this is my last post on this account.
the people whom i have innocently given access to this site have rendered it, for lack of a better word, impotent. i cannot be as honest as i would like. i hate the one-sided voyeurism; YOU know everything about ME but are too socially immature to give me the same courtesy. it's been a problem for awhile. i've started keeping a palpable journal again, but, i'm ashamed to say, physically writing is annoying. it is annoying in a way i don't remember it being. and every time i'm PHYSICALLY writing in my PHYSICAL journal, i can't help but think: FUCK YOU. fuck you for making me feel like have to fucking hide.
being that this is on the interwebs and will never, ever go away, i am not deleting this blog. this has been my journal for the last 6 years of my life- 6 very tumultuous years. writing here kept me sane, and i don;t care if that's cliched, because it's true. i would hate to lose this just because a few assholes fucked it up.
confidential to fabian: STOP STALKING ME. stop calling me, stop emailing me. I AM NOT INTERESTED IN BEING YOUR FRIEND, OR ACQUAINTANCE, OR ANYTHING. DO NOT CONTACT ME AGAIN OR I WILL CALL THE POLICE.
everyone else, all 3 of you, thanks for reading my shit. expect an email soon.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Monday, August 08, 2011
today, for example.
wake at 719am to my neighbor loudly jingling her keys as she leaves her apartment. i stick my head out the window. "could you please try to be quieter? that wakes me up every morning." i'm not exaggerating. "i don't know how i can be any quieter" she replies blithely. i suppose that is true. it's not her fault i get off work at 2am. if i were to start jostling MY keys and stomping around and otherwise making a fuss when i get home, which i don;t currently do, perhaps she would sympathize. i fall back asleep thinking spiteful dark thoughts.
*
dream about my ex-husband. i was sexually involved with his ex. it was not sexy.
*
912am. clouds. put on a sweater. this has been a fucking horrible summer.
*
clean my house. manic. vacuum, scrub toilet, cat boxes. scrub kitchen floor. lay on kitchen floor to try to fix broken garbage disposal; my sink does not drain at all. i can't get it to work. call landlord. somebody will be by in the morning.
*
go to bookstore. buy a phillip k dick novel on sale. i briefly forget my phone number when the clerk asks for it, which freaks me out. i automatically gave him my old number from anchorage, the one i haven't had since 2001. my brain is fermenting the most useless shit... buy yerba mate tea. drink it sweatily on the bus. brian jonestown massacre and the beta band. try not to fall asleep.
*
library. a book called "the sexy book of sexy sex", or something. apparently komodo dragons are hermaphroditic? or was that a ruse? it's in the same vein as "america: the book." it includes pick-up lines. if you're hitting on a typesetter (and who isn't, really, these days?): "i'd like to inspect your colon before your period." there are also ways listed of how to be a Bad Girl. wound him! get him arrested! pee on him! tie him up! tie him up and then pee on him! and then, you know, defecate.
*
started reading the phillip k dick book. it sucks. it's BORING. i am usually hypersalivating about tales of suburban malaise, especially if they're set in midcentury semblences of prosper... but this. FUCK this. i thought phillip k dick was literature. i am pissed off by how shitty it is. i want to, and will, finish it, because maybe it suddenly gets amazing... i rarely do not finish books. when one is so astonishingly bad, it unsettles.
*
take bus to meet someone whom i haven't seen in a year. he is pleased to show off his contacts. he's wearing the same cologne. he wore cologne. i always found that endearing. he complains about his girlfriend. i tell the story about the guy who bit my face. we go dancing. it's all the same people. there's the perpetually inebriated guy with the huge head who holds my body too close; there's the old guy with absolutely no rhythm; there's the guy who i thought i danced well with but who made the effort to come over later and tell me "if you took more classes, you'd probably be really good."
*
i don't remember the bus ride home. i was sober and staring out the window. life was an amorphous blur. it's seemed that way an awful lot lately. constant dreamscape. ten miles, two hours later, whatever... where the fuck was i?
