I love snow that goes up
When I see you the music changes
A bum steels
Your bike wheels
Prophet Offit
That part of my pie chart is a Pac Man
The mountain is unknowable - it is my experience with it that makes it something.
"He just sits there mute until someone hints at something depressing or awful and suddenly he lights up like a Christmas tree and wants to tell everybody about how terribly sad it all is."
Who brings the light to those
who need to know their shadows?
A guy comes into a barbershop and says, "What's fast? I'm double parked".
"A mohawk," the barber says.
"Sounds good," says the man.
If you try to control your face to show honesty it becomes transparent, so it is just as clear when honesty is projected through it.
Surrender your pride from the battle it's fighting so you can put it in charge of being capable of change.
Superficial and essential are sometimes interchangeable, such as in, desire, rhythm, beauty, etc. (especially where the body is concerned).
We need the darkness to know the difference
My eyes do what all eyes do
and go where all eyes go
I've only been where I have been
and know but what I know
"When the world is beautiful"
When objects animate to defy you what you are seeing is a reflection of yourself.
Blue sun on a black horse
Put yourself in the service of something bigger than yourself and stop trying to climb on top of it
Oh creature of my commanding
I am grateful for your understanding
I am not the peak of this pole
Oh creature you are not my own
For the edge of the world I am making
And with me - you're coming
But oh Creature I am not staying
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
October 20 2004:
Even before I opened my eyes this morning I felt doomed. It was already 8:45. I wondered why Laura hadn’t called. I looked around for my phone, thinking it must be stuffed in the recesses of my pants or jacket where I couldn’t hear it, but it was sitting on the computer desk on the other side of the room. I knew I hadn’t missed her call then because I had been hitting the snooze button since 7:30. It was too late to take Lili to school anyway, and seeing as Laura hadn’t called I assumed all was well enough and I might as well get right the hell back to bed, which is when the phone rang. I remember the conversation only vaguely better than I remember the dream it proceeded – which had something to do with the grave mishandling of a time machine – but it went more or less as follows:
“Good morning Laura,” I didn’t even look at the phone – she’s the only one who would ever have cause to call me at this hour.
Half asleep she croaked, “Are you still asleep?”
“Mhm.”
“Me too – what the hell happened?”
“I dunno,” I said.
“Should I meet you at the store?”
“Hell no,” I said, “I gotta go to work.” Then she made some feeble sounds of dissapointment and we hung up. I fell immediately back to sleep and continued swatting my alarm clock until 10:30 – already an hour late for work – at which point I called in and said I would be late.
I worried all the way to work and told myself that some days start out like this and end much better. I wasn’t thinking about Lili or about missing work. I was still ruminating over the familiar sense of doom I had awoken with. I was doomed not to understand what anyone was saying or what they wanted from me today, I was doomed not to get a phone call or even a passing thought from Erin, I was especially doomed to want one despite my abounding denial of the fact, and moreover I was doomed to worry about and curse myself for it – all of it – and to bewail foolishly over the days when I had it.
I should interject here. I felt this way late last night too, and the night before, and mostly every night for the last good solid couple of months. This is not so troubling in itself because I have felt this way more or less consistently for years - spotted here and there with periods of relief lasting sometimes hours, sometimes weeks. I had a good couple of months towards the end of last summer. Anyway, so last night I got stoned with Hernan and watched a real piece of shit we rented from Moon Boy and then this morning bid Hernan happy trails as he was leaving for a week to visit his parents in Calgary. When I got into bed I began going over how to fix things up a little, and I thought it would be a really good idea to start this daily journal writing crap again. I opened my eyes, looked across the room at my computer and said out loud, “Journal! Journal! Journal! Journal!” so I wouldn’t forget. I thought if I was constantly being forced to remember my days I might begin to find them amusing again. So that’s what this is about. I think it’s working because it reads so far like I’m writing to a third party. That’s good. The eye in the sky – that’s who I lived for in those days when I say I had it, and was happy. (I know better than to derive any real hope from this little reprieve. It’s possible to force a kind of happiness over yourself for a stretch, but when one day you hit your wife you can’t blame it on the six months of snow you also said you loved.)
No one cared that I was late, except Dianna, who is a cold, spiteful shadow of a person with nothing else to care about. She didn’t say anything, even though I was a full 45 minutes later than I said I would be when I called. She just glared at me as I wheeled my bike past the front counter and disappeared out the back door to get coffee. At about eleven I put on a big show like I was finally getting to it, and went and hid in the dark room where by fortunate circumstance no one can bother me without knocking first. I turned on the CBC, ate a cinnamon bun and went right back to sleep on the dark room floor. I think it was getting close to noon when Dianna finally knocked and yelled, “Dan!”
“Just a minute,” I chirped, and before opening the door picked up a photo off the counter I could have been working on. “Yes?” I said, pulling the door open. She’s one of those people who’s face is so heavy with dissatisfaction you you want to lunge out and catch it before it hits the floor. She looked right at me – she’s always looks right at you like she’s trying to make a point.
“Molly Wood is coming into look at another proof in the next couple of hours so you better get to it,” she said. “She’s only in town for a few hours and she needs to see it.” I smiled right at her like this was good news and pushed the door shut again without a word.
The rest of my day was just as mindless. I printed a bunch of shitty photos of a White Spot and had lunch with Matt. We ate free burger’s and fries courtesy of our ludicrously unhappy friends who work the burger joint down at the market. (Keith says he stares down at the deep fat fryer all day and thinks about melting his face off in it.) I didn’t bring them any fruit today like I like to do, but between Matt and I we tipped them about five bucks. Hernan called me from just over Kelowna, he said, to ask me to pick up his sunglasses for him, which he left at Benny’s Market this morning on his way to the airport. I'd forgotten he was leaving so told him, “Why don’t you get them your fucking self?” to which he became frustrated for having to explain. “Aren’t you not supposed to use your phone on an airplane?” I asked, “Doesn’t it fuck up the signals or something?”
“No,” he said, “it doesn’t.” I was sure he was wrong so I didn’t argue the point and got the hell off the phone. On the way home I thought of an obvious thing I was doing wrong with my life and had the idea to write it down. I thought I should continue to make a list of these things (I have already cataloged a few) and I should pin it to my door. When I got in I hauled my typewriter out into the middle of the kitchen floor and wrote:
BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE! REMEMBER TO:
- LOOK THEM IN THE EYE
- REMEMBER WHAT IS HAPPENING
These were the two things I had already noted. I couldn’t remember the new one and eventually gave up, stuck the incomplete list to the door and went to return that shitty video to Moon Boy down the street.
I was beckoned by the glow of John, Dave and Grae’s living room window next door to Moon Boy’s and went inside to complain some more. I don’t feel so bad complaining to them because it's probably the only thing we could do competently as a team. When I came in they were watching a hockey rerun and John was all antsy. We watched the game for a little while and talked about I don’t even know what, and then I just came out with it. “I think I hate her,” I said. They both laughed right away, which made me feel a little better, and then John said, “The Unicorn?” I said yes and then I said I hated myself too.
“The difference between you and me is,” John said, “when I get depressed I blame everyone else for being uninteresting.” Then Dave drove us all over the city looking for a slurpee machine that worked. He took us to the Shell station way up on Clark and 12th because he said the quality of the ones at the 7-11 down the street has been slipping. But he only drinks cola slurpees and the Pepsi one was turned off at the Shell station so we had to go Main and 15th. I ate a doughnut and then we drove home.
This has been somewhat uplifting.
“Good morning Laura,” I didn’t even look at the phone – she’s the only one who would ever have cause to call me at this hour.
Half asleep she croaked, “Are you still asleep?”
“Mhm.”
“Me too – what the hell happened?”
“I dunno,” I said.
“Should I meet you at the store?”
“Hell no,” I said, “I gotta go to work.” Then she made some feeble sounds of dissapointment and we hung up. I fell immediately back to sleep and continued swatting my alarm clock until 10:30 – already an hour late for work – at which point I called in and said I would be late.
I worried all the way to work and told myself that some days start out like this and end much better. I wasn’t thinking about Lili or about missing work. I was still ruminating over the familiar sense of doom I had awoken with. I was doomed not to understand what anyone was saying or what they wanted from me today, I was doomed not to get a phone call or even a passing thought from Erin, I was especially doomed to want one despite my abounding denial of the fact, and moreover I was doomed to worry about and curse myself for it – all of it – and to bewail foolishly over the days when I had it.
I should interject here. I felt this way late last night too, and the night before, and mostly every night for the last good solid couple of months. This is not so troubling in itself because I have felt this way more or less consistently for years - spotted here and there with periods of relief lasting sometimes hours, sometimes weeks. I had a good couple of months towards the end of last summer. Anyway, so last night I got stoned with Hernan and watched a real piece of shit we rented from Moon Boy and then this morning bid Hernan happy trails as he was leaving for a week to visit his parents in Calgary. When I got into bed I began going over how to fix things up a little, and I thought it would be a really good idea to start this daily journal writing crap again. I opened my eyes, looked across the room at my computer and said out loud, “Journal! Journal! Journal! Journal!” so I wouldn’t forget. I thought if I was constantly being forced to remember my days I might begin to find them amusing again. So that’s what this is about. I think it’s working because it reads so far like I’m writing to a third party. That’s good. The eye in the sky – that’s who I lived for in those days when I say I had it, and was happy. (I know better than to derive any real hope from this little reprieve. It’s possible to force a kind of happiness over yourself for a stretch, but when one day you hit your wife you can’t blame it on the six months of snow you also said you loved.)
No one cared that I was late, except Dianna, who is a cold, spiteful shadow of a person with nothing else to care about. She didn’t say anything, even though I was a full 45 minutes later than I said I would be when I called. She just glared at me as I wheeled my bike past the front counter and disappeared out the back door to get coffee. At about eleven I put on a big show like I was finally getting to it, and went and hid in the dark room where by fortunate circumstance no one can bother me without knocking first. I turned on the CBC, ate a cinnamon bun and went right back to sleep on the dark room floor. I think it was getting close to noon when Dianna finally knocked and yelled, “Dan!”
“Just a minute,” I chirped, and before opening the door picked up a photo off the counter I could have been working on. “Yes?” I said, pulling the door open. She’s one of those people who’s face is so heavy with dissatisfaction you you want to lunge out and catch it before it hits the floor. She looked right at me – she’s always looks right at you like she’s trying to make a point.
“Molly Wood is coming into look at another proof in the next couple of hours so you better get to it,” she said. “She’s only in town for a few hours and she needs to see it.” I smiled right at her like this was good news and pushed the door shut again without a word.
The rest of my day was just as mindless. I printed a bunch of shitty photos of a White Spot and had lunch with Matt. We ate free burger’s and fries courtesy of our ludicrously unhappy friends who work the burger joint down at the market. (Keith says he stares down at the deep fat fryer all day and thinks about melting his face off in it.) I didn’t bring them any fruit today like I like to do, but between Matt and I we tipped them about five bucks. Hernan called me from just over Kelowna, he said, to ask me to pick up his sunglasses for him, which he left at Benny’s Market this morning on his way to the airport. I'd forgotten he was leaving so told him, “Why don’t you get them your fucking self?” to which he became frustrated for having to explain. “Aren’t you not supposed to use your phone on an airplane?” I asked, “Doesn’t it fuck up the signals or something?”
“No,” he said, “it doesn’t.” I was sure he was wrong so I didn’t argue the point and got the hell off the phone. On the way home I thought of an obvious thing I was doing wrong with my life and had the idea to write it down. I thought I should continue to make a list of these things (I have already cataloged a few) and I should pin it to my door. When I got in I hauled my typewriter out into the middle of the kitchen floor and wrote:
BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE! REMEMBER TO:
- LOOK THEM IN THE EYE
- REMEMBER WHAT IS HAPPENING
These were the two things I had already noted. I couldn’t remember the new one and eventually gave up, stuck the incomplete list to the door and went to return that shitty video to Moon Boy down the street.
I was beckoned by the glow of John, Dave and Grae’s living room window next door to Moon Boy’s and went inside to complain some more. I don’t feel so bad complaining to them because it's probably the only thing we could do competently as a team. When I came in they were watching a hockey rerun and John was all antsy. We watched the game for a little while and talked about I don’t even know what, and then I just came out with it. “I think I hate her,” I said. They both laughed right away, which made me feel a little better, and then John said, “The Unicorn?” I said yes and then I said I hated myself too.
“The difference between you and me is,” John said, “when I get depressed I blame everyone else for being uninteresting.” Then Dave drove us all over the city looking for a slurpee machine that worked. He took us to the Shell station way up on Clark and 12th because he said the quality of the ones at the 7-11 down the street has been slipping. But he only drinks cola slurpees and the Pepsi one was turned off at the Shell station so we had to go Main and 15th. I ate a doughnut and then we drove home.
This has been somewhat uplifting.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Waitressing
The bartender keeps telling me to squish my breasts together and put them on the counter and he'll get my drinks quicker. Its funny at first (sort of...) but it becomes clear this is a truth around here. Its my second shift and all the waitresses keep giving me their ugly bits of wisdom; how to smile, offer water to the girls, remember what liquor is premium or select, ring in items and which tables are liable to walk out without paying, what clothes get more tips and how to BE NICE. I really don't want to be nice, I want to be mean. I don't like the way people are watching me, evaluating me, waiting for me to fuck up. Waiting to talk about me, a performer. I'm not a performer, yet here I am performing a stupid fucked up function. Slathered in fake. Absorbed in disgust.
Friday, August 21, 2009
blah
I’m such an incredibly irrational person. I mean, say for instance there’s a girl in my life and there appears to be some kind of mutual attraction. Immediately in this situation I start thinking one of two things; I either think, holy shit, I better think of some way to make this girl want to be with me forever, or I start to think of ways to extricate myself from this situation so I never have to go thru the agony of talking to this person ever again. Sometimes I think these things in such close proximity of each other I feel like a schizophrenic person. To say I’m not casual is an incredible understatement. It’s important to add here that I start thinking these things well before I’ve kissed this girl or had any sort of discussion as to how either of us is feeling. I flip flop wildly between thinking I’m way too nuts for such a wonderful girl, to thinking, oh my god, I can’t handle listening to this neurotic person try to impress me with how smart she is. People talk about fear of commitment as if it’s a bad thing. That is totally insane, especially for a person like me; you see, I don’t choose who my dating partners are, I don’t see a nice looking girl and walk over to her and strike up a conversation, buy her a drink and have her write her number on my hand in ball point pen. No, I have to jump in there when a girl is still confused by my erratic, bullshit behavior, and hope I can keep her sort of interested while at the same time not scaring the shit out of her. My fear of commitment is one of the only rational fears I have; I’m terrified of bed bugs, my boss, the cops, teenagers and cab drivers-- the list could go on and on. And always at the top of my list is pretty girls, but even when things seem to be going well with a girl, I’m hugely suspicious of myself and this other person. And for good reason. This is potentially someone I’m going to be spending the majority of my time with. It’s not like I’m interviewing someone to do my taxes once a year or to be my dental hygienist. This person cannot annoy me; it’s not an option. And god knows I’m annoying; and inconsiderate; and jealous, ill tempered and out of shape. Somehow still, I occasionally find myself in a position where a girl briefly considers spending her free time with me in a romantic capacity. First of all, the bravery of these women alone is commendable, but that on top of it they have to face my mindless, insecure, self-hating scrutiny is enough to drive a man insane.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Stupid fucking drawings for your stupid fucking eyes.
I had a daydream today about putting on an art show. I’d call it, “stupid fucking drawings for your stupid fucking eyes.” It would be full of drawings done when I’m high and it could be accompanied with writing I’ve done in my most desperate and volatile times. In my dream I become the toast of the town. The reality however is quite different; I drew for pleasure for the first time in months yesterday. I went to my local blenz café and was shocked by my inability to draw a satisfactory street scene. My lines were unconfident and there was a real clinical look to everything. Not to mention the complete lack of style displayed. And I don’t mean style in the superficial, egotistical sense of the word; I’ve long since abandoned my teenaged dreams of having a recognizable “personal style.” When I say style I mean flavor, I want to draw like a professional but I also want it to have nuanced little graphic cheats and for everything to appear effortless and organic. Even when I’m drawing something as mundane as a street corner, I’d like for there to be a unified visual statement in the drawing. It’s fine if the statement is a stolen one too, I’m not proud. Writing about art is STUPID. I tried to make up for the lack of life in my street drawings by throwing in the usual cast of cartoon mainstays, these are usually bunnies with pig noses, turtles, sexy girls who kind of look like they have down syndrome and cute witches and clowns. None of these old favorites succeeded in making me feel like I was worth a damn. As I was drawing I became more and more interested in the conversation of the old men sitting next to me, from what I could gather these three old guys were bachelors and they were gossiping about their friend who had recently scored with a much younger philipino woman. I started to feel lonely enough that I wanted them to talk to me, but also, anxious enough that I didn’t want to have to brave whatever confusion the generation gap might cause. One of the old guys did talk to me for a second, he kind of apologized for flicking cigarette ash in my direction and for some inexplicable reason my reaction was also to apologize. I may be the meekest human being on the face of the planet.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Two middle aged men are playing Scrabble. One of them puts down the word “wont”. “That’s a contraction,” the other one says.
“It’s not won’t, it’s wont,” the first retorts, “which is a word.”
“Oh yeah? An English word?!” says the other.
“Yes, and English word,” says the perpetrator.
“Well I never heard of it,” the other says, “Why don’t you use it in a sentence.”
“Easter island had poured its collective genius into the construction and manufacture of hundreds of equally phenomenal bois parlants, or “talking boards,” as 19th century scholars were wont to call them.”
“It’s not won’t, it’s wont,” the first retorts, “which is a word.”
“Oh yeah? An English word?!” says the other.
“Yes, and English word,” says the perpetrator.
“Well I never heard of it,” the other says, “Why don’t you use it in a sentence.”
“Easter island had poured its collective genius into the construction and manufacture of hundreds of equally phenomenal bois parlants, or “talking boards,” as 19th century scholars were wont to call them.”
Monday, August 3, 2009
The futility of it all.
At the wedding the other night they sat me right next to this guy who's dating the girl i spend most days daydreaming about. Talking to him politely and amicably felt like i was selling myself out. I would have preferred to thrash him around intellectually and make him feel small and insignificant but instead i asked him about his work and joked with him about the groom's family. I actually had a pretty pleasant time at the wedding all things considered. I talked to Stan about manufacturing personalities we can be proud of, being honest while also being funny and our ongoing struggles with self-confidence. When I was leaving I made the awful mistake of hugging the girl whose beauty and charm haunts my sleep. She looked at me sort of apologetically and hugged me lovingly, I rested my head sadly against her neck and felt the warmth of her body against mine.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)