November 1997.
November 27, 1997.
As promised, though late:
Q: How many frat guys does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: Five: One to hold the bulb, and four to guzzle beer until the room spins.
"I never wanted it to end like this- marilyn manson
But flies will lay their eggs..."Palaver has a girl. Isn't that sweet? Now I'm the most bitter, depressed and single person in the area.
I've been having trouble sleeping lately. Once I go to sleep, I'm fine-till about 9 the next morning, that is. But I cannot go to sleep without spending an hour obsessively going over all the things that I regret about the past year.
Especially Mr. Blonde. It's really easy to forget how much he wanted to break it off, how calm he seemed in the face of my tears, and quickly he got over me afterwards when it's late at night and you're convinced that no one will ever love you ever again.
I haven't mentioned this phenom up to now because I've been told that he's following the drama, and that puts more than a little cramp in my style. But there's no point in being half-honest. I'd be lying if I said that I wouldn't take him back in a second, even after the ugliness of the pre-break-up, the break-up, and the aftermath. I think my initial happiness of mid-June had more to do with relief. I no longer had to secretly suspect that he didn't love me-I had it confirmed.
"I just can't get rid of you the way that you got rid of me...now I'm right...I'm lonely and I'm right..."- ben folds fiveAnyway, the upshot is that I can't think of any reason to look forward to the Christmas vacation. Back into Brampton, part whatever. I can't sleep anymore. I have nothing to do but rehash my mistakes. Not to mention 3 solid weeks with my family. God.
Maybe I should try to start again with Maharet and everyone. Pretend that the last 5 years never happened. Avoid Mr. Blonde at all costs. And just do something to break out of this depressing fatalistic vicious circle.
I feel like Marvin the paranoid android. God...I'm not depressing you, am I?
"Ah, baby, tonight we sleep in separate ditches."- nick caveNovember 25, 1997.
Q: How many Marxists does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: None: The light bulb contains the seeds of its own revolution.
Ha ha ha. And thanks to Dirk, I have a week's worth of these babies. Stay tuned for tomorrow's frat boy variation.
Today I took a break from festering, threw on some clean jeans and a decent shirt, and tried to get through the day without reverting to my previous state of fester. A losing battle. Currently I'm wearing white & pink striped pj's and black dress socks.
Let me explain about the 'f' in 'Ferg': festering. It doesn't have anything to do with personal hygiene, really. You can shower everyday and still fester. It basically denotes the residence-wide mode of behavior when weight is gained, naps are taken every afternoon, energy is low, clothing is 'recycled' instead of laundered, and soft cotton pants are worn everywhere.
It's comfortable, to say the least. Sweatpants and a bra are the ensemble of the season. Dirty jeans are necessary. And every conversation begins 'I just finished my _____ essay/wrote my ____ test/woke up in the common room," which is a pretty clear indicator as to why we all fester so well.
Finally, a brief technical matter. Amy sent me a very polite note correcting my spelling of 2 counts in yesterday's entry. I still stand by 'spelt,' 'cause I looked it up, and Oxford backs me up. But I will concede that I misspelt Alice Cooper's real name. Thanks, luv.
November 24, 1997.
Today is Spider Robinson's 49th birthday. If you've never read his stuff, you're missing out. And I'm not just saying this because he's my favorite author or anything. Trust me...(said the spider to the fly...)
Things I have learned in the last few days:
- I have it within me to finish a 2000 word essay when it is 3 hours to the deadline and I'm only at 1100 words.
- Save early, save often. Then, when your computer crashes, you can spend less time weeping, gnashing teeth and cursing.
- It isn't a very big thrill to hand in 2 essays, one after another.
- My mother's birthday can go as low as third priority on a day with 2 essays due (Happy Birthday mom! I sang to the answering machine! I'm not a bad daughter, I swear!)
- Polka'ing is an under-appreciated social skill
- The entire residence is devoid of glue.
- Sometimes my courses cross-reference, and I can quote 8th century Japanese poetry on my 20th century Canadian literature essay without sounding like a loser (much more than I usually do, that is).
- Separate is spelt with an 'a'
I could go on, but I'm sure that you're thoroughly bored with the topic by now.
What else has happened? I saw a lot of Veronica this weekend. And when I say a lot, I mean a lot-the 'e' in 'Ferg' stands for excessive exhibitionism.
