siouxcitysue

testing

2008-09-01T13:38:00.000-03:00

Just testing...should I bring you back to life, Oh beloved blog of olde?

The End

2007-11-04T21:23:00.000-04:00

That's all she wrote...

on the internet.

Bye Bye!

like hitchhiking only safer

2007-07-06T23:57:00.000-03:00

Mel and I had a yard sale before our big move. It was a disaster. Even documenting the event proved unsuccessful, though lord help us we sure tried to capture our encounter with one very unusual dude. He talked me down from fifty to forty cents for a useless golf club that was still covered in fake blood from the time it was used as a Halloween costume prop. (Please don't ask me why it was included with our sale -- or imply that including such an item may have had a deleterious impact on the yardsale's pitiful outcome.)

It was only after he turned to leave -- smoking, shaking, mumbling and twirling that golf club in the air with glee -- that Mel and I noticed he was wearing "Correctional Facility" scrubs.

God love him. He was the best customer we had all day.

mecca normal

2007-06-20T21:05:00.000-03:00

I saw Elvis.

No kidding. He was driving a Smart car down Morris Street yesterday afternoon.

What can I say, these are wacky times I'm living in.

"NEVER TRUST SUSAN"

2007-05-31T23:01:00.000-03:00

I won the first game of Illuminati I ever played. It was four winning games later that I declared myself Ultimate Illuminati Champion. I thought, All these years I've been this strategic genius, but had no clue until now!

My "strategy" was simply to come up with a plan and then carry it out without anyone noticing that I had a plan. I'd talk about other players' possible strategies. I'd even talk about my own possible strategies, but without giving any hint as to which one I really thought was best, which one I would actually follow. That's how I did it. That's how I took over the world with my Society of Assassins and our illuminati allies. Game after game.

As I find myself making dangerously familiar plans lately, I'm beginning to wonder how this game will end. Will I come out of it declaring myself Ultimate Champion over Life? Or, after a few minor successes, will I discover my strategies are only genius when the other players are smoking lots of pot?

Lawrence: October 2000 - March 2007

2007-03-12T21:21:00.000-03:00

modern age

2007-03-06T19:27:00.000-04:00

I'm making a website for work. All day it was div equals this and navigation bar equals that and blah blah blah. I had a real frustrating time with the buttons. The design in my head seemed pretty simple, but those damn psp layers -- they wouldn't stay put -- and that background -- it wouldn't stay transparent. I found the experience wholly counterintuitive and unforgiving.

Then as I was heading home, I remembered "Hey! Tomorrow is my birthday! And Maud Lewis' too!"

I dreamt up this cake for Maud and me and then whipped it up on my kitchen table in no sweat flat:

"A Maud Birthday"
watercolours/left-over fireplace paint on paper, 2007

cool school

2007-02-14T09:33:00.000-04:00

2007-02-05T21:08:00.000-04:00

It used to be, I could always rationalize my emotions in relation to my nicotine consumption. Happy or sad or angry, a cigarette always made sense. And I solved all of my problems by smoking. I'll just take myself out to the porch for five to ten and when I come back I'll have it all figured out. But now? Now I have no fucking clue what's going on. No long, deep breaths in the cool air on the back step can help me now (I can't even look at the back door since I quit; I'm terrified something could trigger me back into it).

I don't know why I thought not smoking was like having a lobotomy. That was silly. But I have to say, it's very confusing to be irritable and not have a handy cause and solution. Or even to feel calm and content without a simple explanation.

So I've taken on a mantra for the week. Thought I'd try it out, anyway. This week I plan to get by like my girl Christy Lane always told me:

One day at a time.

Sweet Jesus.

2007-01-29T20:37:00.000-04:00

I'm used to thinking of dogs as kinda dumb and silly, hopelessly loyal and completely lacking in emotional control -- a combination I find frightening. If you look them straight in the eyes, they will sometimes freak out and attack. It's like you're breaking the rules of cross-species fellowship, trying to steal their souls or something.

But Seeing Eye dogs are awesome. There's the same devotion, but also a remarkable measure of self control and concentration. They always look so proud and content to be doing what they're doing. As if they know the significance of their role. There was an especially cute one across from me on the bus this morning. I was looking at his eyes, thinking about how important they are to the man holding on to the lead -- wondering how many Seeing Eye dogs the man has or will outlive. When do they retire, anyway? Do their minds start to go at a certain point, or is it usually physical ailments, like arthritis, that force them off the street? Do they like retirement or do they mourn for their career? Do they ever remember what it was like to be just an ordinary, silly, high-strung puppy?

The Seeing Eye dog on the bus noticed me looking at him and our eyes met. I felt a bit ashamed. He turned away after a moment, but not nervously or jerkily, like the dogs you find on the Commons; he turned his eyes away gently and politely, twitching them as if to say, "I'm sorry, I cannot entertain your gaze just now. This is important work, what I do. I'd even do it for you. If you needed it."

Fast Five Facts

2007-01-28T19:23:00.000-04:00

I've been doubly internet tagged by Foxy and Doctor T to share five tidbits about myself. Here goes:

1a) I loved to play tag when I was a kid, but I always panicked once I could sense I was being chased. I'd just stop running and wrap my arms around myself, scrunching my eyes and screaming "Just tag me already! I'm It! I'm It! Fine!"

1b) I spend a lot of time worrying that there's not enough going on in my head - that worry and panic take up too much space.

2a) I'm slow. With everything. I'm slow in the shower, I'm slow cleaning the dishes, I'm a slow reader, writer, driver -- everything. It's funny how you can be aware of something about yourself but still be helpless to change it. (Well, unless I am managing to change it, albeit imperceptibly slowly -- that would make sense I guess.)

2b) What I lack in speed I make up for with thoroughness (because it's such a fine line between thorough and obsessive).

3a) I only started making real meals from scratch about six months ago.

3b) Today I started baking real blueberry/cranberry/flax seed/oatmeal/whole wheat muffins from scratch. They're awesome.

4a) I bought some watercolours and brushes and big play paper at the dollar store a few months ago.

4b) This is my latest watercolour picture (It's a declaration rather than a wish):

5a) I am not a superstitious person.

5b) Come what may, I don't plan on internet tagging anyone else. I'll be "It" forever and ever!

styles and scripting and forms -- oh my!

2007-01-23T22:44:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow I'm starting a night class at the community IT college.

I will wear my new boots. I will sit at the very front. I will be the best!

"I aspire to assist other people while they do the interesting things"

2007-01-21T20:02:00.001-04:00

My winter jacket has this amazing hood. When I put it up, I can hardly see or hear anything. I have to turn my whole body just to talk to someone next to me. In return, my hood provides excellent protection from the elements.

I like that it prevents me from being able to see everybody on the streets. I'm forced to keep my head forward, to keep to my own path. It's made me realize what a glutton for sights I usually am. A face is never just a face. The slightest gesture and some weakness, some personality quirk, will unravel. Just a clip of a remark and a whole life is revealed. It's a bit too much sometimes. Especially if there's some pervading new idea circling in my brain about how life works. It can get pretty gross.

The organization I work for is hiring a new part time employee. Administrative Assistant is the best title we came up with, even though it's not really that at all. There don't seem to be appropriate terms to encompass all the varied tasks that make up jobs at places like this.

Reading through all the applications is way more intimate than watching somebody move about on the street. My hood is useless in an office environment. The spaces between lines like "I am currently seeking gainful employment as an administrative assistant" and "my call centre duties were" and "my filing, phone and electronic mail skills" and "I enjoy serving the general public," are filled with the details of some truly wretched, hard,unfulfilled lives. Or so I can't seem to help imagining, anyway. I can hardly stand it. On the top of most of the resumes, I end up writing "no relevant experience." But then the sight of my little notes, my judgements, makes me feel even worse about it. So I've started making them into illegible scrawls. Now they look more like autographs or something. Instead of saying "You're not good enough" or "you can't do this" or "you're so fucked", it ends up saying something more like "I know it". I then resist the urge to include at the bottom of their resumes, "When I'm not doing all that useless junk, I'm making poems or drawings or delicious little cakes".

Ideas of class and economic disparity have been a focus lately. As soon as I finish the Economics 101 textbook and the copy of David Copperfield I picked up at Frenchy's last week, I might feel a bit more competent to articulate those ideas. But in the meantime let me just tell you, if you're not careful with them, they can be more corrosive than the plaque that's currently transforming my furthest back, most hard-working, left molar into goo.

2007-01-16T21:23:00.000-04:00

As I scraped off the last bits of glue from the back of my hand, I looked at the piles on the table, on the floor, on my lap, and I said to myself, "Oh, I forgot how this always ends up in a big mess." Of course the last time I did it -- "hey look at my hand! it looks like an old lady's hand. all wrinkled. so neat. yeah, but it's not really an old lady's hand. It's the glue!" -- was just last week.

Being single like this is doing strange things to me -- to my head, my habits, my instincts. I've been trying to remember what it was like just to be a kid. What it was like before sex or even anything but the vaguest notion of sex. When the idea of sharing your bed with another person (except maybe your sister -- or Grandma that one time at Christmas) was an impossible absurdity. I come home from work and I find one hand pulling me to my watercolour set in the kitchen and the other hand pulling me into the closet in my bedroom with a flashlight and books.

It's all right, I guess. Just different. During the daylight hours I'm all adult. I fret about my job, my career that doesn't seem to exist yet, the terrifying student loans that I desperately don't want to spend my life running away from, the hair that will soon be all roots, the winter boots that need to be found and purchased, the lunch that someone forgot to pack -- and all other things mundane and stressful and so, so adult.

But tonight? Oh tonight! Tonight we Journey To the Centre of the Earth!

2007-01-11T18:37:00.000-04:00

We don't have to be stars exploding in the night
Or electric eels under the covers
We don't have to be
Anything quite so unreal
Let's just be lovers

-- "A Chicken with Its Head Cut Off" 69 Love Songs The Magnetic Fields

the circle of life as told by dr. burns

2007-01-01T23:57:00.000-04:00

Gosh, Mel is such a good friend. Tonight she advised me, with all sincerity, that the solution to all of my current problems in life is to get myself rejected. And I believe her. Furthermore, this is one New Year's resolution I believe I can fulfill.

I'm starting with a goal of one rejection per week. These rejections might result from: asking for favours, applications of any sort, debit purchases, entering exclusive clubs, inviting boys I might be interested in to "listen to records" at my house, etc. If you think of any others I might try, let me know. I'm all ears . . . and fears.

XXX

"So each morning say, 'I'll try to get as many rejections as possible today.' And each time you do get rejected you can say, 'I was successfully rejected' " (Feeling Good, 369).

always with the weird ones

2006-12-31T16:41:00.000-04:00

There's this person I know, an almost-acquaintance. I saw him yesterday, walked right passed him...and pretended I didn't recognize him even though he looked right at me. The few times I've spoken with him he's seemed rather socially awkward, but with an arrogance -- there's something a bit off about him, almost creepy. One time he referred to me as "dear Susan" or "Susan dear" (I don't remember which it was, but I found it distasteful). But then there's this other voice in my head that says, "Susan, he looks so much like Will Oldham. How can you not love him? Are you mad?!"

Yesterday's sighting reminded me of a little account I wrote after the last time I saw him, a few months ago. It gave me a little laugh today, so:

I knew he’d be there -- so, sure, I thought I’d say “Hi” when he came around. You know, see if he wants to get married or something.

I shivered when I saw him with another. I had neglected to imagine that possibility – or any one but the one where we run away together. She looked really pretty and nice and smart and better.

My friend tapped me on the knee in sympathy and said, “Just stay open. That’s the best way. And make sure a friend is with you, because at this stage you might say yes to things you don’t really want. You’ll let the wrong people in. A friend, though, can gently observe and maybe keep you from making a silly mistake. But don’t focus on specific people. Be open!” I took her advice. I let go of this most recent and swift heartbreak and I surveyed the crowd with bugged out open eyes.

A couple hours later, a guy I kind of know comes up to me and we chat. I finally tell him that every time I see him I think of how he looks like Will Oldham. Which is true. What I don’t tell him is that Will Oldham looks like a madman. He seems charmed and says something about people also telling him he looks a bit like Orson Welles. I ask him how his writing is going and for some reason he tells me that he’s an entrepreneur, which then leads to a tangent about creating a computer software bridge between Canada and Europe through the imaginative powers of writing business proposals. I listen intently, trying to follow the logical leaps. All writers are strange. I am used to this. I admire his comfortable-looking cardigan and wait for something I can respond to. He continues on for some time about Local Area Networks and fairy tales, high-speed mythical beasts, and dynamically wired something or other and their cosmic connection to the great gargoyles of Devonshire.

“Now what do you think of that?” he finally asks me. I think, “Well, so far you seem like a big weirdo. But I’d still be willing to get to know you better.” Then I remember what my friend had said earlier and I consider that she isn’t here with me right now and that this kind of scenario is probably exactly what she had been talking about before, and so I catch myself and say instead, “I’ve always thought the exact same thing. All of it. Take care now.” And I avert my eyes until he leaves.

He was a wearing a nice sweater, though. It was kind of a moss green. Thick wool. I wanted it. That night I dreamt that I had stolen the sweater from him and had brought it home and had wrapped it around my shoulders.

the circle of life as worn by oprah

2006-12-17T19:15:00.000-04:00

Holy, it's almost Christmas. Been to the mall lately? Not only have I been to the mall, I've also visited the Christmas tree lot. This is the first Christmas tree I've had in my own place since 1993. Also, I'm taking back the word "Christmas". Who's afraid of a little JC anymore, anyway?

This year's Christmas tree is brought to you by: Treetop Angel from Mars, Santa from Planet of the Apes, Santa from the French Revolution, and Cabbage Patch Kid Stocking from 1983 (oh yeah, and that weird paper bulb embedded with bullet-like objects).

gonna make it after all?

2006-12-08T23:43:00.000-04:00

I have a crush on four boys at once. They can usually be found at the offices of WJM News, hangin' with Mary Richards and the rest of the gang. I think the one who sits directly behind Murray is probably the most handsome, but my favourite is the chubby-faced blonde dude with the little desk at the back. He's right next to Mr. Grant's office and you can sometimes see him working through the window.

At first I watched the show because of Mary and Rhoda and their adorable thirty-something single women of the seventies antics. Now I watch it because of the extras. They're always shuffling paper back and forth to each other's desks, pretend-talking on the phone with pencils in their hands, looking intently at photographs (I can never quite make out) and occassionally glancing over at Mary, Murray, Lou and Ted, when they're causing an extra loud commotion with their hilarious, if distracting, dramas.

That must've been a cool job. I mean, they're in almost every episode and a good number of the scenes. And yet they never say an actual word. I love them. I like to imagine that they've formed a band, the four of them. Once the fake clocks above their heads turn five -- or the director calls the final cut or whatever -- they head down to their local Minneapolis pub and rock out like nobody's business. I bet they scream a lot on stage -- just to balance out the hours of being silent all day on the show.

Tonight on Episode 17, Season 3, I spotted chubby-faced blonde dude at Mary's party. He was totally hitting on this gorgeous woman who was wearing a floor-length polyester halter dress. I don't stand a chance. I even saw them leave together, after the party -- surprise, surprise -- ended up flopping, despite Mary's perfect planning and best intentions.

