of the street and forget the present entirely. “An outlet!” my mind and body yell. “Give me an outlet or let me live underwater! Let me drown.”

More art with bad tools.

Crud vs Crap

Gawd. I'm actually busy at work. I never have time to blog again. Again? I mean ever. See, I'm barely even paying attention because as I type this, I am processing, inputting and maximizing on efficiency. You betcha.

Plus, since I'm only ever working or following the kitten around with toys and pulling him off of things he shouldn't be on, life is pretty hard to make interesting in blog form.

We are all very productive in the office. Right now, the three bosses are listening to Barry Manilow. The woman boss is trying to convince the man bosses that Barry Manilow is better than Paul McCartney. The man bosses are laughing very hard and the woman boss is getting pissed off and just keeps playing more songs, as if she will convince them. "Okay wait, Mandy then." Plays 5 seconds of Mandy, the men laugh. "Okay Can't Smile Without You." Play 5 seconds, the men laugh and so on...

Also, I urge you to enjoy this Ad Campaign for Absolut Vodka by Tim and Eric and Zach Galifianakis. It's real. Enjoy Parts 1, 2 and 3 why don't you. In a perfect world, all advertising would be just like this.

Watch

1 plus the ultimate answer minus 34

Happy birthday to my sister, who has endured me for the following amount of years:
One plus the answer to life, the universe and everything, minus 34. Yes, Krisp, you are now past the age of the ultimate answer but only 8 years away from enduring me as your only sibling for the ultimate answer amount of years. Surely then, it will all make sense. Whatever it all is that's not making sense??

Ahem, get out there and give'er plus cake.

Wrong tools for the job? Who cares! (Rhetorical)

Well, Mr.Kitten has been named. Fuzzy. Suits him. Tried a whole host of names:
Zissou, Mr. Noodles, Professor Candy Pants, Joey, Dee Dee, Ned...nothing quite fit.
Except Fuzzy. And so he shall be named.

Or Poopy would be appropriate right now also, as he has a bit of a "soft poo" issue that's being tracked through the house. Who wants to visit?!!

T is at the vet as we speak, hopefully working that one out.

And now, my new thing. Illustrating with work tools. Shitty ballpoint pens, bad paint programs and photocopying of whatever the hell I felt like drawing last week. They probably are too big to see properly when you click on them, but that's the deal with using work tools. Take it or leave it! (Hint: don't leave it. Take it!)

The smell of wrong.


We overheard a very bad blind date.


Avoue que tu m'aimes, elle a dit.

Uh oh. Some people got a kitty cat!

We went and did it. Got our selves a little baby kitten from the SPCA after MUCH deliberation. It took 3 thousand hours and a lot of stress and he's jumping on and chasing everything that moves, but he is the cutest cutest cutest. We don't have a name yet. We've tried a few out and none have stuck. In the first evening he ate, drank and used the litter box so Wihoo! for small victories. Feast your eyes on this handsome creature:

Snuff Box tonic.

Ah, once again, British insane people have renewed my vigor with their humour tonic. Snuff box episodes are finally on you tube. Begin the journey here: clickityclickbarbaratrick.