Sometimes I find it scary how much she reminds me of me last year-except for the casual nudity, of course. English major. Steady boyfriend. Straight-ish hair parted once and left to dry. Affection for the Tragically Hip & Shakespeare. I can only pray that she doesn't come out of next February with a broken heart, a strong case of insanity, and a tattoo.
I don't think there is any other news to report. People are reacting favorably to my Poppy Brite article. Essays #5 and #6 are now handed in. All I have in front of me is a short story for Wednesday night, then the end-of-term tests. Almost at the bottom of the chute...but don't slacken you prayers for me, if you've been offering them. In the words of that distinguished man of letters, Vincent Fournier, "we still got a long way to go." Night!
November 21, 1997.
If you didn't visit the Varsity link yesterday, here's another reason to go: the Bush protest is described in detail, and Butler is quoted whilst trying to get his lighter to work (they were burning symbolic stuff, you see...) Seldom has an issue been this full of me & mine. Is there were only an article by Sister Sunshine, it would all be perfect. Inasmuch as life can be made perfect be a student newspaper, that is.
Today is a very special day...and you'd never guess what it is in a million years. It's the first ever Fungtoberfest, a night dedicated to eating sausage, dancing to polka music, and drinking an insane amount of beer...and all in my cafeteria! I mean, smoking on the roof of UC is one thing...but it just doesn't get any better than the night they let you drink yourself into a stupor at Fung!
In honour of tonight's revelry, I'm forgoing my art history essay tonight (don't look at me like that. 3/4 of it's done, and what's left is not supposed to exceed a page with 1.5" margins, so I think I'm all set) and strapping on the lederhosen. The hour draws near, and I should get some make-up on.
(For the essay week from hell, this has been an oddly social few days, don't you think?)
November 20, 1997.
Firstly, I have the lead piece in today's Varsity Review section for the Poppy Z. Brite interview! I'm sooo pleased!
Spent all day putting the finishing touches on my Swift essay. 3 down, 3 to go. Hmmph. I thought that I missed footnotes-I haven't written a paper with footnotes since high school, and I nostalgically recalled the serious weight them give to the end of the paper. The subtle aura of "I wasn't just fucking around for 8 pages." But I have become reacquainted with footnotes for this paper, since my references are a twisting mass of introductions & note & texts & works in anthologies.
Horrible. Absolutely horrible. I can't believe the time I spent on correct formatting, compared to the ease of the "quote" (42) format. I suppose that I've learned something valuable, and that is to always trust the Modern Language Association. It seems that they really do have my best interests at heart.
Last night I was visited by a steady stream of boys-and oddly enough, all of them with some association to the name Dave, although this is an aspect which is entirely lost in the pseudonyms. There was Cranly, who came for a chat & his CD's. There was Cody, who I haven't seen in forever, and who claims that this is because last night is the first time I've answered my door in months. Then there was my next-door neighbor Aegis, who came over to eat cookies, listen to Getz's "The Girl From Ipanema" and drink from the massive bottle of Bailey's that I picked up in the Heathrow duty-free this spring. It was a lot of fun, but I'm never drinking whiskey products & eating shortbread until 2 am in the middle of the week EVER AGAIN. My stomach got so fucked up that I couldn't sleep past 7:30 am. Charming phenom on the one day I don't have class, don't you think?
Aegis claims that we need to do more research into the phenomena before I give it up completely. Damn this insistence on empirical data! Damn you, Robert Bacon! But most of all, damn you, Bailey's, maker of fine liquor! It's the devil's own ambrosia, I swear...what else could seduce a sweet studious girl (she tries not to laugh...) away from her required readings and into the hands of cream & whiskey? I wonder...do you think this has anything to do with the Satan worship back in September? Naaah...
November 19, 1997.
Before I start today's whining, I'd like to point out that today is Harrison G. Decline's birthday. Yes, folks, the ever-famous Countdown to the big 4-Oh is officially over. It's not that I need to draw attention to this date, 'cause this birthday is probably the most anticipated event in the diary community, but I'd still like to wish him well. Harrison's been offering me solace lately concerning the stalker-fear thing, and he's just generally a good guy. Cheers, babe!
And now, it's...whining!
It's official-I'm in the final stretch of the essay chute. From now until next Wednesday night, every class I attend will require an essay, and if it doesn't, the reason is that I've already handed in an essay for that class. Does that sound as horrifying to you as it does to me?
