March 1998.

March 31, 1998.

I think I have my own theme song.

I wasn't really looking for one, but I think that one's been thrust upon me. You know how you can listen to a song and conjure up strong associations just from a snatch of melody, especially if the emotions are strong? Every time I listen to the Tori Amos album "Under the Pink," I distinctly remember how it felt to be crazy in love, to live in utter despair, and above all, to fear all of this being taken away. Sure. It's happened to everyone.

But this song is one that I've never heard before last week...and yet it sums up my entire life with no visible effort. There's just enough spacey Beatles in it to recall my first exposure to rock n' roll (my parents' records, o'course), there's just enough menacing bass and grindy guitars to conjure up my rock-on teenage youth, there's enough sadness to encapsulate all of the genuine suffering & hopelessness of the last year, and enough self-indulgent wailing to recall last summer, the summer of Morrissey's "How Soon Is Now." It's my theme song - and I don't know one line of the lyrics.

It's "Airbag" by Radiohead, one of the songs on the CD Mike made up for me. I don't know how he knew that it was me, when I didn't even know myself.

Things are starting to suck again.

Despite, or perhaps because of the gorgeous weather lately (it was actually unbearably humid today), all the gilding seems to be off the friendships of those around me. It's like everybody suddenly got really tired of the bonds formed in winter, and are really looking forward to a summer exactly like last one.

But last summer sucked for so many reasons. Mr. Blonde dumped me, Poet screamed at me at length before sending me to Coventry, coolness grew up between Tiger Lily & myself and everybody else was freaking gone. In fact, the only good things about last summer were a reasonably good job (to which I am returning, BTW) and my weekends staying with Palaver. But even Cake & Sodomy Weekend was not without its' stresses.

Maybe I'm just dreading the death of my social life and the constant pressure to wake up at 7 a.m. Or maybe this is just pre-exam stress. I dunno. All I know is that things have begun to suck. Cranly will back me up on this. Just a whiff of buttermilk, baby. But a whiff is more than enough.

March 30, 1998.

I just cut out a picture of a chicken on a ladder with a curling ribbon in its' beak, and pasted it to an old photo of Poet. Now it looks like Poet's head is about to be reeled in by this chicken (who's name is Gertrude, by the way).

I think I've been studying surrealist art for too long.

The Magritte essay went reasonably well, though. I could've used a little more time to proofread, as I finished writing the essay about 10 minutes before the start of the lecture. But I have gained a whole new respect for the surrealists. I would even hang the Magritte painting I studied in my living room (it's a great big rock in a living room, hence the surrealist joke. Ha ha. Yeah.)

I can't frigging believe how nice it is outside. I never want to go inside once I'm out...too bad I was cooped up all afternoon with a postcard of a boulder. It was about 22° today (no, I don't know what that is in Fahrenheit), which is even more mind-blowing when you consider that we had a couple feet of snow last weekend. I think it's even warmer here than it is in Hawaii...at least, that's what Jay keeps complaining about. If so, ha!

I need new sandals, though. They've been held together with carpet tape ever since October. It wouldn't be so bad, except the clicking-crinkling-flopping sound they make is enough to wake the dead (or at least the students in the carrels at Robarts.)

Oh yeah, I promised that I'd give you the low-down on last weekend. When we spoke on Friday, I was in from margaritas, and reading quietly in my room with Cranly. Then a lot of people showed up (i.e. Tiger Lily, Palaver & Butler), we all started to drink in earnest, and we eventually departed for the Alpha Sigma Sigma Frat Haus, portaging the inflatable couch and generally making a spectacle of ourselves in the streets of Toronto.

Our arrival at the Haus was greeted with, perhaps mixed enthusiasm is the politest phrase. Unbeknownst to us chix, it was apparently Boiz Knight Owwt at the Haus, and upon our arrival Poet & Preacher speedily departed for less chick-rich climes. However, most of the XY's were glad to see us, as every night in the Haus is Boiz Knight Owwt by default.

At this point, the night accelerated into a blurrr of complimentary beer & whiskey sours, Tom Waits CD's, the 007 video game, and a very long-anticipated game of "I Never," the drinking game in which you burn your friends by making them drink to the shameful things that they've done. I have no comment on the game, other than amazement at how many of my friends have had a crush on a video game character. Oh, and that Palaver deserves a severe beating for his declaration: "I've never been in a love triangle with a Latin American."

He's such a loser...I mean, hasn't everybody? Well??? Well??? *sigh.* Yeah, that's what I thought.

This brings us to Friday...some comments on Saturday to follow tomorrow.

March 29, 1998.

I just can't do this tonight. I'm trying my best to concentrate on a René Magritte essay that's due tomorrow, and I haven't had much sleep in the last couple of days. When we last talked, I'd just finished an early evening of margaritas. Suffice it to say that there was a lot more irresponsible drinking that night, and by 5 a.m. the next morning, Palaver, Tiger Lily, Snag Boy and I had caked in the Alpha Sigma Sigma frat haus living room for about an hour before dragging our sorry asses (and inflatable couch) home.

This isn't getting me very far with Magritte, now is it?

The upshot is that I've been partying the entire weekend when I should have been working on the million things due before the end of term and sleeping at normal hours. And now I have 18 hours to get this motherfucker done.

Rrrr. I know...go read Nigel's stuff. He's just back from Austin, you know, and more sociable than I. I'll tell you about my weekend later.

Sorry.

March 27, 1998.

I'm finding it difficult to concentrate - Cranly's about 2 feet away from me, trying to re-inflate a translucent neon yellow loveseat while the Lady Godiva Band (the engineers who show some (negligible) amount of musical talent) wails in back campus out my window. It's a little hard to focus. But at the same time, it's a large bit of all right.

We just got in from an outing involving ass-size margaritas to celebrate the first Friday of spring. It was awesome...I had such a good time. I haven't enjoyed a Latin-American themed party so much since Poet's Cinco de Mayo barbecue for Preacher, Tiger Lily & myself in the pouring rain. The margaritas were out of this world. I've never had one before, but according to the others, this place served the biggest, cheapest BEST margaritas ever.