As for real-world dating these days, well....

"Sorry, what? I just didn't hear because I was... Could you repeat that? No, wait. Don't bother. I don't think I even understand the question anyway."

why is it that anything that makes any kind of real sense is usually counter-intuitive?

2006-12-05T21:55:00.000-04:00

A couple days after my grandmother set up her first email account, she called me from Seattle in quite a fluster. "Oh Susan," She said. "My email is broken. I've been talking to the technical department for hours and they refuse to help me. I keep sending email messages but I haven't received any back." I told Grandma not to worry about it, told her it would surely work itself out. After hanging up, of course I promptly sent her an email message and all was well.

You see, in some rare instances -- as was the case for me tonight -- the best way to maximize internet communication efficiency is to pick up the phone and call first.

saturday night

2006-11-26T02:47:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I overheard some girls comparing him to Farah Fawcett, but I think the lead singer of Cauldron is the dreamiest metal dude ever.

exactly

2006-11-18T20:40:00.000-04:00

You know those times when a bunch of really good things happen at once? Where one great, unexpected event is immediately followed by another? It doesn't even feel real. Maybe the room starts to whirl a bit and you start to feel like it can't really involve you; it's like you're just watching it happen from some other place. You feel dizzy and you can't quite process it all at once so you just sort of passively experience it. Know what I mean?

Yeah, so my week was exactly like that. Except, you know, it was all bad stuff instead of good.

hey you!

2006-11-10T20:23:00.000-04:00

This week I went down to my campus/community radio station to visit the funding drive prize room. On one of the cds I picked out, someone had written "Pretentious Avant Garde Newfoundland Prog rock." How great is that? And I won't even tell you the name of the band. I don't think it matters. What matters is that somebody out there bothered to do that. They really let them have it.

Good on ya, whoever you are. Because I tell you, I find lots and lots of music awfully offensive, but I just don't have your commitment to warning the world about it. I just now gave the CD a listen. It is very boring. I can't stand to listen to it. But thanks to you -- my furious, indignant scribbler-- instead of sending it to the curb, I've thumb-tacked it to my wall. I plan to keep it there, this little bit of art, ever suspended over the floor. Your message will never die. And now everyone who sees it will be kept grounded and true.

"So, how do you find the wine?" You'll say.

"Hmmm...pretentious nose. The flavour is definitely Avant Garde. Progressive, even. And, whoa, I discern these grapes to have been crushed by the feet of a Newfie. I like it."

so.....

2006-11-09T20:41:00.000-04:00

This is National Pain Awareness Week.

What a coincidence.

I'm not saying you didn't see it, billy; i'm just saying it wasn't really there.

2006-11-05T18:07:00.000-04:00

Peter Ackroyd's biography of Blake is very cute. The Blake enthusiasts I've met over the years are generally hopelessly nutty (i.e."out there," flaky, not firmly rooted in reality, crazy -- and so on ) and they are mostly content to stay that way. Yet Ackroyd comes off as being remarkably sensitive to their feelings. It's like watching a parent trying to explain to his child that Santa doesn't really exist, without ruining Christmas.

On Blake's isolation:

"So Blake was never isolated in these years, despite the impression he gives in his own retrospective notes, where he emphasises his freedom from influences of any kind; he was in fact part of a little club or community with shared interests" (71).

On his visions:

"Such a powerful visual sense, when aligned with vigorous creative abilities, can in certain people provoke or create exceptionally clear images, which have a hallucinatory reality" (35).

On his obnoxiousness:

"It might be called egotism, solipsism, paranoia but, however it is defined, it remained the true soil of his genius" (23).

here's a riddle for you:

2006-10-30T21:59:00.000-04:00

Question: What do you do with a real-life romantic mystery that's gone hopelessly flat?

Answer: You fictionalize it and spend a month creating better, alternative outcomes.

What I mean to say is, I'll be very busy with NaNoWriMo next month. If you tell enough people you're going to do something, you might just be able to shame yourself into doing it. (It certainly has never worked with quitting smoking, but I haven't given up on the strategy.)

holy fuck, it's recording a video -- we're all going to die

2006-10-15T20:07:00.000-03:00

On Saturday I drove to Annapolis Valley with some friends to unwind and enjoy the peaceful countryside. The trip resulted in a short film. It's called:

Cute Llamas in a field in the Rain and Then Unexplained Panic: The Video That Was Supposed Be a Picture by Sioux City Sue

Or,

The Pathetic City Tourist Who Got What She Deserved for Trying to Take a Lame Picture of Grazing Llamas: An Exposé on One Girl's Ignorance and Fear of Technology by Sioux City Sue

Or simply,

High Strung: A Life Story by Sioux City Sue

Put on the "mute" button for the silent version. It's called:

Videographer Records Own Murder While Apathetic Llamas and Fellow Passengers Just Watch : A Horror Film by Sioux City Sue

urizen versus orc

2006-10-02T19:08:00.000-03:00

Wow. Heartbreak two weekends in a row. That's a lot to take.

      So Susan, I says. Did you love these boys?

     No, certainly not. I don't even know them.

      How did they break your heart?

     I'm not sure. I just know that they did. Heartbreak is something you know, not something you understand.

      Do they know that they broke your heart? I mean, was it willful?

     I don't think so.

      Did they say something mean?

     Oh no. They didn't say anything at all. I didn't actually speak to either of them.

      Do they even know who you are?

     Ahh, I'm not sure exactly. It's possible.

     Did you do something stupid or embarrassing?

     Er, I didn't really do anything. But I felt everything.

      So are you telling me you went and broke your own heart? Twice?

     Yeah, I guess I am. Are you telling me I'm crazy?

     No, I would never say that. It would be self-defeating. But next time you think about being so silly, will you listen to me first?

     Probably not.

ghost writer!

2006-09-28T21:18:00.000-03:00

The mother of a friend of mine tripped on a piece of carpet at the mall and broke her nose. I offered to help construct her letter of outrage. Paragraph three begins:

"Have you ever broken your nose after falling face first into a cement floor? I assure you, the experience is far richer than anything a mall surveillance camera might ever hope to capture."

The paragraph continues with gory details of blood and torn cartilage. I have never broken my nose.

My first-year English professor once gave me this advice:

"More often than not, it is that perfect sentence -- your favourite sentence -- that will ruin your paper in the end. You must cut it."

I've always thought that was solid advice, though I've rarely taken it.

the grass is green, silly

2006-09-17T21:56:00.000-03:00

The banjo has long been misunderstood to be a party accompaniment. A silly, smiling, instant hoedown-maker. A joke.

When it is actually an instrument of mourning. It wails.

When I hear it being played as it is usually played, it makes me think of someone renting their clothes and cursing the heavens and clawing at the grass at the foot of their lover's freshly covered grave . . . after having just inhaled helium.

I don't care that that's the way it's always been played. I have no particular sentiment for tradition. That thing is crying and you're all just laughing at it. Clapping your hands and stamping your feet.

I find banjo players especially disappointing. I don't understand how someone could spend so much time with an instrument, be so intimate with it, and not even know what it's saying.

All that is to say, what Iron and Wine do with the banjo on "The Sea and the Rhythm" is very right. The first time I heard it and the banjo part came in, I thought (once I got over the pain in my chest) , "I knew it. I knew that's what it is supposed to be like. She's no pluckable jester. No sir."

The Banjo Lesson by Mary Cassatt

uncontrolled psychokinesis

2006-09-10T17:06:00.000-03:00

I am disturbingly self-absorbed these days. I actually have the sensation of being a soggy quilt. Everywhere I step, every time I open my mouth, the excess gushes out. I apologize for all the wet. I want to hang myself out on a line to dry, get over myself already. Only the laundry line and pole were taken down last year by this great big tree that fell across the back yard. It wasn't even a hurricane. Just a windy night. I woke up in the morning and outside of the window was all leaves and trunk. It was neat.

Two days after Robin left, I was coming home from doing laundry. My mind was all a fuzz. It's the effect all major events seem to have. It's that point where you keep thinking, over and over, "Okay, this is big. This is a significant event in my life." You know it's complicated and that it'll be a long time before you can process and understand it, but you feel an urgency to work it out right away. It's like doing math problems in a dream. You keep figuring and calculating and applying all the formulas, but you never get to the part where you have the answer.

So as I got to my sidewalk with my big bag of warm laundry in my arms and with my fuzzy brain going through it's futile loops of nonsense-formulas, I heard a strange noise in the sky. I looked up and watched as an awkward black crow flapped and bounced off tree branches, flitted through the power lines and then thunked down at my feet. What a jolt. It was one of those things where you suddenly feel like the world is intimately involved with you (as opposed to your normal idea of the world as simply a collection of forces working independently and with its own motives on and around you -- usually against you). I stared as the crow tried to pull itself and its dignity together. It walked under a car. I wasn't sure if it was really hurt and I did think of helping it, but then it looked at me like it was embarrassed. "What are you looking at?" It said. And "Please don't tell the others about this." A week later I was sitting on my stoop and someone pointed out to me that there was a dead crow in my yard and maybe I should do something about it.

I didn't tell you about that incident because it's the kind of thing you would only read in a book. A bad book. The one your friend gave you and insisted you read. You got as far as the part with the crow and then thought, "This is ridiculous. My friend, you have let me down."

Last week during lunch, the poet who works part-time at my office noticed the tofu in my pasta and asked if I am a vegetarian now. I said, "No, I wouldn't say that yet. I've just been making different choices lately. I'm changing." She sort of laughed and looked at me and said, "Usually, when someone says that, they've already changed."

So this morning I came into the kitchen after getting dressed and found that the coffee was ready and waiting. I poured a cup and sat down. Three seconds later, the coffee maker started churning again even though it seemed before that it had obviously finished. After about two minutes it had replaced what looked like the exact amount of coffee that I had just poured out of it. I took a couple of minutes to think this over and then resolved to stand by my first and best possible answer: Poltergeist. Awesome.

smurfin' bummed

2006-08-22T22:15:00.000-03:00

Woe is me what a horrible weekend that was. It started to turn on Saturday when I turned down an invitation to go to the beach. Who does that? I'm such a fool--a fool afraid of scorching afternoon sun on a beach.

By Sunday night it was rotting (I'll just skip everything in between because it would all be too humiliating to relate here).

Monday morning the stink of it was still hanging on.

This morning as I was biking to work I was thinking about how much I hate smoking and how eventually I may end up being the last person on the whole planet still doing it. But as I said that to myself over and over, the gears in my brain squealed. They creaked and they shifted and for a few seconds were halted at zero percent movement, before they began creaking and sputtering again, this time moving in some other, opposite direction. The Smurfs' number one smash hit, "First Smurfs on the Moon," starting playing in my head. "Yes we're gonna be the first! (da da da, da da da). Yes we're gonna be the first! (da da da, da da da). Yes we're gonna be the first. smurfs. on. tha-a. moon!" You know the one, right? So I decided I would just roll with it. Sometimes that's all you can do.

After work I went to a used record store I haven't been to in a really long time. I came out of the store with the following clutched to my chest:

John Denver - Farewell Andromeda
Kitty (fucking) Wells - Burning Memories (in beautiful condition, a "true hi-fi stereophonic record" from Decca)
Sebadoh -- 7" with the cover of "Riding." (It's just as good as I remember it was that one time I heard it ten years ago)
Anne Murray -- Straight, Clean and Simple (If I ever post a personal ad, that has to be it. This record isn't as good as some others . Has anyone else noticed how a couple of songs on the b-side of Love Song sound like Anne's singing the blues? Isn't that just the weirdest thing?)

So this evening I've been listening to my new records. And I had a nice beer with Melanie. We talked about dreamy Che Guevara and the even dreamier actor who played him in that movie. I've also been making exciting plans this evening -- plans I think I have a chance of carrying out. I made a decent dinner at home. And I made a nice lunch for tomorrow. My shirts are pressed. There are two books on my bedside table that I'm really excited about pouring over tonight until my eyes won't let me anymore. The bath just finished running and the water's perfect. Mel and I went through the fridge tonight and took all the limp, no-good or unidentifiable foods out to the compost. Everything should be all fresh now. There's a fresh new day to look forward to tomorrow. But I'm still getting a whiff of something and I don't know what to do. I think it smells like lonesome.

no more lasting impressions

2006-08-16T20:23:00.000-03:00

It was such a beautiful day today -- one of our last for sure -- that after lunch my office mates and I went for a stroll along the boardwalk. A woman tried to offer me a Buskers guide but then stopped in mid-sentence. "Hey, did you go to CCJHS?"
"Yeah, I think so. That's the junior high in Truro, right? Onslow?" I only lived in Truro for one year--Grade Eight.
"You're Susan."
"Yup."
"So are you a psychologist?"

I just paused and stared. Is there something in my face that says 'psychologist'? Does she know about Dr. Burns or something? So weird.

So she told me how all my friends (most of whom I can't seem to remember) and I once got together and shared all our hopes and dreams, declared what we would be when we grew up. I barely recognized this woman, let alone remembered those close important conversations with the other girls.

A psychologist, no, but I do remember being the spiritual advisor to the girl who sat behind me in Grade Eight homeroom. I think her name was Sarah. She was that girl who completely blossomed into a Woman (you have to pronounce it dramatically -- like "Womb-mon") before anybody else. There's at least one in every junior high homeroom, I think. I was fairly well known as the churchy church girl. Sarah would frequently pass me these notes in class. They were confessions and big questions about God. One time she passed me a note that read, "Susan. I need your help. My friend and I were out suntanning in the front yard and these cute guys in a truck drove by very slowly. We only waived. But afterwards I realized that my boobs had totally fallen out of my bathing suit! And my friend's had too. Susan, does this mean I'm going to Hell?"

I turned around and she looked at me with the most sincere, intense concern. Then the next week she sent me another note: "Susan. You won't believe it. It happened again! Am I going to Hell now?"

Of course I told her that as long as she's born again, she doesn't have to worry about it."God knows your heart," I told her.

But the most significant thing about Grade Eight was my crush. His name was David. He was beautiful and so, so bad. I loved him (God had to've known). And he liked me too. I know this because of what happened after he finally found out about my crushing ways (which is bound to happen in junior high -- especially if you tell everyone, 'cause you're stupid like that). So David asked my Pentecostal friend, who was in his homeroom, if I was going to the dance that Friday. Heather said to me later, "But don't worry. I told him, 'Susan is a Christian; she doesn't go to dances!' "

I still think of that moment as the major turning point in my faith. I remember thinking, "Heather, what a great time that would've been for you to finally be indwelled with the Holy Spirit -- if you'd only said it to him in tongues instead. Then he wouldn't have understood and everything wouldn't have been ruined."

But Amy at the boardwalk didn't remember any of that. She told me she actually married her Grade Eight sweetheart. They have two kids. I told her that I'm not a psychologist. It was strange, like I had to convince her. She seemed genuinely surprised and did not want to believe it. "I'm sorry. I guess I was a big liar. I still give people silly advice sometimes -- and I still love David -- but I'm really nothing more than a heathen spinster now. Life is good."

small town bravery

2006-08-10T12:26:00.000-03:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about the nature of bravery.