400 words to go on the Swift essay that's due on Friday. I think I'm in pretty good shape for someone who's not fueled by a palpable feeling of doom anymore. That disappeared with the job. But this essay is giving me trouble. It won't sit back and be written. It's fighting me. Although it's been a lot easier since my professor helped me locate a secondary source in the library.
He's a good guy. I don't know of any other professor who would've taken me to the library & found the book for me. I guess I'm making some sort of favorable impression on him, despite my recent lack of appreciable social skills.
Hey, who needs social skills when you've got the fourth edition of the MLA Handbook, anyway? Not to mention a big fat burgandy book called "Eighteenth Century English Literature," a book that could easily kill a man in one swipe.
Ah, the might of the intellectual. My social life pales into insignificance before my new-found ability to analyze the crap out of 19th century novels. Now that's a marriageable skill.
Guess where former President George Bush spent the evening? If you said, "Tisiphone's backyard," then you are correct!
Honorary degree my ass. All of the campus media has been up in arms about human right's violations and the commercializing of the university for weeks. Personally, I think that its' a bigger disgrace to the university that our president has publicly denied the importance of the undergraduate program in his personal vision of the university. Hey, If you're going to hike tuition like nobody's mother's business, you should at least have the grace to pretend that we the students aren't being ruthlessly fleeced like the sheep we are.
Protesters were so think that they had to find an alternate exit to Hart House. At this point a truly devious protester could have confused the president by getting him lost forever in the tunnels below the House. It was built with a huge grant of money that probably came from organized crime, and the condition on the grant was that the university couldn't have the documentation about the construction or the costs. You've gotta figure that there's bodies in the foundation. And it would be perfectly Edgar Allan Poe-like to deliberately lose an ambiguous political figure in a sinister subterranean labyrinth. Don't cha think?
November 18, 1997.
Blech. Essay season is shitty. Today was my first free Tuesday afternoon in 3 months, and I was battling it out with Jonathan Swift for hours, about his views on science. Can you imagine a more pleasant way to spend an afternoon? I certainly can...
What makes it worse is the little voice at the back of my head that's screaming for social contact before the tedium of the Christmas break. I went to tea today, and I was almost struck dumb by the presence of Preacher, Trotski & Brigit. There was just too much stuff that I wanted to say for me to be able to say any of it. I felt like a moth beating myself to death on a window. I just need to be with people so badly that it's killing me. For the first time in my life, I'm being defeated by words. By speaking. By my own silence. It's made me a very dull companion. I'm not surprised that I'm not getting called. Not that I have time to go out anyway...
Oh well. I'm going off to catch up with Art History, I think. Either that, or my Canadian Fiction class. I've already written half the essay due on Friday, so I'm done essay-penance 'til tomorrow, and can turn my attention to a) catching up on the readings, or b) planning the next essays.
As for my idea to post essay fragments, let's hope it won't come to that. I'm sure you don't want to read about Swift's antipathy towards Newton. But I will post a part of my short story essay nest week, because it will be fiction. I can hear the anticipation.
November 16, 1997
Just finished "Gulliver's Travels." I'm so restless. I feel like going out tobogganing, or learning how to snowshoe, or hiking around town. I feel like calling up everybody in this town who's company I enjoy, and hanging out in somebody's living room. I'd rather be doing anything than what I'm supposed to.
I guess I just have cabin fever. That, and I'm also depressed by my impending lack of a social life in the next few weeks. I've finally shaken free of my job-the reason that I haven't been able to seek out my friends this year. And by the time I'm finished my essays, term tests and exams, everybody will be gone to their families for Christmas vacation.
More than ever, I long for the social buffer of a boyfriend. I think I need someone to convince me that everything will be okay, that I won't die bitter and alone. That is, except for 23 cats. All named Buttons.
This is not to imply that I'd rather have a boyfriend as a entity than someone to be in love with. I mean, I don't lack for male company, when I make the least effort to break out of the reclusive habits I've formed this year. I never worry about someone walking me home. And I certainly don't lack for the male point of view on anything and everything.
I guess what I miss is the daily miracle of being with someone you love, someone who also loves you. And if that's sentimental and unrealistic, well, so am I.
I've also become unreasonably afraid of stalkers attracted to me through this page. This comes from 2 sources: crunch-time stress and an incident a couple weeks ago when someone I'd been corresponding with via email looked up my number and called me. At the time, it didn't send me into a screaming fit...sure, I called up Palaver immediately, as he is the best muscles money can buy (if you don't have very much money). But the incident's started to work unpleasantly on my mind.