It reminded me of when I first started to drink. We would raid Akasha's parents' liquor cabinet and mix with whatever was available...peach schnapps and coke, anyone? One of the biggest revelations of my teenage life was that alcoholic drinks could taste delicious and get you drunk. I think I was 18 or 19 before I realized that. Unbelievable.

Cain was there with some of his debating friends. It was kinda cool, since I was not only the youngest, but the only chick at that end of the table. So a flattering amount of attention was paid to me. Not by Cain, of course - I think he permanently lost respect for me on That Tuesday, when he came home to find me & Tiger Lily drunk on the sofa. But I'm probably overanalyzing. He's kind of a weird guy, and we have kind of a weird friendship accordingly.

Oddly enough, this makes the second night in a row that I've experienced icy alcoholic lime concoctions. Last night I went over to the Alpha Sigma Sigma Frat Haus to burn a mixed CD for Mike on Trotski's state-of-the art system. Man, his monitor's big. Yes, I have monitor envy. We listened to Big Rude Jake boots and talked about life, love & literature, pretty much in that order. I really don't see those boys often enough. The night passed in an alcoholic blurrrr of witty rejoinders, Cure remixes, Super Mario Cart and whiskey sours. It was awesome.

What with the wonderful alcohol and the fist-pumping, adrenaline high megalomaniacal feeling one gets when making a mixed tape ("Yeah! I have the best taste in the entire world!! Yeah!!") it took me a really long time to get to sleep last night. But when I did, I drempt that I was back together with Mr. Blonde, and that there was nothing but love between us. I don't quite know what editorial comment fits here. Yay? Boo? Sigh?

Whatever.

March 24, 1998.

Today was my day off for being such a good girl and handing in my essays on time. I decided to skip Eastern Literature entirely this morning and just sleep. I think my Lenten vow is pretty much toast at this point. I've never broken one before, and I really don't like it, but what can you do, really? Start over? Oh, I'm sure God loves it when people ask if they can start over.

Mike has sent me THE most wonderful thing this week. We're running a mixed tape exchange, but he had access to a CD burner, which greatly improved the quality. He called it, amusingly enough, "Aerieland; songs for a bloodthirsty greek goddess." How cool is that? And I really love the Dead Kennedys songs, especially "Holiday in Cambodia," which I recommend to any Polisci major who thinks he can treat the world as a series of variables.

But what really made me smile was the CD art - an eagle with my face in the place of a head. Yes, some girls paint on wings to be fairies, but I want to be a harpy when I grow up!

I had to rethink my own contribution in the light of this gold-medal effort. I think I may even ask Trotski to burn me a CD for Mike, as a cheesy-ass tape just won't cut it anymore...

What a year for deaths in entertainment!! Jimmy Stuart, Lloyd Bridges, Robert Mitchum, Stubby Kaye...I didn't even know Stubby Kaye was dead, for Pete's! I almost started to cry when I was watching the clip film during the Oscars last night - but that may have been due to the fact that there were at least 6 annoying (and in some cases, offensively unhygienic) people in the common room, wrecking my experience.

I don't care how many Oscars James Cameron wins, he's still a lying manipulative fuck. His big break came from "Terminator," although he admitted to ripping off the story from "Outer Limits" episodes written by Harlan Ellison. But Harlan never gets the credit. No. It's James fucking Cameron who gets the glory. I know he's a Canadian, and I should stick by my own, but I can't stand people who rip off sf just because it's still a ghetto literature.

Grrrr...

March 22, 1998.

Things I have learned tonight from the horrible Damon Wayans show that has unaccountably replaced King of the Hill this week:

• sexual harassment is a concept with no practical relevance, and was dreamed up by people who don't like to have fun
• this idea of sexual harassment is ruining the workplace for all the regular joes who just want to make a few jokes
• all female cops enjoy pretending to be hookers
• if you want to be part of the (male) team, you should look like a model and take your shirt off at every opportunity
• competant, strong women can't get guys
• women are hysterical and illogical because of their hormones

And people say that teevee can't be an educational tool...

I had a really weird moment in Fung today. I was over by the pop cooler, minding my own business and not paying too much attention to my surroundings, when this couple entered. He's speaking somewhat sharply to her, and I realize that I've heard his voice before in a similar situation. Then I realized - it was the guy we were fighting with in front of Ein.steins on the 6th. It was probably the same girl, too.

It gave me the coldest chill. I'm sure he didn't recognize me, but I was worried about Butler coming to eat in an innocent fashion, not knowing that this asshole was out & about on our turf. Butler's a little hard to miss y'see...he's about 6'2" with long, curly hair that sticks out about a foot around his head. Easy to pick out, even if it was dark the last time you saw him.

On our turf! In Fung!! What the hell is the world coming to?!

March 21, 1998.

The weather's been so weird. Some time after I fell asleep last night it began to snow in earnest. By the time I had to go to Fung, it was deep enough to necessitate boots. Now it's a couple of feet deep...a full month after the days were mild enough to wander around in shorts.

I love Canadian weather from the bottom of my heart. As long as you stay prepared for any contingency and forbear whining, there's nothing like it on earth to keep you on your toes.

Tonight was part 3 of this year's series of over-advertised res parties: The Flava Invasion. It started at 8...at 9:30 I dragged my ass away from Carl Jung to join Aphrodite, Cordelia and Judith...we walked over to the Refectory...and waited for the invasion.

The décor was tasteful 70's rec room, with Saturday Night Fever unspooling soundlessly to the right of the DJ's table and vinyl hanging from the ceiling. Unfortunately, there was no one there, let alone anyone dancing. I hate that.

Overall, I don't really have anything positive to say about the experience. It wasn't unpleasant. Maybe I just didn't drink enough. Maybe Carl Jung spoiled me for the evening. Or maybe my outfit just wouldn't let me relax - I was only given 5 minutes to get ready, and I looked rather like I was a spy for the French resistance (black velvet blouse, black lace skirt with fur edging that didn't quite cover up the tops of my black stockings, black boa, and black beret). It's hard to have fun when you have to cozen secrets out of those filthy Nazis...oops, that was a little too far.

