robot rock

yesterday at work one kid peed all over the floor. and then another kid rolled around in it. WHAT. i think that ranks at the top of my "ridiculous things witnessed while working with children" list. it edged out the kid who attacked his groupmates with a box of sharpies before building a tower out of toys in order to escape out the window. and the kid who tore a chunk out of the ceiling. and the chinese nationalist kid. and the kid who managed to chip the paint off an entire wall. oh, and the kid who filled the parachute full of shrubbery and bugs during outside time and then dumped it all over the fucking floor. WHY. the more time i spend around kids the more i wonder whether it would be truly wise for me to begat any of my own, as i would undoubtedly fuck them up.

sha la la laaaa

awesome london ontario fact number one hundred and dickity nine: there's a pub in downtown london called "the alex p. keaton." and i think that is just about the COOLEST thing to ever exist in the world, ever. i would become a raging alcoholic just so as to facilitate hanging out at the alex p. keaton pub every night of the week. it warrants some serious thought.

i wish i wish i hadn't killed that fish

things i enjoy: leonard cohen, philippa gregory novels, various green tea beverages, natalie dee, cats.

things i don't enjoy: weekday hangovers. because that means i'm just pathetic

as a failure he's marvelous

do you see that? do you? do you fucking see that?

that's a damn fine production photo. god damn

well anyways. cheshire cats got sent to the tarragon but we haven't heard back, not that i was putting any stock into remounting it. we should probably leave it alone. it was too good. it was better that you. it, as a thing, beat out your individual existance. it was better than me. and i created it. it's like a far superior android. or super computer, if thou wilst. fuck. why am i so weird.

i'm going to turn satisfaction into a book. and i mean it this time. sort of ok play = more than ok novel. i'm just real bad at getting shit written. i haven't updated this thing in over 2 months. what does that tell you. all that patience. all that time i could be spending on nothing. but i am filled with desire and hyperbolic ambitiousness, and bitches get shit done.

i think we're going to be happy in london. we found a beautiful old colonial house - just the right mix of louisiana gothic and structural damage disaster. but paint and area rugs both go long ways and i have high hopes. assuming we get the place. assuming anything ever works out in the end.

'hear the music, drink the water

as we poor lambs all go to slaughter'

potent potables

That's right fools

Guess who got accepted to teacher's college

dramatis personae

So Cheshire Cats got picked up to much imagined pomp and critical acclaim. It's nice to be back in the legitimate theatre. Now I just need to find a new job and things will really be rolling along. Not that I'm complaining (I am). I'm trying to take the Paulo Coelho approach and appreciate things as they're happening at the expense of gazing back/forwards and I guess it's working. New age tricks to life and all that...I guess things are good.

My immediate life mostly revolves around talking to the cats (one-sided), swallowing books (not literally), cultivating the world's greatest collection of hair and skin products (indulgence), yelling at the television (mental issues), and making lists of things I used to do that I should again (obsessing). Like how I used to have a giant nail polish collection back when I was a teenager and had nothing better to do than spend my money on cheap, shitty things. I had all the colors in the world, even the ones I didn't like. Now I'm thinking I should revive this dead dream.

"There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you. There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke, and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know he's in there."

slings and arrows

"Idleness, Catullus, will consume you,

an idleness you feed on and feast on, too,

the idleness that has been the former ruin

of wealthy nations and kings"

The crappy part about being depressed is that - in addition to being awfully boring - it makes you waste incredible amounts of time. I realized the other day that I've done arguably nothing of consequence, at all, over the last 5 months. And that in itself just makes everything more depressing. I know there's a change coming; I can feel it lurking around somewhere. I need more hobbies; ones that don't include drinking alone, watching hours of six feet under continuously, and/or talking to the cats/fish. You can only compare yourself to fictional characters for so long before it starts getting sad. I can't decide whether I'm more like Claire Fisher or Brenda Chenowith. But it doesn't matter in the end because neither actually, tangibly exist whereas I am very much alive and very much bored with myself.

merrily, merrily

"She continued plodding on, but exasperation and irritation had got hold of her body, she couldn't escape. The days seemed to grind by, with curious painfulness, yet nothing happened...Only she began to be afraid of the ghastly white tombstones, that peculiar loathsome whiteness of Carrera marble, detestable as false teeth, which stuck up on the hillside, under Tevershall Church, and which she saw with such grim plainness from the park. The bristling of the hideous false teeth of tombstones on the hill affected her with a grisly kind of horror. She felt the time not far off when she would be buried there, added to the ghastly host under the tombstones and the monuments, in these filthy Midlands."