In terms of nervousness, I generally walk the line between unreasonable hysteria and a profound conviction that nothing bad could really happen to me. But this has really shaken my confidence. For a few days I contemplated taking down all the pages and re-launching them anonymously. Or taking down all current pictures of me-especially the rubber-clad warbitch one. As it stands, I've removed all mentions of my last name, though with over 3000 visitors already, the damage has been done. But it makes me feel a bit better.
Please, please respect my privacy. You are free to email me whenever you want, with whatever message you want to send. But please respect my personal space as a young female. Don't appropriate my phone number. It's just wrong.
Thank you.
November 15, 1997.
"She plays "Wipeout" on the drums, the squirrels and the birds come, and gather around to sing the guitar."- ben folds fiveI just finished writing my essay on Japanese poetry. I've been terrified of this assignment since last weekend, when I picked my topic and poems. What terrifies me is not the topic-the Victorian Fiction topics were much more frightening, ask Tiger Lily-but the fact that it seems so easy. I mean, an analysis of poetry? Poetry that's only 3 or 4 lines long? Analysis that is modeled on a series of questions clearly outlined in the hand-out? 1200 words? 10% of my final mark?
In any other class, I would have blown off this assignment in a couple of hours, not worrying too hard about it. But I like this class too much not to overachieve.
I like my professor of Chinese literature-we've already discussed what a good guy he is. I like my professor of Japanese literature-he's got the mannerisms of a middle-aged society woman, and it's just adorable when he discusses his associations with Japanese actors, young men who train their entire lives to be women. I like my class location-UC, my favorite building on campus, and the class is a five minute leisurely walk from my bedroom. I like the material. And I even like doing the work.
But the ease of the assignment scares the pants off me. I thought that I hadn't done too badly on the midterm, and remember how that turned out?
This brings up the topic of essays. Entries are going to get sporadic for awhile, and I can't guarantee that I'll keep up the standards of Often (oh well, I'll make up for it next month. Christmas vacations-2 weeks of life at home. How boring.) Also, I'm not going to vouch for the quality in the coming weeks. I may give up the diary altogether for awhile-it'd certainly give me an hour more a day to work. That, or I'll just pick a random section of essay that I've written that day and post it. Let me know what you'd prefer.
November 12, 1997.
I feel so mellow...somehow I came into possession of somebody's Stan Getz CD. It's not the sort of thing people associate me with, but I also like to be groovy...in between periods of vibrating at high frequency, that is.
Just came in from my short story class. Today was Faulkner's "A Rose For Emily." What a neat little story! If you've never read it, it's about a weird old woman who's protected & almost venerated by the community, and who we eventually learn has poisoned her Yankee suitor and stashed him away in the upstairs room, where he can embrace her forever. One of the neatest things about it, is that it jumps around from point to point within about 20 years, and it only fully makes sense by the end.
Of course, my tendency was to place it within my reading experience of the south, and right up there is, of course, my knowledge of Poppy Z. Brite. It seems that all the southern works I've enjoyed have been somewhat focused on the distinct society of the South, its' social patterns, rituals and decadences. And if you were to plot a continuum, Lee's "To Kill A Mockingbird" stands on clear and solid ground, while Faulkner's "Rose" dances on the edge, and Brite plummets joyously over the cliff.
This kind of coloured my interpretation of the vague aspects of necrophilia in the story. I held that this was an overt assertion by Faulkner (mostly because I wanted to hold the grisly, over-the-top impersonation for its' own sake). A sizable faction of the class insisted that the dead suitor was not only homosocial, but homosexual. I think our prof got a little irritated that we held such sensationalist views of the story. Oh well. As long as we're interested, right?
November 11, 1997.
Hmmm...there's something special about today, I know it...um...the banks are closed, cannons are fired...nope, can't remember.
Seriously, I hope we're all wearing our poppies. If caught without one, you're required to "symbolically" beat on a neo-nazi.
That is all.
I am very proud of myself at this moment. Why, you ask? Well, it's Tuesday. My 1st 300-level essay is due on Friday. And I've just finished more than 2800 words. The best thing is that I've worked through most of the crap that spews out onto the page before my essay-writing muscles are truly warmed up, and I'll be able to keep 95% of what I've completed so far.
