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.

Not really what you are looking for.

I saw this idea on another site: Que sera sera. She listed some of the search terms people used to wind up at her site. I have a site meter thingy that keeps track of such things. Crazy but true. Here's a recent list of some of the searches people did to unwittingly end up on my blog. No one stayed to read by the way. Screw them, they're obviously all creeps anyway, judging by their perverted and sinful searches.

-"shy monster movies"

-"I can't stand it, I know you planned it" -what? they knew the lyrics but couldn't
remember who did it? That's like forgetting what toast is made of.

-"monster teeth paint helmet" wuh??

-"teeth in undies" well, we are all curious about that one aren't we.

-"pants with wings"

-"the ice caps are melting ho, ho ho ho, all the world is drowning ho ho, ho ho, ho ho." yes, someone actually typed an entire refrain of Tiny Tim as a search. I wish this person had stuck around my blog and read a little. We may have more in common than they know.

-"metalhead haircuts" I hope they were looking for one to have instead of one to make fun of.

-"make uped ladies". This one came from Iran. Either a search done by someone with bad english or someone under the age of 10.

So there ya go. My tags do work no matter how obscure I make them.

Hey now, why don't you look at our recent saturday night outing for the International Fireworks competition. I'm working on being able to post some video. For now, the photos must do.

Twas a hot summer night. Dark photos. I like night photos for some reason. I'd like to paint these.

Important person sensor.

Mercifully, there is music to listen to and words to read. I've had an awful couple of weeks of work. So negative and depleting. I've started to dread the days. Tired beyond repair...

I plug the music into my ears and read words which some lovely people have strung together skillfully into novels and books and it suffocates all the other crud into disappearing for a while. Without music and books to replace my reality, I guess I'd be drinking gin straight from the bottle as the train careened me towards work each morning. Or freebasing chocolate?

Last night, I had a dream I was a nurse, surrounded by old and sick patients in wheelchairs. They were hungry and wanted food and medicine. I handed them dirty ashtrays.

That about sums it up.

A man got on the elevator this morning. He was so self-important, that despite there being 7 other people on the elevator (him being the last on), and despite the fact the he was going to the top floor out of 33 floors, he stood directly in front of the doors and stepped off at the first stop, assuming it would naturally escort him to the floor he needed before everyone else. Yes sir, the elevator has an important person sensor and will do your bidding directly! You don't have to wait for all us other chumps on floors below you to get off. Why would you when you've got buttons to punch on your Blackberry and tasks to delegate?

Who looked like a moron striding off the elevator and then scrambling to get back on? The big important business man, that's who.

Good morning campers.

Well well. Rats off to ya Canada. Happy Canada day to you. Canada woke me up at 5am this morning. Just could not get back to sleep, despite having the free option to sleep as long as I like, this being a holiday and all. I'll probably give it another try soon, but for now, I am outside, listening to the squawking red-winged black birds and watching fish jump out of the water (their version of swimming? suicide attempts?) Early in the morning is a pretty time to be up. Always reminds me of camping. In fact, it smells like camping right now. That smell of night cooled earth, slowly warming up. Actually, at this moment, the sun is well on high and things are different. The gentle sunrise became the blazing sun and the smell of camping is gone, replaced by the smell of hot day.

In parallel to camping again, I myself have had the transitioning feeling you get when you first get up at dawn, and leave the stale air of the tent. The dewy coolness outside is so fresh, it makes you feel like you could live off just bark and leaves and rainwater, like a clean little creature of the woods. As if you could cast off the shackles of the modern world-running water, electricity-and just groove on nature. Then the sun comes up higher, and it gets hot and bright, and you become aware of how badly you need a shower and a tooth brushing. Also, you start to feel the body heavening (That's right, heavening. New word. The act of making heavy.) effects of having had only 5 hours sleep and you feel like a thousand pound, bleary-eyed, dirty slug.

Well, it's not that bad. While camping, that feeling is usually fixed by diving into the nearest body of water. Here at home, a nice cup of tea helps.