Most of the people from res showed up eventually, but we were almost out the door at that point. Cody of Chronicle was there, so you may even be able to check my account against his, if he bothers to write about tonight. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

And Mick was there. I haven't seen Mick in ages...he used to live with Palaver, and they parted on somewhat less than congenial terms. And considering how much I hang out with Palaver, it seemed best to let my friendship with Mick fade into the distance.

Which really sucks, 'coz lately I've been filled with anxiety that all of the people I befriended in first year are slipping away. I keep dreaming of being at a party that would've delighted me not too long ago: Brigid, Trotski, the Lawyer, Dot, Mick, Preacher and Poet are there...and they all ignore me or regard me with open contempt. I'm being a little over-dramatic for the sense of unity; Mick, Tammi & Trotski wouldn't cut me dead, and neither would the Lawyer or Poet (probably) but I feel like all of those bonds have become somewhat diseased, either through open enmity or disuse. I used to be so close to them all, and now it's all gone. Sister Sunshine says that my mistake is taking people into my heart too freely. Maybe.

You can see why seeing Mick was such a big deal, then. I guess this is why I shouldn't let boys run my life, even Palaver, and even indirectly. So I'm really glad that I saw him tonight, 'coz it'll remind me to give him a call in the near future.

March 20, 1998.

Keele (adj.)
the horrible smell that comes from washing ashtrays.

- douglas adams & john lloyd, "the meaning of liff"

I just realized this second how long it's been since I washed out an ashtray. Ages. Eons. Erm...a year, actually. I used to have the only room in residence where smoking was not only permitted by the resident, but also somewhat encouraged. How could it be otherwise, when my part-time roommate (a.k.a. Mr. Blonde) was a smoker? (R)evolution (the student paper that never was) meetings took place every Wednesday night in my room, and between Mr. Blonde, Poet, and Sven, the room would be hot-boxed in less than five minutes.

Memories...

We've never discussed Sven before, have we? Or if we have, it's under his real name, 'coz I was too lazy to think up a pseudonym. He's a poet friend of mine, the son of a Bible-Belt minister. He immigrated to this somewhat more tolerant clime, and made friends with Trotski...and the rest, as they say, is history.

Theoretically, he was one of my 3 Fireball dates (my others were Sister Sunshine & Palaver), but he dropped out of touch a little before the event. He's been having some personal problems that caused him to drop off the face of the earth for a little while. Since he has no phone & stopped answering email, we briefly planned to stake out his house in an unmarked Ford, smoking cigarettes and drinking double-double coffee. Never mind that I don't like cigarettes, and I don't want no sugar in my coffee...makes me mean, it makes me mean...(sorry. Gratuitous Big Sugar reference there).

We never quite found each other on the Fireball. It was disappointing from both a personal perspective & a statistical one (3 dates would've been a personal record, but 2 dates was good enough to maintain my heartbreaker reputation (ha!)).

The thing I like best about Sven is his cheerful disposition...he doesn't fancy himself a brooding intellectual, with too much on his mind to have a good time. In a world of Hamlets & even the occasional Polonius, it's gratifying to find a poetic Touchstone.

The other thing I especially like about him is that whenever we get out of 18th century literature, I always whine about going to Victorian Fiction and he always offers to have coffee instead. I like people who encourage me to skip, although I seldom do!

My Ben Folds Five CD has just finished an amusing 2 week migration. First I lent it to Veronica, who lives on the 2nd floor, but curiously enough, has no CD player. But she loves the song "Brick," so she taped it...then gave it to...

...Judith, who also lives on the 2nd floor, and does have a CD player. She enjoyed it until...

...her boy Aegis claimed it. I came home this afternoon to the sounds of Ben Folds issuing from the open door of the room next to me. Me: "is that my CD?" Aegis: "No. Wait a minute...maybe."

Ah, res life. I'll miss it so much next year.

March 19, 1998.

"What is love at first sight but the response of a soul crying out with sudden regret because it realizes it has never before been recognized?"

- anne michaels, fugitive pieces

I think I'm catching another cold. This is just fabulous...this weekend I have 2 essays to write and my head is full of fluff.

I'm doing quite well on my good vs. evil essay, though. This one's for Canadian lit. I was really taken aback by the beauty of Fugitive Pieces...she manages to take all of the horror of WWII survivors and make it lyrical.

Wait a minute. I'm sorry for being boring. You don't care about this. I don't care about this. I wouldn't even be in this class if it wasn't a degree requirement. I've been cooped up all day with a growing cold, Fugitive Pieces and Sammy Johnson's "Rasselas"...and I just can't think of anything else to write about.

Maybe I'll write about Cranly & the laundry last Thursday, which I forgot to mention. See, when I fled to their house, they of course let me stay the night. And Cranly did one of the most quietly magnificent things I've ever seen - he gave me his bed & slept the night on couch cushions. His blanket? Laundry. Yes, Cranly loved me enough to sleep on the floor, under laundry. How kind is that?

Or maybe I'll write about getting a score of 10 500 on "Skippy's Obsession" in The Geckoplex this morning. It was a major victory for someone who used to obsess about Tetris.

Or maybe I'll just copy out the note I found on my door yesterday morning:

"Aleta,
I was in to say hi, mention me in your journal.
- Anluan"

I know I really shouldn't've encouraged him by doing so, but I'm a soft touch when I can't think straight.

March 18, 1998.

I am spending way too much time at the concrete turkey that's kitty-corner from my bed. This would be Robarts Library, for all you civilians. I really dislike Robarts. It seems like every system in it is specifically designed to be as time wasting & annoying as possible...it's either Murphy's Law or the result of millions of dollars funneled into a panel of experts. I'm not sure which horse to bet on here. And if the décor isn't intended to make any visit of longer than 15 minutes into a bowel-clenching roller coaster of nausea, then somebody's really screwed up.