Almost always, when I do something noticeably bold, I end up regretting it forever and ever. But as much as I've embarrassed myself in the past by giving in to impulses, what I tend to regret most are the impulses I didn't act on because of nerves. After watching the mental process Melanie went through before she made her bold move--and then seeing her glow after she'd done it--I became aware of just how wimpy I really am.

I imagine a scale that could be used to measure the level of genuineness in an apparent impulsive or bold act. On one end would be expressions such as "Life is so short" and "It's such a great big world." I'm afraid my own acts of bravery would usually fall on that end of the scale. Those cliches simply distance the act from the individual. It's like saying, "Yeah, I totally did it. But it is an insignificant act compared to the whole of humanity and all of time." That kind of thinking might relieve some sense of humiliation, but it also diffuses the power of the brave act. It's safe, but it doesn't get you anywhere.

So I guess on the other end of the "How real is your bravery?" scale would be something like, "Life may be short, but mine is the only one I've got; it may be a big world, but this is a small town; there may be real consequences, but I will do it anyway. " Now that's bravery. Or possibly madness, depending on what we're talking about.

it's over

2006-08-07T14:41:00.000-03:00

"Just for practice, let's assume the worst--that I am trying to dump you" (Feeling Good, 304).

The trouble is, I'm not feeling good. My throat hurts and my head's all filled up with badness. My summer sickness is making me feel rebellious. And it's making me think rebellious. Dr. B, something's gotta go and I think it's you.

It was hard missing Eric's Trip last night. I'd been looking forward to it for many months. It was going to be a camping trip too. I planned my vacation time around it. But now it's come and gone and I couldn't go for reasons that I'd like to think were not entirely under my control.

As it was, Mel and I distracted ourselves in our own ways.

I smoked pot for the first time in several years. It was really good, maybe for the first time. I wish I liked pot more than drinking. But it usually doesn't agree with me. Usually, we argue long into the night until I finally relent, stuffing myself silly with peanut butter and collapsing asleep. But last night it was the perfect thing.

Mel and I went to a show down the street. Melanie talked to a boy! It was awesome. She's so brave. Now Melanie is my bold new hero.

Things with Dr. Burns have been shaky anyway. Just as we were building a healthy trust in each other, I found some detrimental errors in Dr. Burns' own thinking. They're mostly in Chapter 12 ("The Love Addiction"). He's got it all wrong. Now I don't know much about love or romance or flirting, but I have to take issue with the following:

"No one can turn on each and every person they meet" (FG, 302).

"Suppose you have a romantic interest in someone you are dating or have met, and it turns out you're not his or her cup of tea. Perhaps it's your looks, race, religion, or personality style that are the problem. " (FG, 302).

"So each morning say, 'I'll try to get as many rejections as possible today.' And each time you do get rejected you can say, 'I was successfully rejected' " (FG, 369).

Even someone as lost in the emotional realm as I can see that those bits of "logical wisdom" are just crazy! I think Dr. Burns has a real problem. I think there's something he's not telling us. Instead of dealing with his own issues, the doctor went and wrote another book, one that's just on romance. It's called Intimate Connections (Ewwww!). I wonder, when you order it, if it arrives at your door in a plain brown package? Not that I'm going to order it. I think it's time to let the good doctor go, get some space and whatnot. Besides, my own flatmate has more wisdom and more guts. And also, I think people are getting tired of my inserting a "Well, Dr. Burns would say...." into every conversation, regardless of the topic. So that's it. We're over.

"Dr. Burns shows you how to flirt, how to handle people who give you the run-a-round, and how to get people of the opposite sex (or the same sex, if that is your preference) to pursue you." -- On Intimate Connections (www.feelinggood.com)

I'm sorry we couldn't make it work, Dr. B. Don't lose heart; I'm sure you'll find a new patient. And with this new independence, I'll find out what feeling good is really all about. I'll write a letter to you about it and you can include me as one of your success stories in a future edition of your book. Makes sense to me. Vive terapia cognoscitiva!

"d-i-v-o-r-c-e" = I am too hot and wild and free to be stuck with you my whole life?

2006-08-03T11:40:00.000-03:00

"LOVE IS NOT AN ADULT HUMAN NEED" (FG, 322).

This house is radiating sexual energy. You'd better watch yourself, maybe cross the street, if you happen to pass by it.

I've been listening to my Tammy Wynette album. It's a confusing record. I know all about her saving marriages campaign, but it just doesn't make sense. Her voice is so wild and sexy. I can't believe that that voice would stand by anybody, much less some rotten ol' cheater. I can't help but pretend the lyrics are meant to be ironic.

But most of the sexual energy is coming from the cat. Poor little Jack is a strapping seventh month old kitten and he's been putting an earnest effort into making love to all potential love objects he can find. Last night it was his inanimate cat friend. When he was a little kitten, the stuffed cat was bigger than him but he'd lovingly drag her around the house anyway. They were awfully cute together. Now that he's all grown up, she seems petite and svelte next to him. And she's got flirty eyes. Considering his life experience, specifically his lack of contact with other living cats, it's reasonable that Jack would think her the perfect partner. Only trouble is, Jack's cat friend doesn't meow back.

He wanted her so bad last night. And she was totally willing. When he finally gave up and flopped down beside her in the hall, I tried to give him a sympathetic pat. He growled and snatched his cat friend by the neck, bringing her closer to him. Holding her. "I'll stand by her no matter how impossible our love," he seemed to say.

Thing is, you can't really pet him at all these days. Sometimes at night, when cat friend isn't around, Jack will flip out for a few minutes on my and Melanie's legs. Not in a dirty way, but in a crazy "I am going to bite and scratch your legs until they die" kind of way. It's a little scary. But we know he can't help it.

And then other times, he seems happy and normal. You try to give him a little pat--just one gentle stroke across his back--and he starts doing that dirty thing he does to himself and suddenly you've just inadvertently participated in an act of bestiality.

We have a name that encompasses all of those phenomena: When Jack Attacks

But everything will change tomorrow morning. This will be the last night Jack pines for anyone but his balls. Poor little guy. Melanie's been having nightmares. It seems so wrong, but it has to be done. When I got up this morning, there were two cans of special soft cat food on the table and directions from Mel to make sure he gets some bonus food today, since he'll have to fast after 8pm.

We couldn't bring ourselves to tell him. Besides, he'd never understand. He's just a cat. But to be safe, when we talk about it, we try to spare him any potential anxiety. "Hi Jack. Did you just dig your claw into my calf again? In the same spot! What are the odds? No no, I'm not mad at you. Because tomorrow you're getting f-i-x-e-d!

XXX

All or nothing thinking: "My Boyfriend doesn't like me!"

Realistic Thoughts: He doesn't like me enough for what? He may not want to marry me, but he takes me out on dates, so he MUST like me partially" (Feeling Good, 373).

adventure indeed

2006-08-02T16:44:00.000-03:00

Yesterday I got that cavity taken care of. I also found my chi. It didn't require any classes or spandex or anything. All it took was the shadow of that needle going into my mouth as the dentist and hygenist were chanting, "Take deep breaths now. Breathe through your nose. Just a pinch. Breathe deep." That was all it took.

unfortunately, my chi was nowhere to be found when I later chomped on my thawing tongue over dinner.

The dentist let me watch the whole drilling and filling process with a mirror. It was neat. As she was about to apply the filling, she said "And we don't use metal anymore. It'll be a pretty new tooth. If you don't tell anyone, no one will even know that you ever had a cavity."

And then I said, "But I already went and told everyone! I put it on the internet and everything, you filthy cunt hag witch! "

The dentist giggled. "You shouldn't try to talk just now," she said.

Â?This kind of dialogue transcends the possibility you will feel put downÂ? (FG, 377).

it begins

2006-07-30T17:55:00.000-03:00

"If you have a personality quirk that alienates more people than you would like [...] it would definitely be to your advantage to modify your style" (FG, 303).

I was meeting my friend James at the mall the other day to go see a movie. I was early and noticed that Le Cache, one of my favourite stores, was having a big sale. Almost everything was 75% off. I’m not even sure that I want children, but if I do have them and if they are girls, I intend to dress them up in matching cotton dresses with ribbon flowing all around, embroidery stitched at every hem and collar, and patterns with the most garish combinations of red, green, and mauve flowers. I will wear the matching grown-up versions of these dresses and we will walk about town on Sunday afternoons.

I found a fine cotton white blouse. There was only one left and it was a size Small. “How nice, “ I thought. “It’s nicely fitted through the arms and is comfortably loose and tastefully flowy through the waist. It’s perfect for hiding that paunchy mid-section, which, regardless of how thin they were in their youths, all old ladies seem to develop. That thoughtful Le Cache shirtmaker knew just what she was doing. I feel like the prettiest grandma in the whole city!”

All that’s wrong with that picture is my lack of grandchildren, children, a mate, a paunchy mid-section, and 4o years. But I couldn’t keep myself from buying it – it was on special, after all.

XXX

Today, Melanie and I grabbed our morning coffee and our books and we went outside in the yard to read. It’s hot out today and very sunny. But the sun doesn’t love me. I have a sun condition, a photosensitivity. My particular allergic reactions to the sun have a name. A doctor once told it to me and I forgot to write it down. I simply don’t put myself in a position where I might suffer from it again. Just the slightest sunburn and my whole summer would be fucked.

I sat in the shade, under the big tree. There were spots of sun hitting my shoulder through the leaves, so I applied some sunscreen. The sun kept moving so the spots kept moving and so I kept slathering my lotion. That wasn’t enough, so I went in and got my straw hat. Because I was under the tree, little bugs kept falling on me and flying into and landing on my legs and feet. It was driving me mad. So I brought out my afghan and laid it across my legs. It’s the afghan my grandmother made for me when I was just a little kid.

She made ones for my older brother and sister, too. Paul’s was green, Colleen’s was red, and I got purple. I’m surprised, really, that my grandmother did that, because she was my big-city American grandma. She had been a single Mom in the early sixties. She worked and she did not cook. When I went to visit her in Seattle in 2000, her freezer was packed with microwaveable meals and I honestly don’t think she cared for the spaghetti dinner I tried to make for us. “What will you do if we have leftovers?” she said.

I guess she made the afghans because at some point someone must have impressed upon her that making afghans is what grandmothers are supposed to do. What I love most about mine is the part where she had obviously run out of a particular shade of purple and had to improvise with a slightly different shade, one that doesn’t quite work. I can just imagine her with her needles and her mismatching bundles of yarn: “Oh I don’t care anymore. I just want to get it done. Why am I even doing this? I am no knitter.”

So I whiled the afternoon away with my hat and my blanket and my favourite grandfatherly companion:

“The biology teacher from Ilium, however, since she had ceased ovulating, would not, could not, become his Eve. So she had to be more like a god instead” (Galápagos, 49).

calling dr. burns, part ii

2006-07-29T21:47:00.000-03:00

“Your life therefore is an evolving experience, a continual flow” (FG,79).

This is the first day of my vacation. I'm not sure what to do with myself. I'm worried that I'll end up wasting it -- or, even worse, that I'll end up wasting it by worrying the whole time that I’m wasting it.

I consulted Dr. Burns (FG, Chapter 5 -- "Do-Nothingism: How to Beat It"). He offered more exercises. The Daily Activity Schedule looked kinda boring, and just considering The Antiprocrastination Sheet made me feel guilty. The Daily Record of Dysfunctional Thoughts is way too depressing for a vacation-time activity. I was leaning towards The Pleasure-Predicting Sheet when I finally consulted Melanie. She came up with some sound advice: "Well, as long as you're not working, your vacation isn't being wasted."

My other idea is to use this time to perfect my person. Although I feel pretty strongly about it, I have a nagging, logical thought that those efforts are likely to have disastrous results.

At the very least, I demand adventure of some sort. Adventure, I’m calling your name (I know an adventure isn’t necessarily a positive experience, but it’s a positive word, I think. And I think that's enough).

"Fred was skeptical, however, because he wasn't entirely convinced a catastrophe was not about to strike" (FG, 365).

new companion

2006-07-22T11:35:00.000-03:00

"The exhilaration you experience when you make this transformation from worrier to warrior can be the start of a more confident assertive approach to living" (FG, 366).

Last year I proudly declared myself to be in my prime. Apparently, that was a mistake, for now I find myself an aging spinster. I'm trying to be responsible about it. No need to rush into "old maid." So I've been reading a book. It's called Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy (1980) by David D. Burns, M.D. I read it at night, just before bed, allowing all the book's wisdom to penetrate and settle while I sleep.

Doctor Burns' approach is to teach patients that they can't feel better by trying to change their bad feelings, because feelings are caused and ultimately controlled and maintained by our thoughts and beliefs. It's called "cognitive therapy."

Dr. Burns' approach feels scientific and I like that--I have a long way to go.

There are these exercises where, when something happens to trigger bad feelings, you're supposed to get out a pen and paper and write down everything you're thinking in the left column (completely ignoring "feeling" words). You analyze the left column with a scientific eye and then put in the right column the mental errors associated with the thoughts in the left. Dr. Burns stresses in Chapter 2 that you shouldn't just do this in your head. You must write out the exercise. That way, when you read through the thoughts and mental errors, you'll have some distance between your analytical voice and the other voice in your head that is dominated by emotions. Of course I never write out the exercises. Who has time for that? And what if someone found them? I would be writing constantly, all my pockets with loose bits of paper containing all my worst mental habits, just hanging out and falling all over the place -- for anybody to see.

But I still want to do the exercises. What I've found lately is that my "logical" voice sounds remarkably like Dr. Burns, and then I, the one who's all bungled up with emotions, talk back to him. Dr. Burns' voice is awesome. He's got that consistently calm and controlled way of speaking, just like all psychologists and psychiatrists have. (He reminds me of Dr. Katz. Did you watch that show? Sometimes it was awesome. My favourite episode is the one with the pretend phone --"I'm sorry, Dave, I'll have to let you go; he knows you're not real.")

I was at work the other day when I was struck with some bad or sad or panicky feelings of some sort. Without even asking him, Dr. Burns' voice suddenly appeared. "Clear the feelings away, Susan. It's not about them. What about the thoughts? What are they and why are they incorrect?"

I told him, "Dr. Burns, will you please fuck off? I'm too upset right now to figure out the underlying illogical thoughts, okay?" And then Dr. Burns was like, "This wouldn't be happening if you wrote these exercises down. Is that not correct?"

So we debated back and forth a bit. It was a tense few moments, but in the end, we decided to continue seeing each other.

"Consider, first, that we get many of life's basic satisfactions by ourselves. For example, when you climb a mountain, pick a flower, read a book, or eat a hot fudge sundae, you do not require someone else's company for these experiences to be enjoyable. A physician can enjoy the satisfaction of treating a patient whether or not he and the patient are involved in a meaningful personal relationship" (FG, 316).

firsts

2006-07-18T21:30:00.000-03:00

About three weeks ago I was suffering from the worst toothache ever. "On top of everything else, now I've got a freakin' cavity," I thought. My first cavity at a time like this. Just my luck. I made an emergency appointment with the dentist. They took an x-ray and I looked at it with them and the tooth looked totally...healthy and fine. The dentist poked around, did some tests for hidden fractures and stuff. Then she had me grind my teeth with a piece of special inked paper in between. "Well," she said, "I'm not saying there isn't something else going on, but if you have been under a good deal of stress lately and if as a result you happen to be grinding your teeth at night, it would make sense that this tooth would ache. The way it's shaped, all the pressure would be directed on this one tooth."