I dreamt last night that a friend of mine had died in some misadventurous way. But despite his being dead, he and i still had MSN conversations with each other; every now and then i would get spontaneous paranormal messages from him, and we'd have long catch-ups and i'd ask him all about being dead which, according to him, wasn't all that bad. He was still very much here despite being very much gone; when I asked him what he meant by it all, he wrote back that even though he wasn't actually tangibly online, he was still talking to me via the interweb, and that that was the whole secret behind life and death: just because you can't see it, it doesn't mean it's not there, said the ghost to the mouse. And apparently those in the netherworld were able to do pretty much everything they could do here, including and not limited to information technology. I woke up before I was able to ask him whether or not the other realm included bubble baths and wine. I could ask him now, but...he's not actually dead.

we only come out at night

ishmael is a pretty cool fish. he enjoys his marine-style habitat very much, i think. the cats don't like him though. sphinx in particular seems up to something...delicious.

i love to tease my hair, but it never stays teased no matter how much hairspray i dump on it. skinny jeans are never skinny enough. red nail polish. angry drunk. velvet curtains. cats. bright colored hair clips that don't match anything i wear, just cause i was in a rush once and someone was all "hey thats cool," so now it's a daily thing. unfinished tattoos. narcissist existentialist: oooh that's so vomitous intellectual. angry drunk. who even calls themself 'existentialist' anymore? messy black hair dye. organic shampoo (cool). organic ice cream (tastes like shit). putting ranch dressing on everything. bamboo in a fancy little vase (3 means good 'chi', but i don't think it's working). angry drunk. i name all my goldfish after famous literary characters: does that mean i'm a snob? probably. writing about yourself in the third person (snob). i complain sometimes about how people 'don't get' me, but deep down i probably secretly love it. it's much better to build your own mystery than to write your own page.

the other night i dreamt i was having coffee with my dead grandmother. she told me she was "disappointed" in me. attitude from beyond the grave.

passwords

have you ever been hurt so badly by what a person has said about you, by what a person - or persons - thinks about you, that you feel physically sick?

i know there are many people in my life that get me.
and that think i'm pretty great.

but right now.
i feel like puking my guts out.
and crying into my shoes.

it's not easy being green

mrs. sibley

"the secret of the stars - gravitation

the secret of the earth - layers of rock

the secret of the soil - to recieve seed

the secret of the seed - to germ

the secret of man - the sower

the secret of woman - the soil

my secret: under a mound that you shall never find"

my secret: i am so socially awkward and inept at practically everything that it hurts. positivity be damned. and fuck your cool kid mentality; i've always been a misfit. why change now?

what will never be

yar

i wanted the duck to eat out of my hand but panicked at the last second and thew the food all over the place. though it does give off the illusion

horseshoe crabs are so creepy, no? they're very aliens-esque. like it's going to jump out of it's shell and start sucking on your face

stingrays are awesome. i don't care

artesian alpacian

"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off : I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul;
I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers : thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body;
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where : I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride : so I love you because I know no other way than this;
where I does not exist, nor you : so close that your hand on my chest is my hand : so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."

echoes

"Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil? Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?"
-Epicurus

you can and you will

this is my niece. she can kick your ass

the dissonance

old stuff

winter

i'm impressed with myself

"i wish i had a river so long,

i would teach my feet to fly"

the beautiful and the damned

"The growth of intimacy is like that. First one gives off his or her best picture, the bright and finished product blended with bluff and falsehood and humour. Then more details are required and one paints a second portrait, and a third - before long the best lines cancel out - and the secret is exposed at last; the planes of the picture have intermingled and given us away, and though we paint and paint we can no longer sell a picture. We must be satisfied with hoping that such fatuous accounts of ourselves as we make to our wives and husbands and children and business associates are accepted as true."