Mr. Blonde has made a vague promise to stop reading this diary. I would appreciate it immensely, as there's no point in gossiping about someone when it's just going to come home to me post-haste. I want the space to gossip, dammit!! I want to giggle & pass on what I learn clandestinely from my few remaining Brampton contacts. But no. I have to be civil & show a modicum of class. Well, pffft to that.

I've decided that what I really want from my former boy is forgiveness. I'm perfectly ready to leave the past in the past as much as I am able, but that's just not possible when I have an open, weeping sore on my conscience. But I have noticed a disconcertingly slick persona about the lad during the few occasions we have met. If this is just a vapid shield, then I would appreciate some emotional honesty once in awhile to match my own. But if this is his new personality, then I don't even want forgiveness...I just want forget-ness. None of this gen-x "being friends" horse shit. Just to be able to wipe clean my memory & soul with one fell swipe.

Perhaps not coincidentally, yesterday was St. Patrick's Day. A year and a day ago, I was drinking in my fishnets at Ein.stein's, before spending the entire night awake and whispering to Poet. That was the night that Tiger Lily watched Cranly & Waldo light an entire box of non-safety matches and talk about "the old days." In actuality, we were only separated by a floor. But there was a whole wall of excuses & justifications in the way that nobody could see, and nobody could break through.

Sometimes I feel like the year is a picnic blanket in a high wind, and the only thing that'll anchor it to my memory is the placing of ritualistic stones on each day that something weird or special or horrifying happened.

March 17, 1998.

I feel so serene. I'm experiencing one of those magic post-Fung moments when my digestive system is not only untroubled, but also deeply satisfied. If I could eat soup and sandwiches every day, I would. But there's the rub right there. Soup & sandwiches every day? No thanks. Although it used to make my brother happy, before he turned veggie.

My Middle Eastern essay is done to little fanfare. Quite truthfully, it's a pile of crap...but at least it's a punctual pile of crap. Really, though...how many insightful things can you say about Middle Eastern concepts of beauty in one mediaeval romance poem? Not freakin' many. And today is so sunny & beautiful that I didn't even mind waking up at 8 a.m. to finish off the essay. Cold as hell, though.

I broke my Lenten vow of non-skippage this morning. I find my Middle Eastern lectures roughly analogous to being murdered through repeated stabs of a sewing needle...painful, drawn-out, and with little end in sight.

I suppose I should pray for guidance and strength, but I have been very embarrassed to be a Christian lately. It seems like all the great thinkers and artists are in the past: John Donne, C.S. Lewis, Jonathan Swift, Samuel Johnson...these are all people who you really want to be on your team. And what have we got today? Right wing idiots who think that blind, unexamined faith is proof against thinking, logic conjecture. It's obvious by now that you can find something in the Bible to prove any position...but if you're going to pick & choose, can't you select "love thy neighbor as thyself" and not the bits about punishing the sexually licentious?

For heaven's sake, people. Try thinking once in awhile. It's not unchristian to be educated and unprejudiced. But it certainly seems to be the fashion these days, which is really annoying to those of us trying to live morally in the 90's.

March 16, 1998.

Trying desperately to remember why I decided to take modern art. I think it was because I was so fired up during my 19th century art exam in December that I thought this century would be une tranche de gateau (I hope my high-school French hasn't totally deserted me there). Either that, or I felt that I hadn't suffered enough from art history. Or maybe because I was under the impression that a scholarly knowledge of modern art would stop philistine reactions like "I could do that!" from coming to mind whenever I saw an abstract canvas.

Guess what?

It's 2 1/2 months later, and I still feel, deep down, that most modern art isn't worth the canvas it's "painted" on, not to mention the exorbitant sums paid for it on a regular basis. I have developed quite an appreciation for cubism, but I still wouldn't hang Les Demoiselles D'Avignon on my wall. I understand a lot more about the artistic and intellectual movements of the 20th century, though. I'm particularly fascinated by the futurists...I knew that a great percentage of artists were assholes, but I never realized that there was an entire movement dedicated to macho posturing and homicidal tendencies (I'm grossly oversimplifying for my own purposes here, of course).

I think that what I've really learned is that any jerk with a squiggle or rectangle for sale can sell it to a galley if and only if they are backed by a persuasive intellectual argument. It doesn't even matter if the argument is self-serving bullshit (as so much of academia is), it just has to be there.

Sorry about the previous rant, folks. It's been a long night...

March 15, 1998.

I have an essay due on Tuesday, and have I even picked a topic? No. This is because I have become obsessed with a shockwave game in which you line up coloured balls for points. I've been playing it for hours. Hours!!! It makes me think of that Star Trek: TNG episode when the entire crew was taken over by a video game that sent charges straight to the pleasure cortex.

Yes, this is how fried I am...I am using Star Trek episodes to illustrate my point. Much like my 10th grade history teacher, I cannot find a more potent metaphor at this point.

Sigh.

I think I'm going to do my Samuel Johnson readings for tomorrow & then hit the hay. There's nothing like an entire afternoon of staring at the pooter, trying to make balls line up to tire one out. I'll pick a topic tomorrow. Sure.

The dieting is also going shittily. I'm hungry & irritable all the time. I can't get takeout at 4 a.m. like everyone else. And I am not noticeably thinner. You'd think that I'd lose weight through sheer aggravation, but no. Screwed by the metabolism gods again.

20 minutes later...

I have just broken my diet in spectacular fashion, but half a bag of Butter Lovers microwave popcorn later, I feel like the Queen of the World!! Thus, the effects of saturated fat and Veronica's company. Hoo haw.

March 14, 1998.

Oh my. Last night was one of the weirdest nights I have ever spent at Tiger Lily & Cranly's. See, yesterday was "drink till we're blind" night in honour of Aegis completing the run of his all-clothed production of "Merchant of Venice." There was also a party at Dupont to celebrate Friday the 13th, which was advertised thusly:

Attention all certified Swingers and sultrified Swingettes:
The Magnificent Six of 352 Dupont will play hosts to the exciting sequel to the now famous, nay, legendary shindig of the fortnight past. Expect the unexpected, the disrespected, the disinfected!! For one day only (negotiable), one night only, and three times monthly, THIS IS IT!!!