Funny how everything's so connected.

Here I'd just wasted this person's time, made her clear her schedule, because I had claimed I was in such agony and had insisted I was in need of immediate repairs. The dentist did sand the tooth down a bit, so that if I did grind my teeth at night--and again, she didn't explicitly accuse me of doing that--then at least the pressure would be more evenly distributed. I felt foolish, but within a couple of days, the pain was completely gone.

Then just last week I went for a regular cleaning and full overall checkup. "No cavities!" she said. A few more x-rays were taken for my records and then I was done. This new dentist of mine is a sweetheart, but she doesn't do that whole cavity-free wall of fame polaroids thing. I was a little disappointed, but whatever.

This afternoon at 2:53pm, everything changed. My dentist's receptionist called me at work. She sounded really sad, like it was hurting her to have to tell me. "I'm afraid you do have a cavity after all, Susan. It's on the opposite side of the formerly achy tooth, between such and such molars. I'm so sorry, but the x-rays are undeniable."

"That's okay!" I exclaimed. "There are worse things that can happen in a person's life." This is just one pure, honest to goodness, cavity. My first cavity. And I can handle this. I found myself skipping around the office for the rest of the afternoon. Go figure.

Maybe I'll feel differently after I meet my first drill.

play

2006-07-17T20:39:00.000-03:00

Do you ever pretend to be psychic? I do. No, I don't believe in that stuff either. But I like to imagine what it might be like. I usually do it at night when my eyes are closed but I'm still awake. Here's what you do: Start with your immediate visual perceptions, all those colours and squirrelly shapes on top of the black. Then force those images into your mind's eye. Just sort of steer them in and watch how they blend. Don't force it; just see where it goes and wait until it forms a photograph-like picture. I'm sure everything in my brain is based on something I've actually seen, but as long as I can't associate it with anything real, the effect is awfully convincing.

Last night it was a picture of a bracelet against the backdrop of a wall painted a sort of dark mustard yellow. The bracelet was about an inch wide, made of silver. There were beautiful, shiny red stones and just a few tiny, crystal-like things too. Although I'm not even positive it was a bracelet -- it was just a random psychic vision, after all.

I read the online Police Report with vigour and I wait for something to match. Some day, I figure there's gonna be a description of a missing person. Someone who was last seen wearing a pretty silver bracelet with sparkly red and white stones. I'm a responsible citizen so I'll go straight to the cops and I'll tell them what I've seen. "The yellow room! Mustard yellow. That's where you'll find your victim."

The detectives will come back to me later that day. "We found her," they'll say. "The red bracelet, the yellow wall; it was just like you said. Except she had matching earrings too. You didn't mention the earrings." "I didn't notice them," I'll say. "It was just one picture. I don't have a lot of control over these things." And then I'll start quivering very creepy-like.

The police will interrogate me for a while and then, when they're satisfied with my statement, when I am cleared of suspicion, they'll ask me why they've never heard of me. "We know all the psychics in this region. Why haven't we heard of you? Why haven't you been on that noon show with Duane?" And then I'll snap back, "You've never heard of me...because I refuse to exploit my gift as they do." Before I leave, I'll tell them how I think someone was pushed out of a plane recently--you should've seen the sky blur by in that picture--and that they should also check out the factory, the one with the conveyor belt. I've seen a lot of variations of that one. Something's definitely gone down at that place.

I think it's important to know how to play, even when you're all grown up. I'm sure I'm not the only one. Right? I'd love to know how you play.

dark matter is my favourite

2006-07-06T23:04:00.000-03:00

There have been some changes.

Some have gone away and others have arrived. I'm now living with my best friend since highschool, Melanie, and her pal, Jack:

I don't think I need to tell you just how very bad and very adorable Jack is. I'm confident that Melanie and I are going to make excellent flatmates. The Palace content coming from the record player has increased one thousand percent. That alone bodes very well for us.

I moved into Haydon's former room, which, at some point long ago in this old house's life, was an elegant dining room with a roaring fireplace. Despite my tireless scrubbing, today the room is suffering the effects of two years of non-stop nicotine exposure. I hope you won't mind if I declare this the summer of paint and fresh air.

Although it is a large room, there's really only one decent spot to place the bed. I fought it at first. I looked to all the corners and tried to find which one would suit the bed. But none of them do (one prevents the door from opening or closing properly, another leaves no room for a lamp or bedside table, and so on). For a few nights I was squirming and nervous, out of sorts. But then about two nights ago I noticed something. The thing is, with the current arrangement--the only reasonable arrangement--my head lies in the centre of the house at night. From that vantage, the house is remarkably vast. From that perspective, there might not be any end to the house at all, for all I know. Space swirls around my head the whole time (keeping everything held together, I imagine). It's frightening to have so much responsibility. No wonder I was squirming! There's no wall to cram up against, hide behind or be held by. But at the same time, the loveliest ethereals flow freely in and out of my brain. And they haven't done that in years. They come and go with such an ease and flexibility, you would not believe it. And now every morning when I wake up, this house of mine, though still firmly rooted to the earth, seems just a little lighter than it did the day before.

lest we air our filthy laundry all over the internet...

2006-06-16T23:14:00.000-03:00

...an indefinite hiatus is needed. Sorry.

Yours -- hopelessly heartbroken and destitute,

Siouxcitysue

dear beloved,

2006-06-03T19:26:00.000-03:00

The great thing about writing stuff on the computer instead of talking about stuff is that you can always edit to make it right; the bad thing is that people might find out you're a bad spellerer (or worse). In general, I'm not afraid to write: about myself, silly made-up stories, critical essays, in the blanks on forms, tour de force epic novels (they'll never get written, but i'm not afraid of them). But one of my greatest writing terrors is when someone puts a card in front of me and says "It's your turn to sign it."

A couple of actual things I've written on cards recently:

Dear Amy, It's been such a joy having you in the office, I can't even begin. I just hate to see you go -- but we know you're moving on to other heights that need conquering. XO, Susan

Dear Susan, Happy Birthday. We Susans have to stick together, because...I don't know...so we can take over the world? XO, Susan.

Second on the fear list: personal letters.

A recent letter to my aunt went something like this: Dear Sharon, Thank you for looking me up on the internet and sending a card and letter all the way from Idaho to my work after I neglected to give you my forwarding address when I moved two years ago. The pictures you sent of your family, with all the clever inscriptions, were just lovely. I'm sorry I have no pictures --but of course you saw the one on the internet. I wish it didn't make my teeth look so big. But I guess they kinda are. Things here in Halifax are Okay. I'm glad it's finally spring. It wasn't until I had some guests over for dinner in the backyard that I was told I have rhubarb, chives and strawberry plants in the part of the yard I didn't know was an old garden. I also found out that the yellow things were daffodils (they're dead now). I'm sure there's more to say, so... here is my current email and phone number. I hope to hear from you again soon. XO, Susan.

You write cards and letters to the people you really know and care about, so I'm not sure what the problem is. Just now, I was trying to write to one of my dearest friends in the whole world. She's living on a different continent for the next year or two. She's already written me twice (both long, sweet letters). My letter to her is going terribly. I'm starting to write things like "I'm sorry you're having trouble finding women friends there that you can really connect to" and "Yeah, things in Halifax are pretty well the same. My job is the same; the house, the cats, Robin--all the same."

All I can think is that the answer is in the signature: XO. In order to communicate with the people closest to me, I rely on gestures and expressions. I don't want to tell you about my stupid backyard. I don't want to use awkward cliches about mountains or taking over the world. I want to look you straight in the eyes when I tell you how I miss you and care about you. I want to hold you and hug you and kiss you.

Having said all that--Becka, I don't care if it takes all night; I will write you back. I promise.

And to everyone else who might be thinking about it: Don't be afraid to write me letters. It'll be weird, but I will write back (especially if you live in California and I happen to be curious about who you are, since I don't think I know anyone from California).

--XO Siouxcitysue

who lives at the hemlock ravine?

2006-06-02T22:39:00.000-03:00

Robin called me at work this afternoon to say he was going to Lake Charlotte for the weekend. That's cool. I picked up a bottle of wine and a new record (the latest Cat Power -- it makes me float aound in my living room in pathetic giddyness).

It was raining this morning, so I didn't take my bike. It was raining again when I was ready to go home. I'd seen this bus before. It says "Hemlock Ravine." Usually when I'd see it on rainy days when I didn't have my bike, I would think "Jeez, I'm not exactly sure what all buses go near my house, but I'm sure that one doesn't." But today I was feeling so dreamy and nice and that was the first bus that came to the stop. I thought, "No, today that bus is going to take me home...so I got on, paid my fair...and it did (but I confess I had requested a transfer -- just in case I'd have to jump off at the last minute).

EDIT: Lawrence is sitting on the couch and desperately reaching his paw over the coffee table, trying to knock a chess piece onto the floor. He misses Robin. I do too.

if you don't have anything nice to say...lie

2006-06-01T21:22:00.000-03:00

After all these years, I think I'm finally getting it. When I was a little kid, I was devoted to honesty and to preserving memories (and to making sure I confessed everything before falling asleep -- my bedtime prayer would be something like, "Dear God, Thank you for blah and blah, and for allowing me to get blah on the blah test at school. Please forgive me for blah and blah...and also anything else that I'm not aware of or have forgotten. Everything, I confess. In Jesus' name, Amen -- but that's another story).

So I remember someone telling me long ago that people are not capable of imagining their younger selves any different, fundamentally, from the way they percieve themselves in the present. And I was like, Nuts to that. I will document everything in my diary. I will capture all important moments perfectly. They will be preserved for my future self to make sure I remember me. I will know who I was when I change.

Occasionally, I'll still dig out those old diaries and, man oh man, what a weird little kid. They're full of test scores and lists of things I worried about and pastors whose serman skills I felt I was old enough to have an opinion about (and in hindsight, I was) and--of course--intense, unrequited crushes that would go heart-piercingly unnoticed by the objects of my young teenage lust. How misguided of me to want to preserve all that. All this is to say, I wish I had learned the art of positive lying at a younger age. Because I think maybe what they said way back then is totally true. Your mind is made to shape the past to fit the present, but if you write everything out so carefully, the past will hang on to you when you grow up. Either way, the saying is true. What a glorious self that twelve year old might have penned...if she'd just been a little less earnest and a lot more, I don't know, creative?

"Imagination is the living power and prime agent of all human perception" -- S.T.C.

don't you be rubbin' those eyes, yeah?

2006-05-25T20:47:00.000-03:00

The last thing we all said to each other before we locked the office -- almost in unison -- was "Remember to wear clothes that are easy to take off!" I mean, yeah, we're pretty hot, but it's not about that. Tomorrow we're going to spend the day driving around the province and visiting all the best used clothing shops. Yay!!!

But you know what's not "Yay"? Pink Eye. It's really not at all as cute as it sounds. Although it does make me feel like a little kid. Pharmacist tells me it's goin' around town. You better wash your hands and quit touching yourself up there. Or maybe just get out of town.

survey says...

2006-05-16T20:06:00.000-03:00

So I didn't get sick. I'm totally fine. Totally. I think it probably has something to do with my positive attitude. Hey, have you seen that film, What the Bleep Do We Know? Do you remember the blonde guy? He was sitting all smug and he kept saying stuff like, "It's true. The first thing I do when I wake up is decide what kind of day I want to have. And then I make it happen! Because I have the power to make it happen!" Don't you just wanna punch that guy in the gut, watch him keel over in pain and say, "Dude, you must've had some crazy dreams last night to decide you wanted to get punched in the gut and experience this excrutiating pain today. You don't deserve to be in control of your own destiny. You just can't handle it...ya big dufus."

I, too, have a misguided belief that I can improve my world -- and, apparently, far too much time on my hands:

Do you have any comments or suggestions for improving the National Student Loans Service Centre Web site?

Yes. The online "messages" available under"Check Your Loan Status" section are often misleading or simply incorrect and I usually have to call the centre, despite having gone through the website. e.g. There is a message that states something like, "Please send the appropriate missing information immediately or your application will be cancelled." Every time this message has come up, there has been NO additional information required from me. But when an internet message is threatening to CANCEL your interest relief application, of course you're going to call to verify. It's simply a waste of the online system if the information it provides is incorrect. I'm sure I'm not the only one -- I wonder if this little survey could make any difference?

As an extension of my overall faith in the people behind the Government Student Loans programs and services in this country, I'm going to check this out in a few months:

Should you wish to obtain information pertaining to this survey, you may submit a request pursuant to the Access to Information Act. Instructions for making formal requests are provided in the publication, Info Source, copies of which are located in local service centres of the Department of Human Resources and Social Development and at the following Web site (http://infosource.gc.ca/). When requesting information, please refer to the study name, "The Department of Human Resources and Social Development Canlearn.ca Web site Survey - Spring 2006"?.

It will be a delightful day.

XXX

Oh, one more thing: August 4-6 - Sappy Festival in NB with Purple Knight and everything. And just two seconds ago...Thunder and Lightning! (don't get me started on coincidences)

fighting the centrifugal forces

2006-05-13T21:42:00.000-03:00

The upstairs neighbours are having a party. Or something like a party. The music is very loud, but it sounds more like the soundtrack to something. People are actually going "Whoo! Whoo hoo! Ooh!" Just screaming. I don't know, but my immediate guess is that they somehow got a Scambler up there. Crazy.

Myself, I thought I'd spend this Saturday night washing dishes and listening to the radio. My throbbing head and scratchy throat tell me I'm going to wake up tomorrow with a nasty cold. I have to be a good soldier and prepare for the onslaught of mucous and misery, build up my sandbags of OJ and tissue and comfy socks.

That said, I like how your eyes water when you're sick. You get all the comfort of a good cry without any of the emotional trappings. You're in control. You can make 'em sad tears or joyful tears or mildly sulky tears -- tears of enlightenment, even. Whatever. Cold-virus teardrops are entirely malleable. They will relent. They will conform to your any demand. So have fun. Whoo! Whoo hoo! ooh!

"sun coming up"

2006-05-10T21:57:00.000-03:00

handy

2006-05-02T19:46:00.000-03:00

Feeling much better now. Less melodramatic at the very least. Ready to take it on all over again.

During my recovery, I learned a new trick: You take a perfectly good dresser drawer full of socks (although it doesn't really matter what's in it -- shirts, pants, papers, whatever) and you empty its contents onto the floor and then you throw it across the room into the wall, collapsing into all it's separate wooden parts.

You take a couple of days for the rage to settle down and then you get your hammer and plastic container full of little nails and you put the drawer back together. The repair is possibly more rewarding than the destruction. Slide, click, hold at 90 degree angle and then bang! bang! bang! Repeat several times until drawer is complete. As long as you don't tell anyone how it was broken in the first place, they won't think you're crazy; they'll just think you're handy and good. And that's how you'll feel.

But be careful. If you do it too often, you'll end up with too many old nail holes and you won't be able to fix the drawer. All that will be left is a pile of wood and socks. And what are you gonna do with that?

local proverbs

2006-04-29T19:41:00.000-03:00

The only way to communicate in such a small town without riddling your feet full of bullet holes is to be cryptic about it.