Work has been annoyingly consuming my days lately. Little time for blogging. Summer means endless staff vacations for everyone except me (I had my four months so I can't truly complain, although I bet I can find a way to do so anyway). Since it's such a small office, one person being gone impacts everyone. Lots of crankiness and overworked, hassled women seething around the place. I try to remain distant but it ends up affecting me also.

I joined the YMCA, thinking it will be a way of getting me through the stress of it all. A frustration outlet, if you will. I've been trying the different classes they offer, to keep things fun, and gave aquafit a shot last night. It was just as you'd picture. The feeble and the obese, flapping and flopping around to the beat of the Michael Jackson and Abba covers, sung by chipmunks, or midgets or children or more likely, old guys with ponytails who's voices are then sped up to sound like chipmunks. Then again, it was the "suitable for all levels" class. Maybe advanced is a little more challenging. I hope so. Combining playing in the water, with actual, beneficial exercise would be ideal. We'll see.

In the meantime, back at home, I plan to spend this holiday (awkwardly placed in the middle of the week), doing as I choose and choosing as I do. Right now, I think I might pop back in the tent for a little morning nap before I embark any further on the day.

5:30 am sky.


6:30 am sky.


6:00 am tomatoes.

Allistair Winslow Thurston-Sackville

I think I've mentioned this chap before. There is a man on the train sometimes, who blows my mind. He is sooo weird. His head looks like an illustration from some Victorian-era, children's storybook. In the book, his name would be Allistair Winslow Thurston-Sackville and he's got a fairy castle in the garden where only nursey can find him, under the rosebush . Except here's the thing, he's at least 30 years old and his head is gigantic but he looks like a 9 year old, Victorian British boy. He's also at least 6 feet tall and weighs about 90lbs with skin so pale, it's purple. I've seen him on weekend trains, meticulously chewing a sandwich that looked to be prepared by a mother, his mother, I presume. His face is so skinny, the sandwich bit sticks out like a squirrel with a cheek full of acorns. Chew, chew, chew, chew, chew chew...each bite gets a thousand chews, bobbing up and down behind his cheek as he stares off into space.

He looks to be very, not bright, as it were. He walks, with a slight limp, taking tiny slow steps, although his legs are ridiculously long, with his belt cinched tightly at his tiny waist, holding up his mother-bought, navy chinos.

Recently though, I've been seeing him on the morning train. Reading a printout of some sort and looking dazedly around. His facial expression never changes from one of an expressionless poker-face with vacant eyes. Creeps me out. I know he must be mentally challenged but why is he so devoid of emotion?

Like any sane person would, I tried to follow him for as long as I could this morning, from the train. I had to pause and wait frequently, in order to be able to stay behind him, due to his slow gait. I was straining so hard to see what was in his tightly clutched, mesh bag, that I walked through a very busy intersection without even bothering to check if the light was green for me or not. I just followed the bag. Alas and alack, I could not tell what mysteries were within and at my place of work, I was forced to watch him continue on, loping slowly toward his destination of intrigue. Could he work? Does he attend some sort of school for oversized, Victorian illustrations come to life on the bodies of men? Why does he eat his sandwiches so meticulously? Did his mother teach him that? Does she lash him with a switch if he gobbles too quick?

I fear I shall never find the answers to these and more questions.

Do you smell a Danish fish?

I had to stay home Thursday because my sinuses were making me too dizzy to work without being able to lie down frequently. I didn't feel sick so I decided, if I was to stay home, I at least had to accomplish something instead of getting paid. So, I meticulously cleaned the house, then painted a fish. Sinuses are close to the brain right?

click and click

"Why do you act so shy in front of my camera?"

That title is a quote from a great song off a great album (What Happens Now)by Mike O'Neil, by the way.

Dang. I completely forgot what I was going to blog about today. It was smothered by all the other fascinating facts and events of life I guess. My days are so brimming with intrigue, it's hard to even remember my name sometimes.