*
home. chopping cabbage. a friend left a box of produce on my doorstep last week, with two sunflowers on top. cabbage, mixed with tahini dressing, to be eaten with crackers at work tomorrow. singing along too loudly to del shannon. bits of cabbage floating in my undraining sink. xmas lights on. a sip of brennivin, still in my freezer from iceland. india temple incense. there are still vacuum tracks on the carpet.
*
o was asking me about polyamory. i said that i was once vehemently opposed to it, but now i realize that it's impossible for one person to provide everything you need. "people elicit different things" i said, or something. i have been very vanilla with some people and completely kinky with others; some people are tender, some are ferocious; some are emotional and some just FUCK. and all of that is good. i need all of those things, i WANT all of those things, and it's very rare to find it all in one human. it's egotistical and arrogant to assume i or anyone else has the ability to fully satistfy another.
he didn't seem horrified by my answer, so that was good.
the more i know, the stupider i feel. surely that's a bumper sticker somewhere.
*
apparently van gogh suffered from gonorrhea. screaming gonorrhea! i thought it was syphillis that made him mad, but i may have been confusing him with henry VIII.
*
montreal seems so long ago. i am reticent to describe exactly how much i loved it. i was thinking today: i just need to marry a guy from the EU and get citizenship! they could be amurrikan, i could have access to the countries i want to live in! backs done scratched! the idea is grotesque. is it as grotesque as marrying for love and getting divorced twice? perhaps.
i'm in there somewhere.
returning to seattle: this is home. it is my base in which i can be at ease and jaded and familiar and competent and myself. that is the ultimate goal for any place. i was so happy to be back. but, shit. i loved montreal more than i wanted to admit. i am worried that my chickenshittery will talk me out of where i need to be. i don;t know if i'm brave enough to learn a new culture and a new language and a new world. i don;t want to END in seattle. i don't want to feel so comfortable (not to be confused with "happy") here that i might.
*
meanwhile, life is getting interesting... today was an anomaly. really!
*
no edit
*
dream about my ex-husband. i was sexually involved with his ex. it was not sexy.
*
912am. clouds. put on a sweater. this has been a fucking horrible summer.
*
clean my house. manic. vacuum, scrub toilet, cat boxes. scrub kitchen floor. lay on kitchen floor to try to fix broken garbage disposal; my sink does not drain at all. i can't get it to work. call landlord. somebody will be by in the morning.
*
go to bookstore. buy a phillip k dick novel on sale. i briefly forget my phone number when the clerk asks for it, which freaks me out. i automatically gave him my old number from anchorage, the one i haven't had since 2001. my brain is fermenting the most useless shit... buy yerba mate tea. drink it sweatily on the bus. brian jonestown massacre and the beta band. try not to fall asleep.
*
library. a book called "the sexy book of sexy sex", or something. apparently komodo dragons are hermaphroditic? or was that a ruse? it's in the same vein as "america: the book." it includes pick-up lines. if you're hitting on a typesetter (and who isn't, really, these days?): "i'd like to inspect your colon before your period." there are also ways listed of how to be a Bad Girl. wound him! get him arrested! pee on him! tie him up! tie him up and then pee on him! and then, you know, defecate.
*
started reading the phillip k dick book. it sucks. it's BORING. i am usually hypersalivating about tales of suburban malaise, especially if they're set in midcentury semblences of prosper... but this. FUCK this. i thought phillip k dick was literature. i am pissed off by how shitty it is. i want to, and will, finish it, because maybe it suddenly gets amazing... i rarely do not finish books. when one is so astonishingly bad, it unsettles.
*
take bus to meet someone whom i haven't seen in a year. he is pleased to show off his contacts. he's wearing the same cologne. he wore cologne. i always found that endearing. he complains about his girlfriend. i tell the story about the guy who bit my face. we go dancing. it's all the same people. there's the perpetually inebriated guy with the huge head who holds my body too close; there's the old guy with absolutely no rhythm; there's the guy who i thought i danced well with but who made the effort to come over later and tell me "if you took more classes, you'd probably be really good."
*
i don't remember the bus ride home. i was sober and staring out the window. life was an amorphous blur. it's seemed that way an awful lot lately. constant dreamscape. ten miles, two hours later, whatever... where the fuck was i?
*
home. chopping cabbage. a friend left a box of produce on my doorstep last week, with two sunflowers on top. cabbage, mixed with tahini dressing, to be eaten with crackers at work tomorrow. singing along too loudly to del shannon. bits of cabbage floating in my undraining sink. xmas lights on. a sip of brennivin, still in my freezer from iceland. india temple incense. there are still vacuum tracks on the carpet.
*
o was asking me about polyamory. i said that i was once vehemently opposed to it, but now i realize that it's impossible for one person to provide everything you need. "people elicit different things" i said, or something. i have been very vanilla with some people and completely kinky with others; some people are tender, some are ferocious; some are emotional and some just FUCK. and all of that is good. i need all of those things, i WANT all of those things, and it's very rare to find it all in one human. it's egotistical and arrogant to assume i or anyone else has the ability to fully satistfy another.
he didn't seem horrified by my answer, so that was good.
the more i know, the stupider i feel. surely that's a bumper sticker somewhere.
*
apparently van gogh suffered from gonorrhea. screaming gonorrhea! i thought it was syphillis that made him mad, but i may have been confusing him with henry VIII.
*
montreal seems so long ago. i am reticent to describe exactly how much i loved it. i was thinking today: i just need to marry a guy from the EU and get citizenship! they could be amurrikan, i could have access to the countries i want to live in! backs done scratched! the idea is grotesque. is it as grotesque as marrying for love and getting divorced twice? perhaps.
i'm in there somewhere.
returning to seattle: this is home. it is my base in which i can be at ease and jaded and familiar and competent and myself. that is the ultimate goal for any place. i was so happy to be back. but, shit. i loved montreal more than i wanted to admit. i am worried that my chickenshittery will talk me out of where i need to be. i don;t know if i'm brave enough to learn a new culture and a new language and a new world. i don;t want to END in seattle. i don't want to feel so comfortable (not to be confused with "happy") here that i might.
*
meanwhile, life is getting interesting... today was an anomaly. really!
*
no edit
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
another check-off
montreal. this place makes sense. i am happy. it is good to be alive. to LIVE. i have no regrets about the shit of july. i have no regrets about any of the long-time-coming decisions i've made over the past few months in particular, actually. * this is in cimetiere de notre dame des neiges. i was all alone there. i first noticed the sound whilst taking the muddy-path, steep way up mont royal (in a skirt and sandals, thank you). i thought the path was lined with faulty streetlamps, but there were no streetlamps... just this raucous, then abating, buzzing noise from the trees. i saw no flying insects. what the fuck was it? it was in the cemetery trees, then vanished when i got to rue st laurent. 
excellent street art abounds. apparently i unconsciously travel to places with amazing shit everywhere. 
it took closer scrutiny to realize that this is an advertisement for shoes. 
i'm on my 3rd book in 3 days. i first picked up "cockroach" by rawi hage at the university bookstore, because i'd read all the houellebecq on their shelf, but i ended up getting "the rum diary" instead. so i found it today here, at a fantastic used bookstore on ave laurier, for less than what it cost in seattle. at one point he's staring out the window at a wintry montreal and fogging up the cold glass. "my own breath was obstructing my view of the world!" i like that. it hit a nerve.
excellent street art abounds. apparently i unconsciously travel to places with amazing shit everywhere. 
it took closer scrutiny to realize that this is an advertisement for shoes. 
i'm on my 3rd book in 3 days. i first picked up "cockroach" by rawi hage at the university bookstore, because i'd read all the houellebecq on their shelf, but i ended up getting "the rum diary" instead. so i found it today here, at a fantastic used bookstore on ave laurier, for less than what it cost in seattle. at one point he's staring out the window at a wintry montreal and fogging up the cold glass. "my own breath was obstructing my view of the world!" i like that. it hit a nerve.
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