I would've loved to have met the person who came up with the word "weary." I'd shake his hand and say, "Thanks. If it weren't for you, my mind would just be a blank when someone asks me how I'm doing and I say, 'tired, but fine.' "

You know it's been a rough week when, even after a seemingly restful sleep, the best recovery you can concoct is another beer -- and you don't even drink beer.

I like using the second person; she doesn't judge or complain but always agrees with every word.

If you really hate it that much, you should just leave, no matter what. [Oh you! You live in a fantasy world, my friend.]

It would be nice if more conspiracy theories could be true; it would give humanity so much more credit.

I should move to a bigger town; clarity beckons.

I need more friends who are physicists or economists or just not otherwise involved with the arts in any capacity. I'd let it all out on their shoulders, explain everything. And then they would explain to me how any of it can make any sense, with the use of their numbers and graphs.

XXX

In the meantime, please don't worry about me. I'm tired, but fine. And the Heineken goes down smooth.

young adult

2006-04-16T19:57:00.000-03:00

Today is like those summer evenings where you were having the best time ever playing with all the neighbourhood kids. Your mom called you in, not to mess up your fun, but because it'll be dark in twenty minutes and there's probably church in the morning. As everyone gets ready to head home, you say, "Okay, so we are going to continue this tomorrow right where we left off. It's gonna be sooooo much fun. We don't really ever have to stop." Something always happened the next day and it didn't work out. It would eventually happen again, but that whole "it's gonna be just as perfect tomorrow" never ever worked.

Okay, so Robin and I just watched the documentary, Grizzly Man, by Werner Herzog, and we had the best time ever. That documentary is beautiful and sad and hilarious--perfect. After you watch the film, you'll want to check out the BBC interview with Herzog where he gets shot in the belly and winces not a smidge.

I'm getting panicky now. It just got dark, I feel kinda sickish, and the place is, well, messy. It reminds me of when my grandmother visited from Seattle when I was a kid. The day after she arrived, my sister and I were all like "Grandma! Hey. We're so bored and it's so gross outside. " And then Grandma was all like, "Girls, boredom is an unholy thing. Why don't you go clean your room? I bet you'd feel better with a nice, clean bedroom." And then we were like, "Clean our room?! That's possibly the suckiest idea ever. And here you've come all this way. We can't be rude to our grandma." So we spent the whole afternoon cleaning the bedroom we shared. I remember being pretty angry at the beginning, but when it was done, it was sooo nice. Spotless and organized and calming. Stupid Grandma was stupid right (I didn't tell her though).

So therein lies my dilemma. I was supposed to clean the whole house today. Instead, I slept in and immediately had the bright idea of staying in bed and reading this YA novel by one of the Fed members. It's a mystery and the protagonist is a girl just like me. It's pretty good, and it's exactly the kind of thing I used to read at eleven or twelve. I read all afternoon.

I think there has to be a compromise here. Nobody's calling me in ('cause hey, I've been in all day), and there are no grandmothers or other senior citizens in the area that I know of. Sure, I'll wash the stupid dishes. But then I'm totally going down to the video store for more Herzog, and then later I'll stay up super late and finish my book. And then, since this isn't a church (er, work) night, I'm gonna sleep in tomorrow and do it all over again and it'll be just as perfect. Just like today.

fate

2006-04-15T10:45:00.000-03:00

I've got a big awards thing coming up at work. I need a nice dress to wear.

Worst case scenario: I go all over town this afternoon and find nothing (at least nothing I can afford). I fret about it over the next two weeks and finally settle on some rag already in my closet, covering it up with that faded black sweater with the big hole along the collar.

Best case scenario: I find the perfect dress at a nice vintage store for, say, $10 bucks or so. It's classy but fun, I think as I'm trying it on. I come home feeling pleased and relieved. After trying it on again, I start to think that the dress is too bright or too sexy or too silly, or too something. It's just wrong. I fret about it over the next two weeks. When the day comes, I put it on and the mirror confirms that it will not work. In a fit of horror and panic, I tear off the dress, grab some old rag already in my closet and then cover it up with that faded black sweater with the big hole along the collar.

Yay awards show!

your message has not been sent

2006-04-07T19:19:00.000-03:00

Today at work I was responsible for sending out our biggest press release of the year. I'd spent a very long time updating the media lists. Included in my lists are: every newspaper or other print publication in Atlantic Canada, every radio or television station in Atlantic Canada, every library in Atlantic Canada, every Nova Scotia MLA, every bookstore in Nova Scotia, and every "cultural" contact across the country.

We've got an ancient, virtually extinct, email program. Ever hear of Pegasus? (not the horse, of course). If you make one error in a distribution list (like, say, having a comma anywhere) the whole thing refuses to work. I'd try sending to a list and get an error message, stating, " " is not a valid address. Correct it and resend. Your message has not been sent." I'd think I had the problem corrected and try again, but I kept getting the same error. I called our multi-purpose computer guy. We changed a few settings around and then it started working. There was just one list I was still having an issue with. My boss was impressed with my attitude under pressure. She said something nobody ever hears enough. She said, "I'm impressed with how you handled that. You're brilliant! You really are. You're brilliant!"

So I sit down to tackle that last list. I get an email from someone. I don't know which list he came from. He could be a librarian, a journalist --it doesn't really matter. His email message read, simply, "I have received your announcement 29 times."

Thank goodness I got this nice extra dry red wine from South Africa. And that I went on that impulse buy at the record store last night and purchased not just the live Will Oldham record but also the dreamy 1997 Godspeed you Black Emperor record. It had a lucky penny in it and everything!

lucky penny

2006-04-07T19:11:00.000-03:00

I took my hand away too quickly at the grocery store cash register and dropped a penny. The cashier apologized. I said "Oh, it's just a penny." There was a woman with a small child behind me in line. The little girl--she was maybe four or five--reached down laboriously and picked up the penny. She held it out to me, her face looking up at me with brilliant, innocent eyes. She didn't say anything. There was a pause. I knew the right thing would've been to say something like "You just found a lucky penny! Good for you, you darling little bundle of sweetness." Instead, I just stared back, trying to not look frightened or disgusted. I said "It's all yours!" and walked away as her mother was prodding the girl: "Do you now how to say 'Thank y--" Nuts to that.

other children

2006-04-07T19:08:00.000-03:00

If I were Will Oldham's mother I would tell him he's not allowed to play with Matt Sweeney anymore. "He's a bad influence on you, my son."

unst, unst, unst; no, no, no

2006-03-29T20:17:00.000-04:00

I can hardly wait for the weekend. I think it's gonna be fun, fun, fun. Lotsa shows and all close to home. Windom Earle got me all worked up for the dance-y music last weekend and now the energy won't go away.

I like some dance-y music, and some dance-y music I like a lot. Pretty well all the shows I'm going to this weekend will be filled up to the roof with slappy fun dance action. 'Cept I don't' ever dance. It's a horrible disability, really. It's not quite like being blind or not having any arms or anything, but it's still pretty bad. Going to a show where everyone is dancing except you is the most effective way to announce, publicly, "I am the prudiest prude prude that ever did prude it up." (Other than just saying that, I guess.) Sometimes I want to say, "But if you could only see the sweet moves in my head!" Somehow I don't think that would fly. I think that would make me the dance equivalent to a pervert.

"So this is one hot Wednesday night, eh?"
"Oooh, yeah."
"What are you gonna do with it?"
"Oh you know. I think I've got some ol' nylons that need hanging. Drip all night, they will. Gross everybody out. Then maybe some readin'. You're right, I do read the dictionary for fun. The censored version, yes. How did you know?"

"always bathing in the evening"

2006-03-19T22:14:00.000-04:00

is the most consistently reliable therapy I've ever known. First the roar of the water, the steam, the thinking, "I will tear off these wretched clothes and I will go in there and I will stay forever and ever." After a little skin-pringly shock, you slide yourself into concentrated warmth, safety and privacy.

It takes about ninety seconds before the bath begins to disappoint. The bubbles go away too quickly, the body gets too hot and red, and then the buzz of that bulb above the sink grows unbearably loud. But that's a good thing, for if the bath were as good as you thought it would be, you really would stay in there and, I can only suppose, prune up into nothing.

It's the getting out that does it. The big water gush when you lift yourself up is the bath's way of saying "Don't go!" or "I hope you enjoyed your visit" -- or maybe it's you telling the bath, "I'm done with you now, but thanks." You're still naked and wet, but evenly, perfectly warm all the way through. You're struck with that gift of surprised relief to be transferred back into the same air that seemed so disdainful just twenty minutes before.

It's like you're starting the day over again. Only it's nighttime. Your only obligation right now is to pack your clean, warm self into bed and forget about it.

would that all the lord's people were prophets

2006-03-16T21:02:00.000-04:00

I'm listening to Palace this evening. I'm tired, uncertain and broken. Weary, I mean.

Lately, whenever I listen to the early recording of "I was Drunk (at the Pulpit)," I find myself ever more convinced that Will must have known that, at some point, he would play it differently. He planned all the variations years and years ago. He could see them there in his mind, but he meted them out in careful, palatable doses. But how could he? Is Will a prophet?

I got into Blake around the same time I got into Palace. They've taught me nothing, but I'd die if I lost them. It's not right (to be so narrowly focused). I'd best get me to bed. I hope to wake up singing, if still mostly blind.

the pitter patter of little bouncing apes

2006-03-12T15:32:00.000-04:00

I hate children. It's no secret. Pregnancy and childbirth do crazy and horrible things to your body, mostly irreversible things. I don't care that it's "natural." Lots of things that happen in nature are wrong, wrong, wrong.

Babies always remind me of the little aliens in Aliens, the ones that impregnate you with the other aliens that explode out of your stomach. Toddlers are unbearably demanding and obnoxious. They always want to talk to you even though they can't even speak properly. They don't make sense. And then they get older and all turn into little shits with their bicycles and snowballs and whatnot.

One of my biggest fears about parenting, though, is the lack of control you have over how your kids turn out. A parent's nurture only goes so far. There are too many other influences (and too many nasty genes in my pool). At some point, you have to accept who they are. What if they're jerks? There's not a thing you can do. I don't want to bring anymore jerks into the world.

Naw, I'm not hinting at anything. I've just been listening to Eyeball Skeleton. I keep thinking, "I want to go to the kid store and buy those kids. Those kids are all right."

astigmatic and traumatized

2006-03-10T22:43:00.000-04:00

I've never been sexually abused. Never ever. Certainly most of the women I've known have been sexually assaulted at some point in some way by someone. I really haven't.

But after last night, I think I know a thing or two about being violated. It wasn't sexual, but it was my body. I was in a vulnerable situation and I was overpowered and humiliated. By an optometrist.

It was at the end of my appointment. The interocular pressure test. I made a little joke about dreading the puff of air thing. I've got very sensitive eyes. I think it's part of the reason I never learned to swim. When I shower, I have to have a towel within easy reach so that, after rinsing out the shampoo, I can wipe my face before opening my eyes.

The room was dark. He reached into a drawer and said that he didn't use the air puff thing. He uses the old-fashioned method. "But first I have to put some drops in your eyes." "Oh no!" I blurted out. But he was already looming down on me, standing over my shoulder. "Well you have to let me do it," He said. As he said this, he was already taking hold of my face and pulling up my head. He effectively forced my eyelids open and applied the drops into my struggling, blinking eyes. It happened so fast. I still can't believe it. He didn't tell me what he was doing or what the drops were for, let alone ask my permission to do it. He eventually told me that the drops were to freeze the surface of my eyes so that he could use this other instrument (a tonometer I later learned from google) to measure the interocular pressure. He was so aggressive and physically overbearing, I was just in shock (or frozen in fear, if you will). I don't know how else to describe it.

He seemed to get increasingly pissed off. He said, "I do this forty times a day and no one has ever complained." But I wasn't complaining. I was silent. When it was over, he actually threw me a tissue and said, "Now wipe your face... and don't cry." And that was it. I said "Thank you" -- cause I'm such a polite little girl! -- and then tore off home on my bike. For the record, I was not crying. I just had this anbesol-for-eyes shite running down my cheeks.

Much later that evening, I was lying in bed, trying to watch a movie. I started blinking uncontrollably. Not crying, just blinking. For about thirty seconds I recounted the incident in my head. I then experienced fifteen seconds of intense, empty terror.

I've been seeing optometrists about every two years since I was nine and I've never had an experience even close to this. I'm frustrated that I didn't just stop it. I keep imagining having the power to slow down time so I could have found the space to say "No, no, no. Get the fuck away from me, you awful, beefy bastard." I also feel a tiny bit ashamed, like maybe there's a chance I'm just being a big baby about it? I'd like to confer with the other thirty-nine he'd seen that day.

But I don't really believe that. You know when something bad has happened to you. Call me what you will, this was very bad. My solution is the pen. I've got my pen out now, and I'm going to use it. What else can I do?

I, SIOVX CITY SVE

2006-02-26T17:49:00.000-04:00

"Retarded" is the only marginally or situationally offensive word that I allow myself to use liberally. I'm pretty sure that if you put "mentally" before it, it's still quite an acceptable term.

So I was thinking, it's so humiliating -- debilitating even -- to be treated as though you are mentally retarded when you know you are not, I wonder how much more confusing and hurtful it is for someone who actually is.

My defense mechanism for those situations is to fancy myself a Claudius. I stay quiet and brew. I begin to wonder what I'll do with the place once I get to be emperor. In the meantime, if it gets me writing, even just a family history, then I figure the experience wasn't wasted.

oh, to feel haunted instead

2006-02-22T21:03:00.000-04:00

Yesterday after work I was all pumped to get all pumped. I got to the gym, took off my shoes and socks, brushed my teeth, did my weigh-in, sat down on the bench with my face in my hands for a few minutes...and then went down to Tom's for a double gin and some cigarettes.

The word that best describes my feelings at that time is "indignant." Or possibly "frustrated." Or maybe just "sad."

Indignant: Why won't the scale change, already? Change, you stupid piece of garbage. I've worked sooo hard. According to the laws of physics or physiology, or perhaps physiognomy, I should be starting to enjoy my reward. I want to be reaping now. I'm so done with sowing.

frustrated: Working out takes a lot of time. When I get out of the gym, I'm often too exhausted to even walk home. I sometimes take the bus and feel like I've wasted my time. I get home and I'm hungry and completely pooped. And it's not like I really think of the gym as a fun place to be. It's not my hobby! It doesn't make my soul grow. I'm getting so bored looking out that window while on the elliptical and trying to play stupid games in my head. The latest "game" involves watching people coming and going from the parking lot ahead of me. You can just see them as they're coming over the crest. And when they go in the opposite direction, they completely disappear the instant they pass over the crest. The walking path is right next to one of Halifax's (North America's?) oldest and coolest cemeteries. So lately I've been imagining that the people going away, disappearing over the ridge, are actually walking into their deaths. And the people coming over the ridge! Well, I'll leave that to your imagination. But that game has grown dull, so now I've got nothin'.

sad: It's okay. I just need a little cry. No, no ice. I don't deserve ice at this time, but thank you anyway (that part's a lie; I actually don't ever like any ice in my booze. I tend to exaggerate when I'm sad--or frustrated or indignant).