I was noticing, this morning, how people are so much like dogs, only slightly more repressed. I can see everyone waiting for the train, holding themselves back from sniffing the butts of every new human that walks past. Restraining themselves from whipping their heads around to gawk, open-mouthed and panting at anything that strikes their fancy. Nearly barking at each other to be noticed or to mark off their territory. Some of us are cats and wish all the dogs would fuck-off and leave us alone.

When I exit the train station, I take this groovy, two-tiered escalator in a corridor with smokey, mirror walls. Everyone preens and admires themselves as they glide up or down on the escalator. It's hilarious. People giving themselves that, chin in the air, sideways glance, head cocked to the side look that humans reserve for checking themselves out in a mirror. Blatant self-idolatry. Crazy. I go to great lengths to avoid catching even the merest of glimpses of myself. Who wants to see that?? Not me. I can't stand seeing myself as it has nothing to do with what I think or feel in my head. I can't reconcile the two.

I've talked often of not ever feeling like I'm dressed to kill, or lookin' good in the 2 thumbs up in the mirror at yourself way. It's not really got to do with feeling unattractive or whatever. It's the whole chasm between what is shown and what is inside. My looks have nothing to do with me! I didn't choose them. I have very little influence on them. They are a misrepresenting falsehood is what they are. I disassociated from them a long time ago. Begone physical self, I said. I have no use for you, nor does anyone else.
Unfortunately, it's not that easy. Mirrors being a prime culprit in the constant barrage of reminders of the physical self. Each time I am forced to confront the image of myself, it's a grating, uncomfortable ordeal.

Oh I know, the physical does shape the internal self. Had I been born a striking beauty, I'm sure it would have changed some of my internal focus and priorities. Had I been born a hideous monster, the same would apply. I just think it's a shame is all. For all of us. Seems such a nuisance to have to manifest physically.

I had a detailed and drawn out mental and psychological evaluation in my late teens. One of things that poppped up as being particularily interesting to the researchers was my complete inability to form abstract thought when relating to my physical self. Made perfect sense to me. Still does. They scrambled to identify it clinically somehow and failed. Suckers. As far as I'm concerned it's perfectly normal. Just keep all mirrors and reflective surfaces away from me, and I can think and be just fine.

That wasn't really what I had planned on blogging about. It still hasn't come to me. All this talk of mirrors....

Pants pants pants...pants.

In the land outside of France, the ladies do wear pants. So do the mens.
Click on the pants to see more of the pants I made for fun and practice. Crazy hippy pants by gum.

I don't drink beer

So I found a product that helps with PMS. I've been trying it on and off for almost a year. If I don't take it, I get 2 weeks of PMS. If I do, I get 3 days. However, since PMS is like matter and can neither be created nor destroyed, the 2 weeks worth, just compacts itself into 3 days. So for 3 days I am completely, completely, completely inhuman. Today is day 1 of 3. I can't even believe I am upright today. Every function of my physical and mental self is somehow deranged. If I get through today without some sort of blackout or mad rampage, I will be thankful. So which would you prefer? 2 weeks of bad, bad PMS or 3 days of OH MY GOD I AM POSSESSED BY SATAN, pms?

I chose 3. The product, by the way, is Estrosense or Estrofactors. It contains broccoli compounds that bind to xenoestrogens and you eat lots of fibre and rid yourself of them. Glad to know? Sure you are!

I have all these little, tiny, discarded staples on my desk from documents I have been checking, that look like robot chest hair. It's gross. Why can't the robot wear a damn shirt?

I just wrote this whole rant about the "miming clown" essence in certain aspects of Quebec culture. It wasn't mean-spirited, just observational, but I at least have enough presence of mind today, to know that my judgement is completely unreliable for the next few days so...deleted.

In fact, why don't I just sign out now, before I inadvertently start thermonuclear war or the render some species extinct with a chain of events sparked by my words.

Oh, which reminds me, before I go, to tell you what a nerd I am sometimes (always).

