All the Lights are Changing

Writer's block. How horrible.

I picked up my moccasins yesterday. They're proving to be a bitch to break in. The leather is stiff and thick and they dig into my feet in awkward places. Such with all things new, I suppose.



At work, I had to listen to Paris Hilton's hit song on the radio four times. That pretty much sums it up. *Sigh.* How I ache for Folk Fest.

In other, far better news, my moccasins have arrived according to the Canada Post slip I found in my mailbox tonight. Or at least I think they have. Unless, of course, the parcel is from Ottawa.


I am a good little clock: I'm ticking off the time.

My hair is a mess and I'm colored a completely ridiculous shade of sunburn, and if I never had to work another day at a stupid job where people are idiots ever again, my life would be perfect.


Dying Season

"It's the dying season," she said, flat as the line on the screen of the machine attached to a new corpse, when she saw me gawking at the number of sympathy flowers on the delivery table at the back of the shop. Hours later, my father on the phone, long distance, bearing news of barely escaping another act of population control; flirting with nurses while he waited for his catheterization. Tonight he tells me the doctors let him watch the whole thing on the television attached to the tube with the camera on it that crept precariously toward his rib cage like a game piece on a Snakes and Ladders board, where with one wrong move he could fall way down, and I can't help but wonder how it must have felt to see the body's slow decay from the outside in, adjusting the volume on the monitor like it's a documentary on NOVA that's been filmed so far away. Days and days, and he's been waiting. Waiting to be discharged, waiting to die. Days and days, and it's been raining all this time. It's been raining all this time and the spring foliage is radiant and breathing. No irony lost here. "It's the dying season," she said. It's the dying season, and tomorrow, while flight attendents shuttle my father through their airports in a wheelchair, I'll watch the river pulse urgent and high through this city like blood to the core just before the heart stops.


We had a promise made.

Blegh. I have just discovered that Haloscan no longer disappears comments after four months. They're all there. Of course I read them. This is torturous, because, well, whatever. Whatever. What the fuck ever.

There's a poem in here. I might write it tonight if I feel articulate, which is a rare occurance as of late. Maybe I'll just go to bed. But that's what I said an hour ago.

I am so, so close to caving. I don't believe that. I don't believe it didn't mean anything.

Mind is a razor blade...



See how we fade.

After god only knows how long (read: 12 years), I finally bought myself a waffle shirt. My mother always told me they look like pyjamas. This is a big development in my life. It's been raining on and off all day. I'm coming to the realization that words can't do justice to anything that's happened. That's frustrating because I'm still trying. My hands are shaking. Low blood sugar, I suppose, but I'm not hungry. I want to watch Lost and Delirious tonight, but it's not here. I want him, but he's not here either.


The Sirens Inside You

So apparently I suck at this lately.

What I learned today: never try and deal with someone who is fasting for bloodwork. And more importantly, when she bitches at you over nothing, do not, under any circumstances, cry about it in the bathroom.

I think I'm in the middle of a half-assed hiatus. So while I'm gone in a half-assed sort of way, tell me something. Anything.


Elevator, take me home.

This weather is perfect for orange pekoe tea and feeling spurned by love. I'm thinking about driving to Banff just to get out of this room. I can and I might just. The sun is coming out. I need some time to think about you because I've been flipping through these old photo albums and I've repressed a lot more than I thought I did and I'm not sure if I like that yet. Raw wounds might erode all signs of mental health, but they make for good poetry. Sometimes. I want to do it because you won't and I will.
Her heels so high and my hopes so low...

This is my day off.

This will be a day of watching sub-par daytime television in my underwear, eating Kraft Dinner with ketchup, and not talking to anyone. Only that last part is a lie. I'm excited about this.



Look-Look 6 is out. Geez. They're only two months late.
Go buy it. All of you.


Everyone here knows how to cry.

Tonight would have been so comfortable if I wasn't starving and aching for you. It would have been a night for Philosopher's Brew and handwritten poetry and oversized sweaters. Lapse in Logic struck again today when I decided to walk halfway home from work and completely soaked my moccasins through in the process because I didn't feel like waiting for a bus. They'll take days to dry and they turned my feet a horrific shade of orange and I want you to stop lying. I'm so cold.


This nose is made of polystyrene.

It's about to rain. The sky is electric with nitrogen and early summer foliage. I'm craving a grilled cheese and a bowl of vegan chili from Bean Around the World because I haven't eaten dinner and I hate it here. This was going to be deeply introspective but I'm out of cigarettes and I'm too tired for self-evaluation. If I could, I'd let the contrast of grey and green mesmerize me into a stupor because I'm so tired of not being able to think of anything except how I still smell like your stupid perfume. Clearly I should have ditched Dove this morning and replaced it with sulfuric acid.


I'd tell it to your face, but you lost your face along the way.

This is a truly great moment in human history: my lawnmower and I finally understand each other.

In other news, I assume I'll be seeing my new pair of moccasins in approximately 2-3 weeks and my father is coming home from England at three thirty this afternoon. Yesterday I spoke to pretty much my entire extended family for the first time in ten years (tragic, I know) while they were all gathered at my grandfather's birthday party, and today I have to spend about twenty dollars at the Post Office in order to mail things to assorted exotic locations around the globe (Dunstable, Kimberley, Victoria, Germantown). For the first time in a really long time, I don't feel absolutely exhausted. Providing my Jeep doesn't explode on Deerfoot en route to the airport, things are peachy. I would love a frittata from The Coup right now.


Don't try anything smart.

The hardest decision of my day was choosing which pair of moccasins to order off the internet. This wins only over what kind of shampoo and conditioner to buy, and that's only because I've spent the vast majority of the day napping. Evidently I really am secretly 87 years old and don't boast the energy reserves to stay out until two o'clock in the morning, even if I then proceed to get seven hours of sleep. I don't think it was just last night though. This place is catching up with me and it's starting to show. I'm not resiliant enough to hide it all summer. I have to call the moccasin shop in the morning because I didn't give them my VISA number, but they processed my order anyway.

I know you do.


It's not as real if you don't look in their eyes.

The only reason I'm not currently asleep is that my sheets are spinning in the dryer because last night my sister and her drunk friends slept in my bed even though I told them not to and I'm thirsty for something that evidently is not water. I know your secret and I'm extremely glad VISA has 24 hour support service staff so I can do things like change my billing address at 10pm on a Thursday in order to buy new moccasins off the internet. These poor things have been on their last legs (no pun intended) since April and they've got about a month left before they start developing serious holes in the soles and will be rendered impossible to wear outside. I can't do that tonight though, as I'm currently waiting for my online payment of $208.65 to go through so I don't get charged crazy sums of interest. Tomorrow, instead of mowing my lawn and cleaning my kitchen, which smells like overripe bananas, I might just stay in bed until noon.

Today I bought my Folk Fest pass and got some serious sun in a borrowed bikini top despite the SPF 60 and my ridiculous looking towel hat extravaganza. I've decided to look into hypnotherapy because I've come to the realization that everything I say while fully conscious is seriously filtered and that's why even after over a year and several thousand dollars, Annie and I never made any real progress. I'm so tired of your lingering presence here and I want a new muse. At this point, I don't see any other way. Now the only question is whether or not it's covered by my health insurance. Knowing Alberta, it's probably not. Stupid fucking conservatives. I really need to never live here again.

This was long overdue. Sorry about that.