THRILL to DJ Case-man's illicit party mixes!!
CHILL to Braveheart's sordid lack of undergarments!!
SWAIL with Fly's excess sake!! (and whatever else turns up)
WAIL with Trotski's ultra hi-fidelity duophonic surround sound devices!!

Will Snag Boy stay demerit free?
Will Brit Boy emerge from his room?
Will House of Pain [i.e. the other brawlers on the 6th] show up with headlocks for all?

Bring your friends, bring your enemies. Heck. Bring your grandparents. All are welcome. We start at party o'clock, and finish when prohibition is reinstated.

Cranly, Aegis, Tiger Lily & I decided to have a couple of drinks before we headed over, just to ensure that our goal (blindness) could...ahem...remain in sight. And of course, we never made it off the couch.

Which is not to say that we had a certified old person's night in, with Pictionary and warm cider for all. Thrown on our own creative resources, we held our own Olympic Games. There was the Love Seat Luge event, which involved dancing in complicated & variable syncopation to Yma Sumac's "Mambo" with all 4 of us crammed in bobsled-fashion on the loveseat. So, technically, the event should have been named the Love Seat Bobsled. But we liked the alliteration, so there. Deal with it.

Then there was the Laundry Free For All, which involved a general wrestling, tickling, throwing match on the dunes of laundry which cheerfully bedecked the floor. Teams formed and dissolved at lightening speed, as we battled to subdue all others, or at least give out many satisfying elbow drops.

Then there was the Drinking event, which we all participated in with gusto.

All of this was in the foreground of 2 episodes of "Blackadder III", 4 episodes of "The Tick", "Prospero's Books" (John Gielgud's nads...{shudder}...), the last half of "Billy Madison" and, of course, "Ren & Stimpy." Would you leave the apartment where such things were going down? Thought not.

March 13, 1998.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about my financial position. One of the few bits of communication I received from my parents yesterday was their refusal to pay for my half-year course (long, unimportant story behind this course addition). Last night Cranly & Tiger Lily took me out to Le Marché for a consoling ice-cream cone, and I no doubt bored them to tears with my endless schemes to live out the rest of the year with a cleaned-out bank account and no credit rating.

Daniel and I also had a long talk about being independent ("getting out," as he put it) from our respective families. He'll have to pay less rent in Brampton, but he also needs to factor in a car, as one cannot do without it in the suburbs. I, on the other hand, have higher rents to deal with, but this is compensated for by the extensive, convenient & cheap transit system. All hail the TTC! Thank you.

I think that the most important thing to come out of this whole bloody mess is this new-found feeling of confidence. The prospect of "doing it on my own" is no longer frightening. I'm pretty sure I could get my feet under me in a couple of weeks...a month of couch surfing at the most. And that's the most important milestone I've passed this year, I think.

But I don't really have to worry about it, 'coz I have been re-inherited.

I spent about 2 hours on the phone with my mother, placating her, teasing her, doing everything, in fact, but apologizing for getting a tattoo. I apologized for disappointing her, but I refuse to get defensive about being a different person than she had thought. I've actually been quite mature throughout, especially for me. I never said anything bratty like, "it's my body & I'll do what I want!" or other self-righteous adolescent twaddle. I never became sullen or uncommunicative. I never lied about anything when questioned.

Yes, I acted all growe dup. Hoo haw.

March 12, 1998.

God, what a day.

Remember how I said yesterday that everything was cool, and that I had great hopes that my parents would weather this little storm well? Guess what? I apparently know them as little as they know me.

My mother spent the entire day sulking in her room with the door closed while I puttered around doing laundry. When my father came home, he immediately went to the basement to watch teevee until dinner time. Dinner was magnificent, but it was somewhat compromised by the absolute silence which descended on us all. I didn't want to say anything, because I feared bursting the bubble that separated the 3 of us from hours of screaming accusations. Not only was I sent to Coventry, but there were tomatoes in the salad. I know that doesn't sound like a big deal, but my mom always makes a very bland salad to accommodate all of the tastes of my family, and the inclusion of tomatoes (which I don't like) is the subtlest 'fuck you' that I can think of.

Then I found out that my father refused to drive me back to Toronto. Okay, no prob. All I have to do is find my brother & I'm out of this place. Except that my brother was already in Toronto, and refused to come back for me. That's when the mild panic started. If I couldn't find someone to drive me to the bus station, I was doomed to either a long, uncomfortable car-ride with my father or another night in Hell (Brampton).

My first thought was Mr. Blonde. He doesn't have a driver's license, but he was on speaking terms with people who did, and he owes me (or, at least, that's how I look at it. I guess all of the dumped feel the same way, no matter how much water has passed under the bridge). I was prepared to beg for a ride from Mr. Shoreleave; that's how desperate I felt. But he wasn't home, which probably saved me from an embarrassing hysterical display, now that I think about it.

And then I found out who really loves me. No, not Kojak. Daniel and Maharet.

Yes, two people that I've made only half-hearted attempts at staying in touch with consented to rescue me immediately, without a pause for thought. And Maharet let me have shotgun!!! This is who and what I love.

But my parents were not keen on me riding the subway after dark, no matter how disinherited I was. So I had to basically sneak out of the house with my ginormous bag of laundry. "She's Leaving Home" kept running through my head. Made me think of the only other time I ran away from home...but then again, I only ran as far as Mr. Blonde's bed that time. This was fleeing the city. This was more serious...and infinitely more cool, in a perverse sort of way.

March 11, 1998.

I've just run full tilt boogie through the first half of Stephen Fry's biography, Moab is my Washpot (which, in turn, is only half of his life to date). If I haven't made it abundantly clear at this point, I worship this man. I have read plenty of gorgeous things that touch me, that I wonder at, that I shake my head at the sheer brilliance of the author, i.e. the sonnet that begins "shall I compare thee...", "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by Eliot, "The Only Tourist in Havana Turns His Thoughts Homeward" by my man Leonard, Maharet's second vampire poem that begins, "waiting for blackness / eyes shut tight"...and that's just the poems that immediately spring to mind, for pants' sake. (Look at the Anglo idiom, peoples. Is there any doubt of Fry's heavenly effect on me?)