The weirdest thing is the length of the paper. When I finished the first 1500 or so words last Sunday, I was horrified to discover that I'd only filled a little more than 4 pages. At 1500 words per 4 pages, a 12 page essay works out to just under 4500 words. I guess that I'll have to employ the most devious of essay writing techniques-unobtrusive use of margins & font size. There's no way in hell that I have more than 3500 words to say about Tess of the d'Urbervilles at the most. Even if I started saying really dumb things (and it takes a lot of idiocy to shame me into removing a line of thought. I've already compared her to Christ-where do you go after that?)
Well, I have 30 minutes to enjoy myself, before my quick recovery demands its' payment of 10 hours of sleep. I'm off to tackle "Sewer, Gas & Electric." Ta!
November 10, 1997.
I'm so bloody sick.
And it's not even in a particularly socially acceptable way. My nose runs, my throat's a tad sore, my temperature's a bit high, and I have some trouble concentrating for long periods of time. This was all handle-able, until the hour that's just passed. All of these symptoms were superseded by an incredible restlessness & irritation. In particular, I can't stand the touch of clothing on my collar bone. Several times during the lecture, I was tempted to rip my shirt off in frustration. So you can see how social this has made me...
It might have something to do with sitting in lectures for 3 1/2 hours straight. Usually I can take it-sure, I'm a bit fidgety & out of sorts, but overall, it's not too bad. Not tonight, though. As soon as a break was called, I was out the door like a shot, heading for the comfort of my room, where I could pull off my top in privacy. I'm still irritated, tho'. So much for creative nudity.
God, it's so frustrating. I'm missing the lectures on "the Diviners," a novel that I really got into. I feel so guilty whenever I skip this class-one day a week, and I can't tough out another hour and a half. But I'm driving myself crazy (not to mention the poor people behind me. Imagine having a psychotic in your line of sight. Probably did that class a favour, come to think.) I just hope they don't come up with anything so revolutionary that it causes me to fail the exam. That would just suck.
November 8, 1997.
Here I am, sitting at home on a Saturday night again. But I really don't care. I'm too tense to have fun. This is one of the few respites this weekend from hard-core essay planning.
Thus, I just spent an hour cruising around the homepages of fellow diarists, friends, etc. My God, I'm in love with the speed of this computer. It almost makes me want to cry. My computer in res has been getting progressively slower...surfing is exquisitely painful now. I keep a comic around my desk to keep me amused during the downloads. Hopefully my dad can clean out the bugger & get her working smoothly next week, 'cause I'm starting to lose my love of PC slack time. And I'm afraid that my work will get eaten. That's just not funny when you've been cranked up drum-tight for weeks, worrying about an essay.
Hmmm. Calming breaths.
Went makeup shopping with Sister Sunshine today. (We do the girliest things sometimes...)
But this was to redeem the MACS gift certificates I gave her for her birthday. Before you rank me to the dogs & back for giving my best girl gift certificates, I'd like to state that they're for an expensive, quality make-up store, the kind of place where Sister Sunshine really does want an excuse to spend large gobs of money. Especially if it's guilt-free gift money.
Other than this instance, I totally agree with Cranly about gift certificates: "They're the lowest possible present. If I give you a gift certificate from Sears, it means that I hate you."
The neat thing about MACS is that they're really extreme for a department store cosmetic line. The colours are all a tad freaky/shimmery, the quality is always top-notch, and the names are priceless. Sister Sunshine's selections were "Media" lipstick, "Cyber" nail-polish and "Clone" & "Bronze Frost" eye-shadow. I'm going back someday for my own favorite lipstick shade-"Film Noir." You just can't get better than that...even the Manic Panic line, with its "Tramp" lipstick.
By the time we sashayed out, I was wearing "Film Noir" lips and Chanel #5. All I needed was a tester pair of stockings with seams up the thighs to complete the "dame/vamp" look. But I suspect from that fateful email about dames-remember?-that it's all attitude & chromosomes anyway, and that I'm just as much of a dame in second-hand 501's than in a little black dress. At least, I'd certainly hope so. The word has a kind of nice ring to it. Like playing dress-up in the world of smoky detective offices & double-crosses.
November 7, 1997.
Today I abused my double x chromosome-begged off of work due to "mysterious chick problems". I'm not even going to bother feeling guilty...the kharma will boomerang on me soon enough, anyway. Something about those who live by mysterious chick problem excuses also dying by them...or maybe not.
(Sorry, I've been studying art texts for 4 or 5 hours now, and I'm a bit fried. Bear with me.)
I had forgotten what leisure is like. I read, took a nap, caught up on my email...it was damned idyllic. Too bad I have the essay & test schedule from hell over the next 2 weeks, and this'll be my last afternoon off for awhile. Well, my last afternoon off without largish dollops of guilt sauce.
I think that's all for now. I'm a bit too tired to find anything else coherent to natter about-and besides, my brain's all fretted up with 1) Mary Cassatt & the depiction of women within the Impressionist milieu and the traditions of the Old Masters (can't believe I just used the word "milieu") 2) making coherent & original statements about Tess of the d'Urbervilles when the topic's been extensively covered in class 3) not being able to find Ondaatje's "In the Skin of a Lion" for a reasonable rate and 4) the fact that I haven't picked a topic or poem for my Eastern essay.
Perhaps it's a good thing that I haven't had to worry about maintaining a relationship in this hurricane. You think?
November 6, 1997.
Second last Thursday at my job...woo hoo! It was boring as hell, and I am growing quite tired of Aslan. Intrigue doesn't wear well, and we really have nothing to talk about.
Bought "Wizard & Glass" today, Stephen King's 4th Dark Tower book. I've been waiting for it for AGES. 5 years, at least. And it's made worse by the fact that the last book stopped right in the middle of the action, right over the precipice. But it's mine now, and I'm going off to read it as soon as I'm done uploading.
In other book news, Bakka, the greatest science-fiction bookstore in the civilized world, has located a copy of Matt Ruff's "Fool on the Hill," one of the greatest novels I've ever read in my entire life. It's been out of print for years, which probably had something to do with the fact that Mr. Ruff waited more than 10 years to put out his second novel, "Sewer, Gas & Electric." Coincidentally, I also picked up this book from the library today. It couldn't possibly measure up to Fool, though. That book had it all...college kids, literary types, a cat & dog on a quest, a Greek goddess, an animated rubber sex doll, references to Fariña's "Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me," and the world's greatest fraternity-the Bohemians. Along with assorted villains, it's all brilliance & cleverness & action & satisfying archetypes. Try to find a copy in your library. You won't regret it.
November 5, 1997.
"Remember, remember the 5th of November,
Gunpowder, treason & plot!"I was supposed to go out drinking tonight in honour of some poor idiot getting caught in the basement of the British Parliament Buildings with a suspicious amount of gunpowder, but I'm not. This is Poet's pidgin, and he has nothing to say to me lately (yes, we're fighting again. Or just not speaking, in his parlance. Whatever. I've apologized ages ago, so I feel perfectly justified in ignoring the whole fucking thing.) It's for the best anyway, 'cause I haven't gotten a decent night's sleep in ages & I have to go to work tomorrow. I'm feeling the first ticklings of stress...feeling the work press down on me. Yuck yuck yuck. This is the beginning of snake time, as in, "I feel like I'm going-."
On a more exotic note, today Aphrodite & Cordelia invaded the offices of the Varsity dressed in low-cut goth ware & masks, intent on feeding cheesecake to Stuart, the Review Editor. It couldn't have gone more badly: my tape of Tom Waits strip music got destroyed by the player, Aphrodite was recognized by one of the writers, and, worst of all, Stuart REFUSED TO PLAY ALONG. Said he wasn't hungry. Twerp. If a bunch of sexy guys in gear came along & offered to feed me cheesecake, I don't believe that hunger would enter into it. Talk about blowing a prime fantasy opportunity!
The girls contented themselves with feeding a few forkfuls to everyone in attendance, including a very cute new writer & friend of Sister Sunshine's, Trevor. When Aphrodite gave him a bite, he closed his eyes, as if being kissed-very endearing. And he looks a lot like God In An Alcove, my semi-goth idée fixé from the high-school years. (As if I was a popular long-running sitcom that has to be divided into time periods to make sense of it all!)
And muchos gracias to the ever-so-Mighty Kymm for pointing out that I'd somehow gone back in time yesterday. B'oh. What a dumb typo.
I never even knew that she read my diary. I'm very flattered, 'cause hers was the first diary that I every came across on the Net, and I was very impressed at her writing and the audacity of having such a public journal. She is so cool. Therefore I am pleased to know that she noticed a slight temporal irregularity in my life.
November 4, 1997.
Today I am a woman...for you see, I quit my job. But not before grabbing a bunch of supplies. Didn't want to feel guilty about the employee discount, don't cha know.
So, after November 18, I should be free to pursue those elusive high marks that just might admit me into graduate school. