all my thoughts are jumbled into some crazy state of grace,

today is my half-birthday.
i will buy tea and read nabokov and sulk and eat my last lunch at bean.

my nails are growing.
i'm contemplating bras again.

this is what calgary wants and we all know
i'm never one to disappoint.

(and well what do i do but soothe it
with a picture of your face.)


your attempts are illusory and you don't even know it

second-last night
in the haunted house
i was wondering when
this would all sink in
and i should have guessed
it would be about now.

by sunday afternoon i'll be on gabriola island.
by sunday night i'll be drunk
on caesars and chain smoking
on brenda's porch, probably.
none of this is anything
i haven't done before.
none of this requires explanation.

on the bright side
i have a job to go back to.
a job i actually want.
in the mean time,
i don't know.
i'll listen to a lot of indigo girls.
i'll get there.
and by the time i get back
to calgary,
everything will be (closer to) fine.

this, i know, is wishful thinking.


went to see the doctor of philosophy

this morning i woke up
hung over.
almost everything is packed.


you were just like me, and i was just like you.

i have returned,
i guess?
i caught the last train
of thought back to the city
from pluto
to put all of these
therapeutic revelations
into practice
these last hours.
and there's nothing
to say about the trip, really.
i just sat around
knitting reading writing painting
because sometimes not thinking
is just better.
my brainwaves always thrive
on preoccupation, and
i'm ok,
i guess.


post scriptum

reading blog posts from this time last year makes me realize i have made absolutely no progress.
this is a somewhat harrowing realization.
i'll walk it off.
into the ocean.
this is where you'll find me
if you come looking.

a couple of things:

joni mitchell's blue is quite possibly the most depressing album ever recorded.
nights are harder. nights are hard.



haven't been upstairs in a while

these last few days have been full
of so much living

breakdowns breakups beacon hill park joints in the sequoia tree and at the sea errant peacocks and lorna crozier's book launch a fascinating documentary about evangelical christians the royal bc musem cheap lotus pond mole adventures to vic west pulling all nighters to discourse about jung and the ethical complications of bringhurst's interpretations of the haida myths lunch at bean being stoned being stoned being stoned

my life is running to a soundtrack
of sarah harmer's basement apartment
on repeat
and that combined
with the scarf around my wrist
makes me feel like i'm seventeen
again and i kind of wonder
if subconsciously
i'm doing it on purpose

but there really is no time
to think about that right now
because i still have pot to smoke
and a paper to write
and i'm already planning my third year schedule

i have lofty hopes for next year
(art history greek and roman mythology a comprehensive study of the bible a semester long david lynch film festival)
but i don't think i was wrong
when i predicted second year
would be the best
(there was you
of course)

there is certainly something to be said
for being a social recluse
but sometimes
it's nice to have a life



ok. ok.
this is going to be a long day.
this is already a long day.

come on, universe, let's be friends.


sometimes postsecret is so nice

that's all


some things

i wish my apartment was not minus five hundred degrees
i wish my shower was not menopausal
i wish i could take my computer into the shower
so i could do homework in it and be all warm and kitteny which i am not right now
today i have been overcome with both love and sadness and do you know who i would really love to talk to about that
david mcfadden

there's something i've been meaning to tell you

today i am going to work so hard
the universe won't know what hit it

i'm ready
& it's going to feel so good


i'm not in the us.


poem editing makes me want to chainsmoke.
bad cat.
bad bad cat.

i want to do a lot of things right now.

i want to climb the sequoia in beacon hill park.
i want to write a poem about mermaid's tears.
i want to craft things with my typewriter.
i want to take seascape photos in the rain.
i want to buy tulips. parrot tulips.
i want to sleep until tuesday afternoon when my furnace, which is apparently broken, will apparently be fixed.
i want to cry for three hours about the collapse of my intellectual universe.
i want to spoon because i want the extra warmth and you.
i want you.

but, alas there is no time.

are they worn out in the seat or are they worn out in the knees

it's a gloomy afternoon alone
in the haunted house
everything is grey & rain soaked
& i want to go to the sea
but my three oh eight flash
cards would probably get all soggy

sweet jesus mary & joseph
i have so much work to do
but i can't seem to accomplish anything
except eating half a package of cheese
with a bag of apple rings & pretending
i'm approximately four years old
deep inside my brain i know
it will all get done
but at this point i don't know

-what are you doing?
-i'm making a moan.


tartan and houndstooth really aren't that different

it's warmer outside than it is inside
which means that
according to the globe and mail dot com
my apartment is approximately eleven degrees celcius

i have to stop lurking about
on facebook
because honestly
it's sort of ruining my life
and by sort of
i obviously mean
really a lot
fickle fickle fickle

is that a knitting needle?



i like to suck lemons when i'm stoned.
do you think i've just made a profound spritual/behavioral/emotional discovery?
i will not be surprised if munching raw garlic follows in short order.

crypticisms of sorts

i am so ready to just stop existing in the universe today
lately almost everyone exhausts me
there are few exceptions to this generalization and
it is unwise to assume you are one of them
oh i don't know
sometimes i think i just need to couple my trip back to calgary with a moderate
to severe case of dissociative fugue
and everything will be fine

there you will find me

I'm crying over Bruce Cockburn's Love Song and I haven't even left yet.

Sometimes I don't know about this. I just don't know.

It's his guitar playing. I've always been a sucker for riffs that make me weep.


the daffodils are all smiling at you

yesterday the sun was warm and orange
through the windows
and we had them all cracked
open with cockamamie things like paint cans and tupperwares full of brown
sugar and old ipod shipping boxes
to let the breeze in

the new housemate cleared out
the old attic
and there are fifty years worth of artifacts pushed up
against my hedge
it's cool stuff too
he's a cool man
a cool poet
i should introduce him to tim and they'd get along
like a house on fire
as my dad would say

this is spring
and i have thirty days left in the small city
and they are going to be good
damn it