I've read lots of things that sound like my embarrassingly amateurish prose style, enough so that the pi phrase, "I could've written this scene" springs irritably to mind (most notably in the work of Charles de Lint). But when I read the girlfriend's letter near the end of The Liar, I not only thought "I would've loved to have written that," but also "this man is me." Poet may remember that I read him that letter...it seemed appropriate to our situation at the time, although I was overwrought & unbearably sentimental at that point in my life, and I managed to apply everything I read, heard or saw to either Poet or Mr. Blonde. Yet anyway...

Palaver reminds me of Stephen Fry a great deal, actually. And no, this isn't another opportunity for me to twit him about his public image (there is a tendency to classify Palaver as gay, as he is sophisticated, continuously elegantly dressed, and enjoys dancing (not just sitting in a corner with the coats and a growing collection of empties or shuffling uncomfortably in a circle of girls). And he carries a handkerchief. And likes bowties. Heaven forfend...)

Some of it is the similar sort of British refinement about the two. Some of it is their similar sense of humour. But mostly it's their character...somewhat alienated, somewhat intellectual, somewhat sensitive, and with an up-close knowledge of how one lives with deep-down personal pain.

I don't mean to say that the two of them are sobbing, shuddering emotional train wrecks, unfit for adult society and unfit to manage their own affairs. Far far far far far from it. Oh hell. I'm not sure if I can tell you what I mean. Perhaps it is best summed up by describing my reaction when in contact with either of them - up-close or through words. I feel like most of the time I'm involved in a challenging, witty exchange which is enormously entertaining. But that every once in awhile, they need me to make them cocoa, read them Winnie-the-Pooh, and listen sympathetically to their problems.

I am fully aware how insanely, ridiculously, conde-bloody-scending that was. But all I can say is that my intentions are good...but of course, we all know those cobblestones pave the road to Brampton.

The big news of today is that the jig is finally up...my mom caught me with my shirt accidentally rucked up, and asked what in hell that thing was doing on my back.

She seems to be taking it pretty well...for her. She didn't start crying until right before she left for work, and she didn't call me a whore at all. I'm lucky that Nic was with me. We tag-teamed her, trying to poke holes in her sedate, middle-class notions of "mutilation." (Oh, we're so desperately "with it," don't you think? Sigh.) But it's okay. I think.

I have no idea what my dad thinks...Mom just told him. Perhaps my 82% Victorian Fiction essay will placate him (yes, this is the essay I died a thousand deaths over).

And if not, well, fuck it. I'm 21. I'm still bondable. If kicked out, I can couch surf until I get a place of my own. This is not an outcome I hope to provoke, y'understand...the tattoo was not a reaction against my parent's values, but rather an attempt at making myself new during a very difficult period when I craved metamorphosis. But I've had it for a year, and it's more me than my blonde hair, more me than my docs, and more me than some silly constricting role as vestal virgin daughter. I may not like me very much, but I will stand by what I have.

March 9, 1998.

I find myself really identifying with Samuel Johnson's prayers & meditations. He's always worrying about shaking off sloth and using his talents as God intended. It's very affecting, actually. Especially when he writes of praying for his dead wife, whom he mourned until he himself died more than 30 years later.

I can just imagine my 18th century lit prof reading out biographical details about me in his deep, sonorous voice. That is, if I ever get famous enough to be included in a university level English course. Unfortunately, my most recent & best burst of poetry was prompted a year ago by a rather embarrassingly messy affair de coeur. And while that's not uncommon for poets & other pretentious folks, I would hate to have it pointed out that despite the fact that this gentlemen's lack of affection precipitated a huge creative growth spurt for me, I was soon reduced to nothing more than a footnote in his own account of the same time. Hell hath no embarrassment like a woman overlooked. Or something.

Yes, I imagine being a famous poet. This is how I keep my ego alive & kicking when there is no one to love me and I'm developing a cold (as Aphrodite puts it, if snot were money, I'd be rich). *sniff* Awww...pauvre Aleta.

After, oh 11 months, my Posse piercing (the one in the cartilage) has finally healed. Yay! I'm so happy. I can sleep on the left side of my face without waking up in discomfort. I can turn the earring without disturbing any crusties (yes, that was pretty gross, I know) I can do everything that was denied me for so long...

So cool.

Wrote a new poem while I was supposed to be paying attention to Canadian literature. 'Pffst!' to Canadian literature, say I.

Actually, I've written several poems lately, but most of them suck, and are therefore not worth mentioning. But not only did I write a good poem about frustrated love (what else?) but I also tossed off a tiny 12-line poem about Palaver buying me a shot of Jägermeister last weekend. It's quite silly, but also kinda cool. Today for some reason, the Muses kept feeding me inspiration. Mmm...inspiration. Tastes like chocolate, y'know.

March 8, 1998.

"I'm drowning under the rush."

- sloan

It was a horrible day today.

Absolutely yucky. And the thing you have to realize, is that it takes a hell of a lot for me to complain about the weather in an international forum. I like snow landing on my face & hair. I like basking in the sunshine. I like smushing little hills of watery slush under my boots in between snowfalls. I like walking in the rain if it's not too cold and I'm able to navigate without my glasses. I even like cool, gray, oppressive days because they remind me of the Queen Charlotte Islands and the UK; 2 of my favorite places on earth. Not only that, but a certain amount of weather masochism is built into my system as a Canadian: I expect to suffer extremes of weather at any time.

Today, however, was more than a stoic could take. The howling winds woke me up at 11:30. It was so cold that I had to put on pants immediately...this in my tiny, stuffy res room that's usually at least 5 - 10 degrees warmer than the rest of the building (not to mention that when there's more than 1 person with me it turns into an equatorial resort). It was so bad that I wanted to take a taxi to Fung, which is 2 doors down from my cozy bed.

It was crappy.