I have discovered that there are earwigs in my garden this year, eating my plants. I read that you can create traps for them by setting shallow dishes of beer in the garden before nightfall. They will crawl in, get drunk and drown. Okay, so they don't get drunk, they just drown, but anyway...

So after work, I stopped at the variety store to buy a beer. One beer. We don't drink so we don't have these sitting around like many people do. I never drink beer so have no idea about brands. I wanted to buy something cheap but wondered: Was it alcohol content that mattered? Quality of hops? Smooth, light taste? What do earwigs need to be drawn to their death of beer?

As I stood staring at the beers, people decisively reached in front of me for their pick of beers. Note the plural. Everyone bought a pack of, or at least 3 or 4 beers. I was buying only one beer and for some reason, was super self-conscious about it.

Will the check out guy know I don't drink beer and think I've had a bad day or bad news and am trying to drown my sorrows with one girly beer? Will he wonder why I'm buying the cheapest, grossest beer possible? Will people see the dressed-for-work girl walking around with nothing but one beer and assume I'm going home to my empty bachelor apartment to share it with my cat?

Here's a brilliant idea, I'll explain myself to the chap at the cash. He's a young, groovy sort of guy. He would be the long-haired guy from Dazed & Confused if they made a Quebec version. Friendly, funny, easy-going, sort of permanently stoned air about him...

He says, "Will that be all?" no hidden meaning intended, but I laugh knowingly and say "Yep. One beer, is all."
He lets that slide, no problem, hey, he's an easy going guy. I could have just left it at that, but no.
"I'm going to kill insects with that beer."
He pauses, as he is a native french speaker, he needs to process both my English and the bewildering content of my sentance.
"Are you really going to do that?"
Ah finally, an entrance way to my justification.
"Yes I am. You can put beer in shallow dishes in the garden and kill the insect pests with it."
Ever the trouper, he bounces back to make light of this seriously delivered, unnecessary information.
"Ha-ha. A little for the bugs, a little for you."
Again! I could have just chuckled and left it at that. Awkward conversation, nicely saved by the Store guy. Nope.
"Ha, ha. No. I think this beer is bad for humans also." (Because I know beer, right. Joking about cheap beer. Ya, I'm totally cool. Ya beer. Me and beer. Ya.)"
Another pause from him. "That's pretty good beer."
"Oh is it? I don't drink beer."

* * *

Another fantastic social interaction on my part. Cheers to me. By the way, it did sort of work (the beer trap). I'll try it again but I'm getting T to buy the beer from now on.

I'm melting.

So summer has hit, kerplowy, just like that, boiling hot and humid. I have a sneaking suspicion this summer will be awful. Humid and unbearable. "That's the spirit Monsterteeth! Have a positive outlook!".

So while I was boiling on sunday, I made a strange dress, the first one I've made. I highly doubt I will ever wear it, but a gal's got to start somewhere yeah?

I posted it on a blog I share with 2 other ladies who share my interest in making clothes and the process involved. I am exploring the idea of clothes for less than perfect bodies and how to feel good in clothes. I also care a lot about recycling old clothes and keeping waste minimal. I want to find a way to offer clothes and things that don't make you feel bad about yourself either for the way you look, or for where your money is going. Saskia and Jenny share this ethos. Our blog is Indemaak. It's Dutch for, "in the process". Also, maak means make. And "in de" sounds like indie. Why Dutch? Well, Saskia is based from Utrecht so we used her Dutchness for extra fun.

We've only just begun, but you can go here: Indemaak to see our projects as they unfold.

CBC to shit on our unofficial national anthem.