i come following you

"though i know that evening's empire has returned into sand, vanished from my hand, left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping. my weariness amazes me, i'm branded on my feet. i have no one to meet. and the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming....and take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind, down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves, the haunted frightened trees, out to the windy beach, far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow. yes to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhoutted by the sea, cicled by the circus fans, with all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves. let me forget about today until tomorrow...."

world at large / why should i remain

but i like you

" the wind is in from africa, last night i couldn't sleep

oh you know it sure is hard to leave here, but it's really not my home

my fingernails are filthy, i've got beach tar on my feet

and i miss my clean white linen and my fancy french cologne

come down to the mermaid café and i'll buy you a bottle of wine

and we'll laugh and toast to nothing

and smash our empty glasses down

let's have a round for these freaks and these soldiers

a round for these friends of mine

let's have another round for the bright red devil

who keeps me in this tourist town

maybe i'll go to amsterdam, or maybe i'll go to rome

and rent me a grand piano

and put some flowers round my room

but let's not talk about fare thee wells now

the night is a starry dome

and they're playing that scratchy rock n' roll

beneath the mattalla moon"

i'm falling asleep to joni mitchell in the middle of the day, and dreaming of waters i've never seen before. i don't know what it has to do with anything. maybe i'm just reading too much russian literature; it's only good in moderation, and i don't feel like dying as a result of nihilism or pulling off any ridiculous jewel heists at this point in my life.

fathers and sons

"Bazarov frowned. There was nothing definately ugly in the woman; but the expression of her face produced an uncomfortable effect on the spectator. One found oneself longing to ask her "What's the matter? Are you hungry? Or bored? Or shy? Why are you so fidgety?" Like Sitnikov she seemed perpetually on edge. She spoke and moved in a free and easy yet at the same time awkward manner; she evidently regarded herself as a simple creature, and all the while, whatever she did, it always struck one that it was the opposite of what she wanted to do; everything with her seemed done on purpose, as children say - in other words, nothing was simple."

great stasis; we shudder and bow

"Years

They enter as animals from the outer

Space of holly where spikes

Are not thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi,

But greenness, darkness so pure

They freeze and are.
O God, I am not like you

In your vacuous black,

Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti.

Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
What I love is The piston in motion . . . My soul dies before it.

And the hooves of the horses,There merciless churn.
And you, great Stasis . . . What is so great in that!

Is it a tiger this year, this roar at the door?

It is a Christus, The awful God-bit in him

Dying to fly and be done with it?

The blood berries are themselves, they are very still.
The hooves will not have it,

In blue distance the pistons hiss."

-sylvia plath

surf and slide

ladies and gentlemen, we are now floating in space

home of the brave

colour here, colour there

colour colour everywhere

the mesh of everyone's words but mine. there is no point; it's all been said before. the ease of having someone else's words put in place of your own, to transliterate what you feel simply b/c this person felt it too but could probably say it worlds better than you ever could. that isn't neccesarily true, or good, or right. neither is implicitly loving someone who one day decided life was too hard and just up and offed themselves. what to do, what to do...

everyone's an amateur photoographer these days. i just like to take pictures is all.

say hello

"here's the silhouette, the face always turned away

the bleeding color gone to black, dying like a day

couldn't figure out what made you so unhappy,

shook your head to say "no no no"

and stopped for a spell, and stayed that way

oh well, okay

i got pictures, i just don't see it anymore

climbing hour upon hour through a total bore

with the one i keep where it never fades

in the safety of a pitch black mind, an airless cell that blocks the day

oh well, okay...

if you get a feeling next time you see me

do me a favor and let me know

cuz it's hard to tell, it's hard to say

oh well, okay"

-elliott smith