But of course I had to venture out of doors for food, so the elements were braved. I consoled myself with a long hot shower, then put on the best Canadian album of all time ("Twice Removed" by Sloan) and lay quietly in the dark wrapped in my Ferguson plaid comforter wearing naught but my Ferguson plaid underwear, and listening to the rain. So that was good. In fact, I'd venture to say it was all good.

"Don't ignore me, 'cause you know I can always make it louder..."

- sloan

Cranly has informed me that yesterday's entry was the best thing I've ever written. I'm pretty proud of it myself, and I was pretty anxious for feedback. So far, he's the only one who's said anything (except for Palaver, who objected to the epithet "Pony" - then again, he's never happy with the way I portray him in these pages, so I'm not too upset).

"You could tell a million lies and I'd think they all were true. Trust - that's my trust in you."

- sloan

Spider Robinson once said that the greatest compliment a woman can give to a man is encapsulated by a line in "Norwegian Wood" which he creatively interprets as, "Isn't it good? Knowing she would." He goes on to state that this compliment can be transmitted across the room with body language, and that only children need to prove it with effort and sweat.

I was recently reminded of this line in my recent quest for Damon Runyon-style fiction (don't even ask how it's related). I remember reading that when I was, oh 14 or so, at a time when I had only a health education knowledge of sex (this was a full year before I saw my first porno under the kind auspices of Maharet, Mr. Shoreleave and Akasha). I'm not sure what I thought of the line at the time, and I'm not sure if I believe it now.

But it's certainly something to think about.

March 7, 1998.

The story I am wishing to tell you cyber-citizens tonight is, in fact, a departure from the normal squawk that I try to pass off as writing, which seems to get me no small reputation in this man's town.

Last night I happened to be in Ein.stein's, taking in the sights and sounds with quite a few of the famed-up locals. There was Last Card Trotski, there was Brandy Bottle Brit Boy, there was Butler the Dude, there was Pantless Fly the Pot-Head, there was Casey Ha-Ha, there was the Crispy Bread Boy, there was Sick Boy, there was Little Wallace and even for a time, Pony Palaver; in short, there were many guys of note taking the air with some of the finest dolls this side of Spadina such as Lush Lynn and Little Miss Amy and myself. Everyone is all pleasured up, and in fact, more than somewhat, and this is the state of things when we finally take the breeze.

And what should we see coming up the street, but an angry guy who is shouting at some doll. She is not liking his attention, and is, in fact crying fit to melt in an angry sort of fashion. It seems clear to us that something is rotten in the state of Denmark, and that this sad doll may need our timely intervention, for of course there is never a gendarme around in this man's town when you really need one, and in fact we are alone on the street. So Fly, being the biggest guy in our group and also the brawlingest, goes over to find out why this other guy cannot leave this poor little doll alone and be as pleasured up as ourselves. The sad little doll takes advantage of this timely intervention to take the breeze, and she is soon gone as fast as anything, or maybe ever faster. We are left with this guy who is very angry, and in fact more than somewhat. And if truth be known, he does not care who he yells at, and if he can bust someone, then so much the better.

Fly is doing a bang-up job of making this guy see reason until he slips up and calls this stranger a punk. It is obvious by the actions of this stranger that he does not take well to being called a punk by the likes of Fly, for he begins to peel off his jacket as if to prepare himself for a real bloody match. And he obviously does not want to get blood on his nylon athletic windbreaker, as it would set him apart from the rest of his associates who are dressed in the same fashion. We can make this judgement on his associates, as they commence to show up at this point, making threatening gestures towards the rest of us, who have by now moved in to help Fly in persuading this gentleman to mellow out and let us all take the breeze.

It is at this point that I move back, as this is very quickly becoming no place for a doll such as myself, especially if these associates are in actual possession of the shivs they loudly brag of. Now, my people have no shivs, except for the ones on their Swiss Army Knives, and since they are most likely to pull out the tweezers instead of the tiny shivs and especially if they are excited, it is quite fortunate that they do not remember possessing these tiny shivs.

From this time until maybe five minutes after this time, the street turns into an out-and-out brawl, what with this strange guy placing Fly in a headlock, and the rest of us feeling that this is most ungentlemanly, especially since this strange guy did not take a fair shot at Fly, and in fact, attacked him from behind. However, this strange guy does not seem to care that we consider him no gentleman, and what with his associates blocking any aid we may be able to give Fly, it looks as if Fly is about to lose his chance at ever taking any breeze again.

It is at this time that Butler the Dude and Casey Ha-Ha feel it is necessary to get involved, associates or no, and this shows how bad we are all feeling, as Butler the Dude and Casey Ha-Ha are the gentlest guys to grace the earth, and maybe ever gentler. But it is obvious that these strange associates do not know that Casey Ha-Ha and the Dude are not to be shoved, as they commence shoving one and all. Even Brandy Bottle Brit Boy is shoved to the pavement, and I wish to state that I never feel so queasy in my life as the moment I saw Brit Boy scrambling up from the sidewalk even as the Dude is being shoved by these associates. In fact, I feel so queasy that I am about to bust into tears myself, and surely would have, if Sick Boy had not comforted me by quoting lines from Swingers like, "didn't you see Boyz In the Hood? Now one of us is going to get shot!" Sick Boy was not involved in the brawl for the reason that he had commenced to take a snooze against the wall of Ein.stein's not 20 minutes before, and overall he felt far too pleasured up to be of much use to anyone except dolls who needed comforting.

But fortunately for Fly, Little Wallace manages to pull off the stranger before we are obliged to feel great sorrow for our dead friend Fly, and what with the bouncer appearing on the scene like God's own roscoe, we are able to make these strangers see that we mean them no harm and in fact wish to take the breeze as soon as we are able. And with this business settled and behind us, we commence to walk towards my house, as it is quite late and in fact too late for a doll such as myself to continue to take the air on the same day as she surrendered an essay to the Professor. Especially since I have not had much of a snooze the night before as the essay was the longest I have ever written and maybe even longer. And happily for us, we did not see these strange guys on the way there, and all brawling was over for the evening.

Note: The preceding anecdote really happened in this exact manner, although it was written in the style of Damon Runyon. For the purposes of flow, some names were changed. Sick Boy=Cranly and the Crispy Bread Boy=Snag Boy who has nothing to do with Powdered Toast Man whatsoever.

March 4, 1998.

I have 600 words written in my 3000 - 3750 word essay due on Friday. It's Miller Time...

Just kidding. Although my attempts at quick-fix zen-archery have been rather unsuccessful (i.e. I play Minesweeper until I get carpal tunnel or a new idea on Wuthering Heights), I have a killer outline for the first couple of paragraphs, so it should be easy-peasy from here on in. I hope hope hope.

This essay scares the hell out of me. Tiger Lily was industrious enough to ferret out one of the prof's books on Victorian fiction, so I am at once heartened by being able to identify scenes he's already studied and discouraged by the depth & character of his analysis. The words "at-oneness" and "metaphor of situation" and "Wordsworthian dissipation" make me want to curl up in a corner & keen.

Example: "To be simultaneously reproachful and unreproaching requires the ironist to say something and still not say anything. Unless one wishes Mrs. Bulstrode to be outside the paradox that allows her to execute a double movement of the spirit, one of simultaneous judgement and acceptance, disgrace and celebration, infinite resignation and infinite fellowship, it is self-contradiction to demand that she speak." (Shaw 185)

I think the most frightening thing is that he actually talks like this. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, from 11 to 12, these are the kind of sentences I run up against. If he wasn't so damn intelligent, I could just vaguely dislike him. Unfortunately, he really knows his Victorian fiction. Mores the pity.

Aw right. Back to the grind.

March 3, 1998.

"'Cause I been around the world a million times...and all you men are slime."

- thurston moore

Just came back from seeing The Full Monty with Sister Sunshine. Now there's one funny movie. Way better than L.A. Confidential. The thing that weirded me out was how much Gaz & Dave reminded me of people I knew - specifically George (my summer crush) and Matt (a high-school friend). I don't think most people come away from the movie with that feeling...unlike Hard Core Logo. If you've been in the rock scene in high-school, you know guys like Pipefitter.

Sister Sunshine says that Goshia (the book editor at the Varsity) has a crush on Robert Carlyle from this movie. Hmmm. Forgive the flippancy, but - been there, done that. Only mine had better teeth & a Canadian accent. It's the same with Casablanca, to a small degree. I think I'm burning through all of my allotted life experiences too fast...I'm only 21 (she chirped), but I'm already seeing movies about me. Well, kinda about me. Ok, not really about me at all...leave me alone, willya?

It's only 11:30, but I think I'm taking the night off as soon as I post. Take off me contacts, brush me teeth & go to bed. Perhaps I'll wake up a touch less miserable tomorrow morn. I can always hope.

March 2, 1998.

Imagine my surprise upon finding out that Bruce MacDonald's latest project Twitch City is already halfway through it's 6 episode run. Horrors. But I managed to find out in time to catch the Callum Keith Rennie episode, which is all I could hope for, really.

In case you haven't heard, the show focuses on a man (Don McKellar) who is totally addicted to teevee, to the point of never leaving the house. The explanation goes something like this: the ultimate sci-fi dream was to work and play out of your house...he's just doing it ahead of the rest of us. But you have to remember that this explanation is proffered by a fellow teevee addict (Callum), and the main character mostly seems like a laughable loser. But not quite.

It's a disarmingly sharp show, with very believable dialogue. The most effective thing it does is to blur the line between "show about teevee" and teevee itself. It's metatelevision. It's wonderful. Even without Callum, I think it'll do just fine competing for my attention.

Imagine my surprise that within 5 minutes, I found out that not only am I not going to be a don next year, but I got 65% on my art test. I have big problems with these outcomes. For one thing, I thought it would take longer than 3 days for them to thin me out of the 120 applications. For another thing, I thought I killed that test.

65% seems to be my own personal mark this year. I can't even cope with this revelation.

But on the upside, I've calculated all of my running marks to date, and I am currently maintaining a 77% average. I'm up 5 percentage points from the last 2 years. Not bad for a year when I did 6 courses & a part-time job for 3 months. Not bad at all.

Imagine my surprise when I found out today was Dr. Seuss' birthday, way back in 1902. I wish I could've rented Green Eggs and Hamlet, which, according to the IMdB is a retelling of Hamlet in Dr. Seuss-like rhyme. Hamlet is prevailed upon to try a new dish by his servant, Samiamlet. Alas...

March 1, 1998.

"And, of course, men know best about everything except what women know better."

- middlemarch

I've been wearing my brother's wife-beater all day. I don't know why, but it helps me to concentrate on George Eliot. Weird, huh? I mean, you'd expect a wife-beater to help you with, say, Tennessee Williams, but not Victorian chick novelists. But there you go.

Last night Veronica, Cordelia & I went to see Judith in a production called "The Joy of Sachs." It was put on by the local post-mediaeval/pre-renaissance drama group, the same group who are performing the York cycle in it's entirety this midsummer day. According to my info, this is the first time in 400 years that the entire cycle will be performed from start to finish...and not only that, but Palaver has the role of Christ. Can you imagine?

But back to last night. The actors are all grad students, so Jude was their baby, so to speak, and we were immensely proud of her accordingly. She played a scold - and played it well, I might add - in a short play called "The Missing Shrovetide Cock." (And as Veronica summed it up in her tiny, Ralph Wiggums voice: "Huh huh. She said 'cock' in front of her parents!")

It was kind of an odd evening out for me, as this is the dramatic society that I pissed off last year with a favorable review in The Varsity. Quite frankly, I think their response was childish & unworthy...not to mention mainly focussed on the fact that I had not included the letter writer in my review. Please. Find some bigger sticks & stones, children. But as Cordelia so rightly pointed out, only I could incur the wrath of a non-profit historical drama group.

Maybe I should put that on my résumé.

All original work is copyright Tisiphone. That's right...me!

Talk to the Queen of the Harpies.