I just read on the CBC website, that Wednesday night's Stanley Cup Playoffs (which I had been following religiously: Pens, you will reign next year...) was the last time they will play the Hockey Night In Canada Theme. If I hated the CBC already, which I do, I hate them forever and ever now. THEY CAN NOT DO THAT!!!! It's the fucking unofficial national anthem of Canada! Who does not have memories of hearing that song, Saturday night after dinner, from late winter till spring, while playing with Lego or something, sensing the excitement from the adults watching, knowing not to try to get your Dad's attention for at least 3 hours, even if you managed to figure out how levitate or spontaneously combust. And who's mom or dad doesn't remember the exact same thing themselves, from when they were kids(providing they are Canadian)? What in the bloody hell???? Everyone loves that theme, even people who don't watch hockey! They won't renew the rights they say. Idiots. A blazing, stinking example of everything that is wrong with the world. Blind, stubborn, heartless, selfish bureaucracy. Fuck you CBC. I hope some other sports channel buys it and everyone stops watching you forever.

Another installment of: Hasty but better than nothing

Hawks

Hawks are circling in front of the window at work. I'm 28 storeys in the air. There are at least 10 of them. They just keep circling near the window. Don't they circle when they spot prey? Oh, they've gone. For now.

My fingers feel like barfing.

Sometimes I lament the fact that I don't live in England. Mostly just because of the TV they have. Well, that's the only reason actually.

Watch the below and weep. What do we have on TV in Canada? Air Farce? Corner fucking Gas? Just typing the titles of those shows made my fingers feel like barfing. Even having reminded myself of the existence of those awful excuses for television programming, makes me want to projectile vomit my brain out of my mouth hole so I can forget about the fact they are really on TV. People get paid to write and produce and make sets and stuff for them? Everyone involved and everyone who watches should all be rounded up and caged into holding pens with rabid monkeys. You and I are sinners, merely for having awareness of these deformed monstrosities of television. Cleanse your soul with the below links:

Jazz Trance

Miso, miso, oriental prince in the land of soup

Mirror ball suit

The moon is an alabaster retard

A tasty yellow beef

Regaling Trumpets Ahoy!

Broo broo broooo! (sounds of trumpets announcing the arrival of good news)

I applied for a reduction on my student loans from the government, a feat which required much mathematical calculatorations and a year's worth of planning and photocopying of documents of photocopies, documented by photocopied photocopies....it was a process is all I'm saying and it bloody well worked! It bloody blood worked! The government is paying 10 thousand dollars of my student loans! I still owe more than that, but 10 thousand less than I did yesterday. Huzzah! Huzzah! Let the roasting of toasts and the beast's feasting begin! Feast you beasts, feast!

It's totally my bag, man.

I made it from an Ikea seat cushion cover. Take that Ikea!

Hasty, but better than nothing.

Top freaking Notch Morrissey

Happy Birthday Morrissey!

Morrissey will always be fantastic. I did have the chance of hugging him(smelled like cedar and incense, like church), but to have a conversation before one of us dies...that would be top freaking notch.

As a youngster:
Here.
Highlight:
Child to Morrissey: "Where are we going?"
Morrissey to child: "We're all going mad."
Child: "I thought we were going to Kew Gardens."

All growned up:
Here.
Highlight:
Jonthan Ross: "Do you like having new friends?"
Morrissey: "I don't like people to be honest."
JR: "How many friends have you got?"
Morrissey: "Seven."

Now everyone go have a piece of cake in his honour.

Have I mentionned how I like where I live?

On top of the merits I've already sung praises of, in regards to where I live, there's a lovely long bike path around the river also. GO here to see the boring pictures! HERE

Jaw Knee Mar

I'm compiling a list of things that sound like Johnny Marr. So far I have 2. One of them was discovered by Joby during a "discussion" with a French "person". Ha ha, I am only kidding about the the second set of quotations.

Ok so Johnny Marr:
a) J'en ai marre (french for "I've had it, I've had enough, I'm fed up etc)
b) Zhang Yimou - Chinese movie director. It's pronounced sort of like Johnny Marr but without the r at the end. - John eemow.

So yep. Sort of a weak list so far except for number 1 but who knows what treasures lie in other languages, revealing the universal significance of former Smiths guitarist.

I plucked a bunch of Lilacs from the tree that grows outside the church beside my work building. That's right, I stole from Jesus. It was raining and the branch was hard to break so, as I struggled with it, I shook the collected drops all over my head and then my bangs got all curly and queer looking when they dried later. Queer as in odd, not gay. I miss the old usage of queer. It's a perfect word for describing what it is. Something not quite odd, bizarre or strange, something a little less than all those. Queer. It's meaning is subtle. I really like it.
So my payback for having taken church lilacs, was having queer bangs all day. Oh and I was totally allergic to them. The lilacs, not my bangs.

Fake it till you make it.

I'm a firm beleiver in fake it till you make it. I mostly apply this to completely mundane situations like using the bathroom in an establishment when you are NOT a paying customer. You walk in like you're meeting someone, no hesitation and head straight for that bathroom. Few people want to walk up and confront someone who looks like they are confident in what they are doing. It's a fun game.

I apply this style to watching youtube videos at work. I put in my headphones and just use one and play it like it's part of my job. I don't try to hide it and no one questions it. If I tried to be all "hey, I'm feeling guilty about this so I'll be discreet", someone would call it. Instead, I just put on a concentrated look, maybe hold my finger to the earphone like I'm getting a newsflash: "This just in: kittens playing with yarn sure make for cute video." I haven't really watched any kitten videos. Maybe I should. Maybe I should.

Asking asking, always multi-tasking.

You think I ain't be up to no good?? I be all up in good!
What I mean is, I seem to be having a heck of a time finding moments to draw but I made a fantastic bag out of an Ikea couch cover, readied the gardens for planting, made some super black bean burgers and began the reworking of two unwearable sweaters into one unwearable sweater. So hah! I think I'll try to bring the comics to work so I can add to them whenever I have free moments. Multi-tasking little son of a gun is my new game.

Nothing new, but new for me.

Ah dear me. As you know, one of my goals in California was to lose weight. Blah, blah blah. It didnt' work and probably ruined many days with frustration and disapointment. Out of lack of choice, I've started down a new road of acceptance. I've been struggling, like most every other woman on the planet with this stupid, stupid issue ever since I can remember. Being thin doesn't bring self-acceptance, I've been there and it didnt' help one bit.

I have no plan of loading up on jogging pants and a motorized-cart so I can fill up on cheesies and bread sandwiches (bread between bread of course. I have never eaten this by the way, and never will.) I actually already eat very healthily. I can't explain why I'm fatter than not but there you go. I'm accepting it. Buying some new clothes that fit, continuing to eat well and trying to just be generally more active in a pleasant way, in ways that make me feel good. If I was unsure about this strategy, it's really being cemented by my co-workers. Women in their late 30's and early 40's. One never eats. Period. One has a tendancy toward plumpness like me and is trying diet pills and a 700 calorie per day limit ( a child couldn't live of off that.). She has also convinced herself that oranges make her fat and only one specific type of apple doesn't. Another has lost lots of weight by doing 40 minutes of aerobics, weight training and then another 20 minutes of aerobics, five days a week and eating nothing but spinach salad for lunch. We are grown women. It's perfectly acceptable, it would seem, to treat ourselves like some sort of powerless lab rat, employing all sorts of bizarre experiments, just to lose 10 or 20 pounds. And that's all we're talking about here, 10 or 20 pounds. I've not resorted to such odd methods as these, but it's consumed(pardon the pun) me enough that I'm no different, psychologically, if I go on obsessing this way.

The mirror is the enemy. It's always upon looking in the mirror that my resolve shatters and the evil, crazy, weight obsessed moron in my head chips in her "opinion"(and it's a her of course, because we all now that only certain gay men really want us to be as skinny as we are trying to be and for some crazy reason, women enforce it worse than anyone else). If anyone ever talked to me like that voice does, I would punch them in the teeth. I know it's nothing new. I know entire cities could be filled with essays and self-help books and manifestoes etc. on the topic. What can I say.