The word that would best describe this feeling would be "haunted."
--Love and Rockets

know thyself

2006-02-15T21:07:00.000-04:00

A while ago I was reading this book of Haydon's called Understanding Comics, by Scott McCloud. I can't find the book right now, so I can't quote him directly, but McCloud says something about how we imagine our faces to look when we're talking to someone, looking at someone else's face. We can't be sure exactly of our expressions, or of how they look to the other person, but we nonetheless form a kind of abstract image of ourselves in the background of our minds while we're speaking.

Skeletons are so weird. Do you ever consider that you, too, are a skeleton? I like to remind myself of this sometimes. I'll look in the mirror and spread my lips and cheeks away from my jaws so I can see part of the skull underneath. It's gross and fun and enlightening. It keeps me real, if you will.

So this is week six of workin' out almost every day, and I'm finally noticing a real change. I can't stop looking at my legs and feeling them. It's as if they're brand new. I think in the past, I really only ever thought about my legs if I was wearing a skirt. And even then, I had no real idea of what they were all about. It was just about whether the skirt length was appropriate, whether I could sit down comfortably, whether the shoes really go with the skirt. Basically, it was "I wonder if my legs look okay." It was a purely external sense, as if they were appendages; they were there, but not any more a part of me than the skirt was. It's totally different now. Now I can almost see the threads of muscle under there. I see them when I'm walking, or sitting, or bending. All the time. I even seem to see them when I'm talking to someone. There's the abstract face, the skull...and now leg muscle tissue and tendons and bones! I'm alive.

Sadly, my arms are currently strangers to me. I've done a fair bit of research, so I think I know what to do with the weights to help, but that part of the gym is always so busy. And I'm honestly just hugely intimidated. If someone could just take five minutes to show me how to use everything, how to make sure my form is correct and all that, I would just love to get working on that whole tricip/bicep/upper chest/back area. I want the abstract vision of my arms to be present when I talk to you. I want to bring them into the fold. I want to make them wholly manifest members of what I now understand to be the weird and wonderful family that is my body.

(I almost want to say '"self" instead of "body" there, but then it sounds all spiritual--and I generally find spirituality to be revolting.)

ps: paddy leaves her room tonight

2006-02-13T19:51:00.000-04:00

The agony of Sunday nights (and snowstorms that peter out completely by Monday morning) sometimes make me wonder if weekends are worth it. But then I try to remember back in the olden days (last year) when there was no such thing as a free weekend in my world. I can't quite remember, and for that I am thankful.

pps: I actually have no idea if that's really going to happen.

temporary

2006-02-12T22:29:00.000-04:00

I was looking over that last post (and hereby violate rule #1: blog-referential posts are prohibited) and I'm thinking, "Oh man, I just wrote chick lit. Who the hell do I think I am? Helen frigging Fielding, or what? I'm posting this because I just had to get rid of that post (rule #2: no posting about why you're posting).

My real problem isn't with my weight; that's more of a fun new hobby that has a way of scaring me the more I get into it. My real problem is with this stupid unfinished story I've got (violation of rule #3: Writing about writing is fucking lame and over done. Don't do it). It's the writing sample I used in the workshop. I didn't finish the story, so it kind of seemed like there was this cliff hanger. You know the classic crime mystery problem? The cops get on the scene and then realize that the slain victim was left in a room that is locked from the inside. So how did the killer escape? My problem is kind of like that. I've got this retarded woman (although all the people in my writing group kept insisting she's autistic). Anyway, she's locked in her room and she has to get out so that she can go on this epic quest-type thing. The writing group people kept saying, "Well, she obviously goes out the window" or "I just know she goes out through the window. I just assumed." And I'm sitting there and I get caught up in the debate. I say, "Well, I don't know. I guess she could. I don't think she has to though." And then I remember that it's my story and I can make the protagonist do whatever I want. And I have decided that there's no frigging way she's going out that window. But if she doesn't get out at all, then the story doesn't go anywhere. It never gets finished. So there's that.

I usually only write a post because I'm embarrassed by the previous one (second violation of rules 1-3). Tomorrow I won't even re-read this; I'll just post something new (Shoot, I think I've got a new one: no posting about writing a post about writing that hasn't been posted or written yet).

middle management misery

2006-02-11T14:04:00.000-04:00

The cakes looked terrible. There was no real temptation to buy any of them. I was disappointed. But Self caught my eye with the headline "7 Scientifically Proven Moves for Flat, Firm, Fabulous Abs." I thought, "Hey, maybe this is the answer to my crunch problem. It's been magically delivered to me by the gods, here at the end of the check-out line." The crunch problem: How the hell are you supposed to do these? I mean, I manage okay, and I can kind of feel something happening, but mostly I worry that the veins on my neck are going to explode out of my skin. I do about, hmm seven, and then give up.

Robin was rummaging through the groceries afterward and came swooping into the living room with my Self. He actually hit me over the head with it. He said, "Don't buy this again! It is harmful." "How do you know that?" I said. "The ab article is scientific, Robin. Scientific! And the headline is alliteratively sound, in case you hadn't noticed. So how do you know?"

I don't want to cheat and jump right to the article, so I started at the beginning, reading the letters to the editor --"I love Dylan Lauren's hair on page 151 of the December issue. How do I get her beachy look in winter?"--and all. I'm almost halfway through the magazine. Instead of finding the answer to my crunch problem, I've endured images of huge stacks of gooey, syrupy pancakes ("Don't eat this! Portion Patrol"), and chocolate cake (but it's from weight watchers) and giant pepperoni pizza (but it's got wheat). I've read the testimonial of a woman who was born a hunchback, but who is able to deal with this because sometimes when she's on a dark street all people can see is her beautiful face and they tell her so. And another testimonial of a woman who finally tried botox and, despite her initial reservations, has found that being physically incapable of frowning has made her a happier person.

So how did Robin know? He's never read Self. He grabs it from my hands and throws it across the room. "It's dangerous! Don't read that." How could he know? Why don't I know? What happens when I get to the stomach article? What's going to happen to me?

to be continued...

a birthday poem inspired by my favourite grandfather figure, Kurt V.

2006-02-06T21:01:00.000-04:00

We're gonna create
fucking havoc on
our birthdays, Mel.
Poetic
Fucking
Havoc

raining in darling

2006-02-05T17:37:00.000-04:00

I just finished I See A Darkness. The last song is "Raining in Darling." It's been a while since I listened to that record, and just as it has always been able to do, it has left me insufferably weak. Satisfied, but still--always--wanting more.

This weekend has been like those drowning dreams, where you splash around desperately for hours (days in dreamland) and it's not until you've given up, your fate is sealed and your feet are just touching the lake's floor, that you're saved by waking. The difference is that I've actually managed to stay afloat and dreaming. I think one of those mother seals off Pictou Island got into my head somehow and has been holding me up with her nose. She's been keeping my thoughts mostly above the water.

Speaking of dreams:

The Silver Jews, with David Berman, Bob Nastanovich, Stephen Malkmus and Will Oldham all playing together, are touring the east coast next month. They'll be in NY/Boston on the weekend of March 17/18/19. This is the perfect show for Robin and I to go to together. I'm in love with Will Oldham, and Robin tolerates that. And Robin wants to have Steve Malkmus's babies, which I tolerate (although I'm not interested in raising those children). But we both love Berman. It would be too good. The perfect marriage. So, if you're interested in going to this and you have a car, we can share gas expenses and driving. You should also know that Robin and I make for excellent traveling companions. And if that's not enough: please! please! please!

local girl declares snow day

2006-02-01T07:48:00.000-04:00

Never before have I wielded such power. My boss lives an hour away; we knew she wouldn't be coming in. And so it fell to me to decide whether I and the festival intern would trudge to work today. I could hardly sleep all night. I'd wake from dozing and throw my fist in the air, pleading with the wind and snow beating against the window: "Stay strong! Please! You can do it!"

Last year when I worked at the casino, things happened very differently when a snowstorm hit.

I turned on the radio first thing this morning and the normally obnoxious corporate radio guy announced (almost as sweetly as the Eurythmics in the background were announcing 'I want to dive into your ocean'), "All schools in the province are canceled today. All of them. No exceptions."

the big time

2006-01-25T21:12:00.000-04:00

The Siouxcitysue blog is going Hollywood. Well, Haliwood actually. Tomorrow night I will be recording a recitation of one of SCS's posts. The recording will then be spliced and edited with other people reading from their blogs and used as part of the soundtrack for an awesome little animated film. It's supposed to sound personal and especially bloggy. Which post do I choose?

XXX

Gym update:
Yes! I've been wearing myself out at the gym. It's amazing. A whole new drug. A drug that makes me giddy and energetic, and eventually sleepy--but that will never make me sad or need a little cry for no reason. You should try it. That said, I'm feeling a bit discouraged tonight that I haven't experienced any dramatic transformation. I sometimes fantasize about how cool it would be if a one-year gym membership meant I only had to go to the gym once, obtain immediate results, and then just promise to be a very good girl for the rest of the year. The gym card would merely be a symbol of my pledge.

But for now I'll just keep at it. I'll endure; it's what I do best (it's also my favourite bike-machine mode).

did it make you think?

2006-01-15T13:41:00.000-04:00

The 2004 film Crash I mean. Did it? It made me think...about a pile of shit. I try not to judge people by the movies or music or books they like, but sometimes--like right now--it's awfully hard not to.

I like people. My whole life is an exploration of people. It gives me a freaky rush to be able to see inside somebody, to figure out how a particular person works. It's especially satisfying when I think I've got someone nailed down and then they surprise me. It's a relief, really, and it propels my quest. And no, I don't think I'm special. I know you do this too. It gives me a terrifying rush--like watching a good horror movie--when I become aware that someone else is seeing inside of me. I don't try to hide myself, I don't think; I want people to see. Sometimes vulnerability rocks. And then when they've come close enough, when insecurities are set aside and we have a direct line of communication, we meet at the point of common humanity and lay back in mutual bliss. It's all very sweet, and really all I require in this life. Of course, when one of us gets it wrong, as is usually the case, it all breaks down and we duke it out to the death as we fall together into the same pile of shit (ever seen footage of mentally retarded kids forced to wrestle in a filthy ring for other people's profit and pleasure?).

So yeah, every time someone tells me that Crash made them think, I get angry and want to start throwing poo. Don't you already think? What else would you be doing with your head? I don't get it. My estimation of that movie is that it kept insisting--nay, bashing me over the head with the idea--that people are complicated. Racism is complicated, gender is complicated, and other elements that seem to divide us, are complicated because people are complicated. At the same time, however, this film completely lacked the ability to show it. Those characters didn't seem like real people to me. They were simple; the third, and possibly fourth, dimensions were entirely absent. You could see the "surprises" coming two blocks down and around the corner! Any film that tries to take my brain away (except for awesome zombie films, of course), regardless of the "message," and if it is taken seriously, can only lead to the pile of shit scenario.

pumped

2006-01-11T20:05:00.000-04:00

Bringing my bike in for the winter is proving detrimental to my ass. I'm not really over-weight exactly. There's just this extra 10lbs or so that's been hanging around for a couple years. It doesn't even feel like it belongs with my body. I tried asking it politely to go away, hinted that it had overstayed its visit, but it's just not a very polite bit of flesh. Considering my eating habits, I'm actually pretty fortunate my metabolism is as good as it is. I sure do love cake.

The solution: I got a gym membership for free at the engineering and architecture school. I went for the first time yesterday after work. I was terrified. My one pair of shorts are from bible camp 1989 or so, and I don't own a single tshirt that's really appropriate for working out. I won't even begin to describe the pile of cloth and elastic I've rigged up for a sports bra. But my navy blue Champions look pretty smart, I must say. The conversation at my gym is all "computer problem this" and "right angle that." I'm not the same kind of geek as them, but I feel like we're at least geek kin.

It's not a fancy gym. Some might even say it's kinda dirty. But I love it. It's small and comfortable. My new gym has some basic weight stuff, a metal thing that you use to do sit-ups without hurting your back, and one high-tech elliptical machine with lots of lights and numbers. Fortunately, that is all the gym equipment I require. But the best part about my new gym--my favourite part!-- is that each shower has a separate little space next to it with a bench where I can lay my glasses. In other gyms I've been to, I've always found the long, blind march from locker to shower and back to be the most terrifying part of the work-out experience.

I hate that expression "A moment on the lips; a lifetime on the hips." I look at my thigh and imagine that every birthday (or non-birthday) cake I've ever devoured is just floating around beneath my skin, still rotting and full of stench. The chocolate cake from Birthday 1993 resides in my inner left thigh. I figure that cherry cake that grandma made me for my third birthday in 1981, which I hated but ate anyway, is still stashed somewhere in the back of my right elbow--or does it reign supreme in the buttock region, along with all those once-so-delicious vanilla with chocolate frosting birthday cakes from 1985 to 1991? Who knows? Hey, my birthday is coming up. I love birthdays. Please make me a cake. I think a chocolate with vanilla frosting one might be just what my right calf has been missing.

oh joey smith, you handsome menace

2006-01-06T18:42:00.000-04:00

Missed opportunity of the week:

I was returning a movie (Yes, it was Mean Girls. Someone I thought I could trust told me it was actually funny. They lied! I am purely a victim.) A couple of Mormon boys confronted me on the sidewalk. They said they're on a two-year missionary trip. I looked into one of the boys' eyes as he methodically, yet urgently, began his speech. I thought, 'This is it! I'm going to do it!" I desperately wanted to say what I've been wanting to say to people like that for years: "Listen, what bothers me most about this encounter is that you don't really want me to convert. I simply don't believe what you say. I believe you want me to be mean and crass to you; you want me to get angry and reject your message. Because every time someone does that, you become that much more girded up with confidence and justification in your incredibly stupid faith. I've read the Book of Mormon. It's a terrible book--all that poorly-crafted bible-ize. Don't you see it? You make me sad. Out here in the cold with your crisp black suits and pomade. And you're so young. Please stop. Go from me now. Live long and prosper!"

But instead, I said, "So, where are you guys from then?"

"Utah!"

"Utah, eh? Neato." I felt so foolish for asking, the embarrassment of it prevented me from confronting those boys with my honest concern and indignation. I said, "Well, I've only ever been witnessed to by local Morons. . . I have to go now and return this filthy movie."

Upon later reflection, I considered: embarrassment has been preventing me from doing good deeds for as long as I can remember. I am purely a victim.

laid up

2005-12-31T22:41:00.000-04:00

so it's 1050pm and i've been playing bejewled to the point where I have to request a hint ofr everydty turnh. and I thought, hey, could a drunken post work? cam ot?

i read on someone else's blog that everyone gets laid on new year's eve in halifax. it's 1050 and i'm playing bejewled and getting drunk on this fine dry red wine. robin in sick and watching columbo in the next room (we rented the entire third season --yes!!) but I, the ever mismatched extrovert want to ring in the stupid new year in the company of friends. we are going to gus's to see some bands that people dance to. i will not dance. because i cannot. ever since the aerobics instructor stopped the song to come up to me and say "look, i just want to correct your form. . . because i don't want you to hurt yourself." the odds for getting laid this new year's eve are looking grim and slim, but the odds of getting fabulously hurt are looking fantastic. lovw love love, siouxcit sue.

talking to melanie

2005-12-29T18:30:00.000-04:00

The Thursday before Christmas, I spent the day with Melanie. We talked about Christmas and family and cats and knitting. We shopped. We went to a crafty store where Melanie purchased a bag with cute pictures of cats stenciled on it for her mom for Christmas. We examined the knitted merchandise and Melanie explained that she could make all of that stuff. We went to another store where I purchased a book of Blake Art Tattoos. I will return to that store soon and buy another copy. As the Barbie collectors say, you need one to display on the shelf and another to play with.