I can say that I bought some new clothes that fit, so I don't feel like a stuffed sausage and I will put them on and avoid the mirror and try to take good care of myself and see how it goes. I have a feeling that I may prove to myself that I can feel good. I must work hard to punch that voice in the teeth and the throat until she can no longer tell me I don't look good. I just want to feel good. Since I know being thin does not feel good if you are killing yourself mentally or physically to get there, I'll try a new route. I can already feel the rising panic and indignation of the witch woman in my head, but she is on my shit list now and I dare say, I will be the death of her.

Squawking Vs.

It's been sunny. Cool in the mornings and warm in the afternoon. Sort of like California, only without the rotting oranges and pesticide scents. I rather enjoy taking a deep breath outside around our home. Even if the river is about as polluted as the Ganges, it's still water and somehow it doesn't smell. It almost seems to filter out the air somehow. I like the early morning damp freshness and the late evening cool. I went for a walk last night. I spied in all the homes as I walked by. They all look so cozy at night, with little lights flickering and people in repose. It was so quiet.

The past few mornings, I've walked to the train while geese flew overhead in their big sqwuaking V formations. I had a desire to be able to hang out at their level for a bit, just to see what it's like. It looks so communal and purposeful, but I'm sure all of us commuters look like that from above. Filing on and off the train in droves. It seems as though it's even busier than usual. I had a nostalgia for it while I was gone. Central station and the 9am rush. Feeling in the center of things. Feeling like you're part of a greater whole, knowing you're not the only one off to toil in an office for the day.

With all the jobs I've had in the past, the trek to them always had me feeling so isolated. As if everyone else around possessed a special freedom excluding me. Sentenced to go alone, to work in the bookstore, or the pottery store or wherever it was I was being paid minimally for my time. I miss walking though. I've always walked or biked a substantial distance to previous jobs. Especially in Toronto. Living in the east end, I had a lovely route along the back streets and through the park. The commuter train takes that from me. I trade my daily work walks for living in peace outside of the city. I can still skulk around in the evening but it's a different sort of walk. A promenade if you will. Will you?

Trying is the thing.

Oh ma gawd. I'm back at work. Or rather I was earlier today and yesterday. Everything is exactly the same. Eerily so. It's making me feel as if I hadn't been away at all.

Back on the daily train ride again. I've been reading. This is the first time I've read Katherine Mansfield. She is hilarious! Some of the funniest, writing I've read in a very long time. Gorgeous and funny writing. I see now why Virginia Woolf said she was the only writer to incite her jealousy. As I was saying though, back on the old train everyday. I dislike people so much when I have to interact with them but observing them, well gosh, it's one of my favourite things. I especially love to observe friends. Lovers and couples are boring. They are together through a biological imperative to procreate. Chemicals and hormones cause them to abide one another but what about friends? Fascinating. Two random strangers connecting and forming a bond for no observable purpose. Then again, what do I know about anthropology. Perhaps there is some sort of biological benefit to the universe from friend-bonds, but if so, I choose to remain entirely ignorant of it. I like the nonsensical magic of friends. I want to be able to stare and stare. Beside me this morning, two heavily made-up women in their forties, across from each other with high heels and manicures, leaning in toward each other conspiratorially, lowering their voices to tell a scandalous detail or an embarrassing truth. Couldn't I just stare at them? Couldn't I listen closely to their talk? They are relating even though they don't have to. I wouldn't want to talk to either of them individually or befriend them myself in any capacity, but to watch...

Did I mention that I'm back at work? I am. I can't even figure out myself how I feel about it. I know that I don't want to make all the same mistakes. I want to enjoy my free-time more inspite of the fact that I must work most of the days. I want to guard an inner calm and happiness that can't be cracked by the doldrums and dramas of work. I want to stay removed from work life as much as I can to reserve energy for my real life. I want to walk and run and skip and laugh, tee-hee, like that. I want to keep drawing comics. I want to come home after work and feel as though I still have something to give. Ha! I know, I know. Good freaking luck. It's been two days and I already sort of feel that one wrong turn in my head and I'll be weary like an immortal donkey. All these hopes I pronounce, so often failing or falling low of the bar, but still, trying is the thing right? Of course it is.