You can’t drink and smoke in Halifax until after five (and even then, your options are limited). I can drink without smoking, but I can’t drink and have serious chat without smoking. Let’s not talk about that today. Sooo, it was only 3pm. To kill time, we went to the mall. I purchased a Medium Radical at the place with all the fruit and vegetable and yogurt drinks. But afterwards I only felt medium cool. We then went to Sears and talked about duvets.

Back at the bar, we drank too much beer and chatted, as planned. And we exchanged Christmas presents. Melanie gave me a bunch of stuff from the place at the other mall that sells all the fruit and vegetable and yogurt beauty products. I love all of it; it’s extra large rad.

I want Melanie to make band sweaters, the cardigan kind with the collars and metal zippers. I want you to order these sweaters from Melanie for your band. They’re fantastic (they will be, anyway). Melanie wants to help me with my stories by allowing me to make a blog about her. It’s called Talking to Melanie. I plan to update it weekly. I need a change, a noble new purpose. It can’t all be about Sioux City Sue all the time. Or can it...?

high score hoping

2005-12-27T20:19:00.000-04:00

Yay! It's over! Now I can relax and go shopping and play Christmas songs-- maybe pour a little nog in the coffee. Robin gave me Bejeweled 2: Deluxe Edition for Christmas. It's pretty good. I've been partly using it as a quit-smoking aid. I just keep playing for hours and hours. I don't just have the high score; I have all of the high scores:

Bejeweled's--I don't know, narrative?--voice is very low and masculine. He's like what a 45 sounds like when you play it on 33rpm. He gives me encouragement along the way. I get a few power gems or hyper cubes and the game's all like, "Excellent! Awesome!...INCREDIBLE!" And sometimes I'll just be playing away and the game actually lets out this kind of inarticulate grunt. I'm not sure if it's a mistake with the software or what. It makes me feel dirty. It's as though the game is saying, "Look, I don't have any milestones or 'level complete' announcements to make yet, but I just want you to know that what you're doing is making me feel very nice."

Another trick to keep myself from smoking has been to confine myself for long periods of time in places where it is illegal to smoke, such as the mall or the bus. I was feeling really good today --day three! I was walking proud and snubbing my nose at all the real non-smokers. I felt better than them because they're not working nearly as hard as I was. I'm way over-tired because I got up at 6:30 in order to get to bloody fucking Future Shop in time to get the two dollar headphones and thirty-dollar wireless keyboard and mouse (a painful wait in line, both getting in and out of the store, but I was successful). Then I went to the mall for a couple hours and bought nothing (it was a different kind of therapy, after all). Later this afternoon I bought Low's The Great Destroyer at the Sam's Boxing Day sale. I don't know what I was thinking. I knew it would be beautiful. Then about an hour ago, Haydon offered me a generous glass of bourbon. Of course I was just putting the record on. How could I not have known that this combination of gorgeous weariness, music and booze would destroy me?

That first cigarette after three days was sooooooo nice...and the last five have been, well, pretty good anyway. Tomorrow I will wake up feeling gross and heavy lunged. I will begin again. I swear I will Bejewel myself out of this habit if it's the last thing I do (because I can't have those as my famous last words).

killjoy

2005-12-24T13:44:00.000-04:00

Christmas is terrible, isn't it? I hate Christmas Eve most of all. I never feel so fundamentally terrible as I do every Christmas Eve. Whether it's good or bad, you're pretty well forced to think and talk about family. Everyone in my family is either mad or dead via tragic means. I'm afraid this limits my holly jolly, Christmas-y family conversation. It's not that Christmas as a date is significant. The only really bad thing that happened at Christmas was in 1989 when my mom opened what she was sure would be a microwave but turned out to be a bread box. Somewhere inside, she had to have known that Dad couldn't afford a microwave. But let's just say, it didn't lessen the expression of disappointment in any way.

At Christmastime, I end up mulling over every very bad thing that has ever happened. All at once. On the actual anniversaries, you can just distract yourself. Go to work or out to a show or a restaurant or just a walk. Take care of things in your own way. But you can't really do those things at Christmas. Nobody let's you. Everything is closed. And always they make you talk.

"So are you going to visit your family over the holidays? Are they in the city?"

"Well, my sister is in Halifax somewhere."

"Oh, and what does she do?"

"She's a sociopathic crack whore."

"I see."

"No no, I'm not insulting her--I wouldn't do that at Christmas! I meant it literally. For Christmas, I'm going to find out where she's living...

If not by Christmas, then by New Year's night."

there's a monkey in my backyard and no one believes me

2005-12-23T13:19:00.000-04:00

They all spit in the face of documented proof:

some things we know for certain:

2005-12-20T23:25:00.000-04:00

Getting in shape this winter will not start at home.

lofty

2005-12-20T13:57:00.000-04:00

My office space at the Fed is fucking pristine. Everyone says so. There are many bins and drawers and file folders. All of my bins and drawers and file folders are in alphabetical order, including all of their contents. My paper-clips are appropriately organized by size and colour. My computer is also arranged in perfect order, every file in its place, it's contents in alpha. Even my To Do lists are alphabetized, each item bearing a neat left-handed check mark (or if, at the end of the day, they have not yet earned a check, they get a perfectly drawn circle -- with the highlighting markers I keep aside just for that purpose -- before they are added anew to the next day's list). When I leave each day, I shut out the lights and computers in a special order so that I will not forget anything. My chair is pushed in just so. I lock the door, checking it twice--just to be sure-- and then head to my house at the other end of town.

My holiday plans are lofty. Most importantly, I want to clean my house. I'm a pretty nervous person at the best of times, but a messy environment makes me incredibly anxious. When I'm anxious, I'm not very productive, which is why I keep my work environment so neat. When I am at home for any significant length of time, I become very nervous and lazy, and that's just not a very fun combination.

I want to allow friends to come in beyond the front porch without that awkward, unspoken shame. I want to find hairdryers when housemates ask to borrow them. I want my house not to smell. No smells. Nothing. I want to be able to put on my Songs: Ohia record without finding that Cindy Lauper got stashed in there instead and the Songs: Ohia record is behind the couch, laden with cat fur and other random shit. I want to move my computer out of the bedroom and into the living room, so that I'm no longer forced to hunch over on the side of the bed. That calculated move will include the added bonus of not falling asleep to internet television crap every night. I want to reverse my dinner habits, so that I'm cleaning the dishes that I used to cook and eat, rather than always having to clean the dishes I need in order to cook and eat. I want the ironing board to be used for ironing, and not as a junk shelf/cat condo. And I want to be able to have a bath without feeling slimy limey afterwards. Maybe walk around in my bare feet once in a while.

It' s a bit overwhelming. I got down to business a couple nights ago in the living room. I wasn't quite sure where to begin. I thought of my office for inspiration. I started with the records. I had to throw out my pants from sitting on the carpet all evening. It was that gross. All five plants hanging from the living room window frames are dead, and their crispy leaves are all around, decomposing. I even cut my toe on a broken CD case. There's a mug on the mantle that is half-filled with something, which I looked into once, but am now frightened to go near. It took all evening, but....from Abba to Warren Zevon, I can honestly say that the records were all in perfect alphabetical order. When I finished, I took a look around and sighed. For half an hour I clung to the record shelf. I'd look over at the mug on the mantle and then say to myself, "I think I should listen to a record before moving on to another task, calm myself down. I think...the kinks. Ah yes, there it is, just past Joan Jett. " This went on for some time, before Robin finally came in and rescued me. The records will have to be done again.

As it stands today, I'm sitting here hunched over the side of the bed to type. It's past 3:30pm and I'm still in my pyjamas. I'm shaking from all the cigarettes and coffee and no breakfast. I haven't eaten breakfast yet because I figure there's no point until I can clear off the kitchen table enough that I can see its surface. Yeah, I'm exaggerting a bit, but I'm not really exaggerating at all, if ya know what I mean.

If you pray, please pray that I will be able to gather up the strength I need to complete the domestic tasks before me. But please do not visit. I'll let you know when you can visit. And when you do, please pretend to marvel at how pristine my house is. Pet me. Tell me I'm a pretty cat. Tell me I'm a good cat. 'Cause my whole house will be like purring.

the path

2005-12-17T12:31:00.000-04:00

About a year ago I got a message from the sex clinic. I called back and they told me my pap had come back with atypical cells. They told me to come back in six months for another test and not to worry in the meantime. After about three days of obsessively checking my lower belly for unusual bumps, I stopped worrying. And six months later I was busy with my new job and other living-type stuff. I finally made my redo appointment a couple of weeks ago.

The doctor seemed young and maybe newish. She looked over my chart and then we sat and talked about cancer. The first thing out of her mouth: "It's not cancer. You do not have cancer, okay?" "Okay," I said. The doctor then grabbed a scrap of paper and started drawing. She said, "Okay, now look. This is a normal cell. This is what we like to see:

"A cancerous cell looks quite different. Cancerous cells look all crazy and mutated like this." She scribbled something furiously on the other end of the paper:

"Alright, yeah, looks pretty messed up."

"Now your cells," she said, "your cells are what we call 'atypical.' They almost look normal, but there's a little quirk here and there":

"okay, neat. So I'm not totally normal. That's alright... "

"But it's not cancer. You don't have cancer. "

"I understand. And I even read somewhere that cervical cancer is actually one of the easiest to treat. "

"You do not have cancer, Susan. And anyway, it can take up to two years to get from the pre-cancerous cell to that anarchist bugger over there (she started drawing arrows).

"A whole two years? Wow, okay. Well I guess that's a long time."

"But you don't have cancer."

"Gotcha"

"If this redo test comes back atypical again, we'll simply make another appointment for you at the hospital, where they'll make the mutant cells in your cervix glow neon blue or green or something and then they'll cut out a little piece of it. And they'll do more tests on those samples. But it's not cancer. You do not have cancer, okay?" She then handed me the piece of paper she'd been drawing on:

"Thank you, doctor. I feel much better. Totally relieved. At least I know I'm on the right path.

three square feet

2005-12-14T21:26:00.000-04:00

Haydon: "Hey Sue. You got a hairdryer I can borrow to use for my painting?"

Me: "For sure. I know it's somewhere in these three square feet over here.

TEN MINUTES LATER

ME: (knock knock). "Ugh, yeah. Sorry Haydon. I can't find it. My room really is that messed up."

Usually there's some dangling end of a cord. You just follow it and "Voila!"

How do you people do it? Are you cleaning all the time? Isn't that a terrible waste of living?

And then you ask me, "How do you do it? Do you never clean? Isn't that a terrible waste of living space?" Maybe you're right; maybe I am right. Let's not fight about it anymore. Because either way, that painting's gonna have to air dry -- just as nature intended it.

oh vanity, where art thou?

2005-12-12T21:29:00.000-04:00

I was looking in the mirror last night and I recognized the face looking back. I thought, "Hey, where have I seen you before?" This got me digging into some old boxes of pictures. I swear my reflection last night was identical to my five year old self in this picture:

I took 68 pictures of myself. I wanted to share this incredibly shallow experience with you. Prove to you that it was true. I am the ageless wonder! I'd look in the mirror and and leap back in shock every time: "'Wow, this is so freaky! I look exactly the same!" But then I'd look at the pictures I'd just taken and they just looked like a tired twenty-seven year old version of the kid picture, but with stringy hair and a slightly larger nose (apparently, the ears and nose really don't ever stop growing). I even put on a white t-shirt under a similar-looking shirt. I figured this would would tip the balance in art's favour over vanity. No luck. It didn't work. But then, vanity didn't even work. I couldn't even get a proper scan of the original picture!

Then I was gonna post this recording of my three-year old self singing "Be Careful Little Eyes." I can hear my wretchedly adorable voice on the tape quite clearly, but in this new mp3 format, you can really only hear everyone but me. I messed up the lyrics to the song back in 1981 and was going to call this post "be careful little ears what you see." I'm posting it anyway. The fuzzy yelp in the background is me. Fuck vanity.

moving on

2005-12-09T20:38:00.000-04:00

The furnace got fixed yesterday. Turned out he'd been programmed all wrong. Don't worry; we're still friends. Now I've got a mad flirt on with the leak in the kitchen ceiling -- had the nerve to hit on me over breakfast toast this morning.

winter fever

2005-12-06T20:28:00.001-04:00

You know it's getting cold now. Last year, Winter began when we tried to turn the furnace on but he wouldn't light. The oil company was good enough to come over, tell us that we still had a quarter tank of oil but that the furnace had just been turned off. Then they filled up our giant twin connected tanks anyway, at close to $800 (Apparently, an elderly couple lived here before us and they were paranoid about waking up dead in the middle of some cold winter night, so they insisted on purchasing two large tanks just for this little flat. Of course, they're not living here anymore, so.....). According to our lease, we have to subscribe to automatic fill-ups. Exactly thirty days later we received an oil slip in the door for $400. How could that be? A whole giant tank of oil in one month?!

After several "concerned" calls to the landlord and to various representatives of the oil company, it was concluded that we were losing heat because no one was living upstairs (and mr. landlord, who is generally pretty decent, probably didn't put any heat on up there at all). People moved in upstairs in January and the heating bill improved. But it was too late. The trauma of those first expensive fill-ups had taken me. I'd say I checked the thermostat last winter approximately, ummm --rough estimate-- thirteen billion times a day. When I heard it kick on and the air blowing all the curtains, all I could see was my money pouring out those scantily weather-stripped windows.

There were so many false starts last spring, but oh the joy of finally getting to turn the thermostat to zero and not having to turn it up again. Thing is, the air kept blowing; for days and days cool air blew from every vent. I remember at the time imagining that the furnace was just trying to reach some utopian environmental balance. I admired its effort. In my happy spring fever, though, I eventually tip-toed down to the scary basement and turned off the main power switch to the furnace. No more blowing. No more money wasted on heat (or cool air, as the case may be).

XXX

As soon as we turned the furnace on about three weeks ago, ye old air started a blowin', just as if Summer and Fall had never happened at all.

But this winter the temperature's been up and down every day. The actual furnace, the fire part, hasn't been used much. But the cool air blows constantly. It has me eyeing the electric bills a little too closely to be healthy. We have a warm day or two and then it gets cold. So I creep down and turn the furnace back on. I wake up in the middle of the night and I hear the blowing. My eyes focus and I can see it on the curtains. Is the furnace on? Did someone turn it up last night and then forget to turn it down? How can I be sure? But it's so warm in here. Many nights lately I've been awoken, and in that jolting half-asleep terror that happens to all of us, I race to the thermostat, and I make sure it's down good and low. I put my ear to all the vents. breath in the air. How long has it been cold? How much oil is left? Is it gone? Is there a slip by the door claiming all of my Christmas shopping funds? I find myself racing downstairs, almost slipping in my bare feet on the moldy carpet-lined stairs and into the pitch darkness of the basement. I slam off the furnace. Then back to bed. And when I wake a couple hours later, and there's no blowing from the vents, I'm okay. I know we've made it through another night.

Then one night a few days ago I woke up suddenly and found that, although there was no air coming from the vent, I could hear the furnace!!! And it was warm, very very warm. too warm for any need of a furnace. Could be the neighbours, I s'pose. But why would the upstairs neighbours' furnace be on if it's really that mild outside? What do they keep their thermostat on? are they crazy? OR. Is the furnace on and the furnace fan suffering from a blown fuse (I don't think it has a fuse, but anyway)? And so of course, I imagined the fire going on down there inside it, with no fan on to distribute the wealth of heat. The house is going to blow up. We're all going to die. There's no way I'm going down there now, for I'd be the first one struck down by the great North Street basement explosion. I put on the special furnace-resistant suit I made myself. It wasn't quite finished, but it would have to do. I went outside and checked my instruments. My instruments consist of an old bucket, half-filled with distilled water and with a piece of tubing hanging off the side. Inside the tubing is one of those child thermometers you put in your kid's butt (because you can't trust some lousy little kid not to chomp on the synthetic mercury and make his fever the least of your concerns). I take my measurements and I wonder: Is the ratio of the outside temperature to the inside temperature, times the total energy yield of the living room vent (for it is the primary one and closest to the thermostat), divided by my resistance, equal to the craziness going on in that damned basement!!?

Sweet, sweet exhaustion finally overwhelmed me. And the two of us, ol' Furny and I, fell to sleeping in each others' arms.

tic

2005-11-20T12:30:00.000-04:00

And here I thought I could never be an artist. My self-sabotage work is. Quite. Fine. The left-eye twitch is also developing nicely.

I suppose I could try to eliminate both of those things, but that seems like a lot of work; they've been around a long time. The best solution I can come up with is to funnel all of my destructive tendencies into the nervous twitch. I figure it'll take care of one problem completely and it'll put the tic (which may just be an overactive left eye muscle) to some good use. I'll let you know how it works out. could be good. could be good.

"It is dangerous to be sincere unless you are also stupid."
-- George Bernard Shaw

barbie millicent roberts

2005-11-08T21:08:00.000-04:00

I bought Teacher Barbie the other day. She teaches three lessons: Dinosaurs, Music, and Geography, but she "cannot stand alone." It was mostly an impulse buy, but I'd have to say the main selling points were the awesome blue glasses and little red earrings. Of course, I also love the little chalkboard and the little chalk and the little chalkboard eraser that you can actually put in Barbie's hand! She's also got fabulous black pumps and pretty hair. Oh and the dress is perfect--minus the cheesy vest.

Anyway, I'm just not sure what to do with it now. I'm not one of those loathsome old ladies who collects Barbie dolls. If I were, I would have really splurged and purchased the rare, recalled 1995 Teacher Barbie with short dress and no panties -- in "Black."

I would also have been angered by the death of Lingerie Barbie No.6 in 2003. And of course I'd be a member of the Barbie Collector Fan Club. But I'm not. So what do I do with it? At the very least, I am sure as hell not giving it away to some little kid to play with and ruin.

potty humour

2005-11-05T12:15:00.000-04:00

Oh the demoralizing power of a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of someone's shoe: One minute he's a man of the community, going about his business with confidence and pomp; the next minute he's just some poor dink with a hilarious trail of toilet paper following his stride.

There was something in the tone of the voices of those strangers behind me at the show last night, the familiar, poorly restrained snicker --"You can't tell her, dude"--that compelled me to immediately check my shoes. I shuffled a bit, looked around and behind them. "I'm clean," I thought. They must be talking about someone or something else.

So I get home from the show and I'm in the kitchen and I put my hands on the back of my hips to sort of stretch from the tiring night, and there it is: a large piece of lint roller paper is covering my entire left buttock. Nice.

To console myself I've been watching a bunch of those farting preacher clips. Pure genius.

can you guess who?

2005-10-27T21:20:00.000-03:00

On my shopping list this week:

white dress shirt
white suspenders
short white skirt
white jock strap stuffed with socks or some such
black boots
black hat
long fake eyelashes
bloody eyeball cufflinks
milk

Some past years' costumes: throat-slitted dead person, stay-at-home mom, killer baby doll, Hester Pryne, witch (x15). I think I most enjoyed dressing up as a witch when I was young because of the fun rotten-teeth effect with mascara. These days I find it means I come home from the bar crying because I look so ugly and then everyone just laughs because the tears make it an even better costume. so I cry harder and spitty black mucous starts coming from my nose and mouth. And then everyone just looks and says, "Wow, that's really good --a few more tears now and it'll be perfect."

I do love Halloween, for it is the purest of the non-holidays. I believe it is supposed to be fun and silly and make-believe. My philosophy is that you can dress up as a sexy kitten any other ol' day of the year.

Which reminds me: Robin, stop calling me "Honey Bunny." I am not the violent retarded woman from Pulp Fiction (Kay Somersby is still okay, however --maybe I could be her next Halloween?-- only a rotten teeth version).

"we all, us three, will ride"

2005-10-20T20:34:00.000-03:00

Even though I already know, I still sometimes wonder why women are so terrible to each other.

Last night I went out with my friend Melanie. We met in high school and we were best friends. We went to shows. We got instruments and tried to start a rock band. In early 1994 we had a little show at the local campus/community radio station ("Indie Afternoon"). But then in our first year of university we had a major falling out over a boy (two boys, technically). It was devastating for both of us. It was especially biting when an acquaintance from the station, all of them having known us interchangeably as Melanie and Susan, was suddenly faced with just one of us at a time. A 50-50 choice. "Hey Melanie. No no, it's Susan, of course. I knew that. Melanie is the other one."

Melanie had introduced me to Palace Brothers and I had rejected it. I stubbornly refused to listen to it because she was sooo insistent that I do (that's my excuse, anyway). I had bought her a Will Oldham 7" for her birthday, but by the time it passed, we were no longer speaking to each other. I still vividly remember playing it for the first time. It's the one with "Take However Long You Want" and "Patience." Something clicked. I really don't know what. I went flush and I just kept flipping that little record over and over, totally abusing it. My chest got so filled up with joy that I finally started to float up off the floor until I could no longer reach the record to change it. I've been an embarrassingly maniacal fan ever since that specific day. And I desperately need to replace that record.

Last night at the bar I shared with Mel how I think the live recording from the Ottawa 2002 show is the best version of "I Was Drunk (at the Pulpit)." Ever. I even explained my most recent theory concerning the production genius of Paul Oldham. Melanie nodded. She understood. And she told me how she still thinks Will is hot, even though he looks like a "lame high school math teacher geek" (Robin thinks he looks like an alien). It was a good talk. We talked about other things too. Scandalous things. And I'm just so happy that we're friends again. It has me thinking that maybe Mel and I are the exception that proves the rule.

l'il debbie

2005-10-16T18:27:00.000-03:00

"Mr. Greenfeld!. Now that's going a bit too far....will you give me $20 instead?"

Yesterday I watched Debbie Does Dallas. It originally came out the same year I was born. It helped put the following twenty-seven years of porn into perspective. For example: so much technology and yet they still haven't been able to do anything about 'porn dick.'

History is important. This month I am going to focus on listening to more of The Fall. I don't think I've ever listened to a Fall album all the way through. And that's just shameful.

But this evening I'm going to attend movie night at Mike's house. I don't think tonight's selection is a porn flick, but it is French, so you never know.

Also: I feel terrible about what I said about Will. I've since listened to Superwolf at least fifteen times, and really, compared to just about anything else by anybody else, it's totally brilliant.

some things i'm now ready to admit

2005-10-14T20:33:00.000-03:00

The last several days have beaten me down. They've made me weary and vulnerable. Rather than tell you about it, I think a little flushing of ridiculous secrets will make it better:

1) I hate the latest Will Oldham record, Superwolf. It's awful. A few words, the parts of some measures, some almost moments, but nothing that will make it altogether listenable. It's joyless. And this has never happened before. How frightening.

2) Now that I'm once again climbing into them with ease, I must conclude that there really was no catastrophic laundromat dryer shrinkage tragedy regarding my old jeans and cords. I really had been chunking it up a bit last year.

3) Sometimes I miss school. One of the Fed members, who is infatuated with Blake and who wants to include him somehow in her latest book, has asked me to be her advisor (of sorts). Her first query came last week: "Other than the chimney sweep and the 'joy', what would make Blake cry?" So later this weekend I'm going to put on my hard-hat with the flashlight in the middle and explore the deeps of the best website project ever, the Blake archive. I haven't gone playing in there since I left Kingston. And if I get through that, I may just duck into the Killam periodical section to catch up on the latest news in the Blake Quarterly (they even list whenever a Blake print appears on The Antiques Roadshow.) Ideally, I would have my own subscription.

4) I hate children. Babies too. They're creepy and intrusive. Whenever some strange little kid comes up to me and starts blubbering, I mostly try to ignore them, but I truly have to fight the urge to say to them, "Hey kid, haven't your parents told you about talking to strangers? Don't you know I could be dangerous?"

5) Tonight I am going to see some bands play in Hell. I don't think any of my friends are going. I don't think any of the bands are going to be good. I just absolutely love the name of their little record label: Ships at Night Records. Something good surely has to come of that. And I will catch it when it does.

there's a higher power

2005-10-07T20:34:00.000-03:00

Dear God,
I don't believe in you anymore, but I do believe in the Sadies. I first saw the Sadies a couple days after my nineteenth birthday, at Birdland. I had finally made it into the world of bar shows. [Before this, my gawky friends and I (my gawky self) spent years thumping our all-ages pop explosion passes, exclaiming, "We just want to see the show. We won't drink. It's all about the music for us. All those stupid jerks just getting drunk and not even appreciating what they're seeing. We'll never be like that."] So last call is nearing, the Sadies are on their second or third solid encore and I'm yer typical 19 yr old plastered kid and I discover that I have four dollars left in my pocket. I think to myself, "Hey I could still buy the Sadies 7".... or I could buy one more beer!"

Choosing that pissy draft has haunted me for years. Since then, I've seen the Sadies maybe five or six times. I feel indescribably compelled to see them whenever I can. I've still never purchased any of their records (not really my thing for listening to at home --and besides, you can't buy forgiveness that way).

The Sadies have been putting on the same solid, charming shows for (nearly?) a decade. Last weekend at Stage Nine was something to behold. They didn't just play a regular encore when the obnoxious crowd demanded "Heal us once more!", but instead, without any break, they just played and played until the bar closed. It was astounding how the music seemed to get better and more spirited and intense as they went along. I couldn't believe their strength. It was amazing. I didn't go to the bathroom, and I didn't buy any beer; I was transfixed.

Now I don't normally like to pester rock stars, especially after they've been driving themselves on stage like that, but Dallas was right by the exit as I was leaving, and he seemed to look up, and so I just sputtered out "Thank you. That was fantastic." The thing is, as I looked into his sweaty face -- and deep into his blood-shot eyes (I think he may actually have developed some sort of stye from all of the night's exertion) -- he didn't even seem all that tired. It was as if playing so feverishly and non-stop for such a long time actually gave him a high. He was glowing. He thanked me for coming out, saying it meant a lot to him. I was speechless. He touched my hand, I guess to shake it. I just stumbled away.

May redemption yet be mine.

Amen

love burns teenage lust

2005-10-01T19:39:00.000-03:00

It's quarter to eight the next day and I have made no progress with my story. In fact, all I did was cut a few truly awful paragraphs. I'm beginning to wonder if Patty will ever make it to Yoknapatawpha county.

I put on my Dirty Three record to get in the mood, but it just put me in the mood to linger in the living room listening to pretty records. Help! I'm in the high point of panic now. I wasn't feeling well last night, after all the gin and no food, so I didn't make it to one of the birthday parties. It's all falling apart. (I am firmly committed, however, to getting to awesome Rod's awesome birthday party tonight and then to the Sadies show later.)

I'm going to try my last resort now: I put a slough of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and The Jesus and Mary Chain mp3s on shuffle repeat and then get at 'er. Truly though, I think I'm in mad love with panic. The things you do when you should be doing something that is far more urgent are the most delicious. (maybe that's why i'm such a bad secretary - uh, I mean 'executive assistant'.) Okay, I go now. Wish us luck.

all bound for mu mu land

2005-09-30T19:53:00.000-03:00

In my junior high regulation writing notebook - -under the heading "My writing goals are" -- I wrote "to try to get inspiration from the things around me instead of just my imagination."

If I ever get the chance to buy a house I am going to name it Lambeth.

I'm a little embarrassed about this--but-- also a bit tipsy, so I will tell you -- I'm taking a writing workshop at the Fed. I have to submit a 10-page writing sample before the first class, which is next Wednesday. I haven't tried to write a story since I was fifteen. The other day, having promised to get my sample in by Friday, I got down to business. I kept saying to myself, "Write what you know. Keep it simple. No pure imagination." So of course I chose to write a story about a 38 year old simpleton woman who has an unnatural affection for William Faulkner. I didn't make my deadline, but I'd say the epic of Fatty Patty is coming along nicely.

The weekend: will be busy. When I got home from work today, instead of having dinner, I accidentally hit the Bombay a little heavy and now have two hours to recover before the weekend festivities of birthday parties (two of them!), alt-county excellence (Oh those Sadies --who knew a mouthful of metal could be so dreamy?) and shamefully-bad-writing adventures commence.

Hey, Haydon just sent me "Justified and Ancient" by KLF. I do not know why he did this. He doesn't normally send me songs. But I am enjoying it in spite of myself.

this morning in the commons in the rain

2005-09-27T21:30:00.000-03:00

...my rear brake cable broke. After work I took Uncle Carl into the bike shop downtown and they installed a new one -- and adjusted my seat -- in about four minutes flat. It only cost me two bucks. And cars are smelly too.

I had to work at the book festival on Sunday, so we closed the office on Monday. I convinced Robin to come with me on a bike odyssey to Dartmouth.

I was thrilled the whole time:

Robin was

less than

So I let him take a picture of me posing in front of the nerd store and his spirits were lifted immediately.

moisture rinse it away

2005-09-19T22:29:00.000-03:00

Other than cigarettes, sweet pastries (preferably very flaky), and Will Oldham, I really have no dangerous consumptive habits... other than beauty products. I have products for every conceivable social event, skin condition, or sucky mood. Tonight I tried Oil of Olay's new Moisturinse product. It's a conditioner... for your skin! I thought this might be an answer to my yearly winter skin trauma. They had very detailed instructions on the back of the bottle, and they were even nice enough to include a warning that it might make the tub floor slippery. And yet they still forgot to warn me about something. Warning: This product may not be suitable for girls with boyfriends who suffer from sinus-congesting, rage-inducing sensitivities to perfume-y products. It's enough of a challenge as it is to keep scent-free -- without having my skin conditioner stinking up the place. Tomorrow I will search Shopper's for a perfume-disabling, post skin-conditioner product.

But tonight I am going to read Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho. Soooo many products. It's like when you catch your kid smoking so you make them smoke a carton all at once 'til they're so sick that they won't waste their money on unnecessary, gross-smelling lotions ever again.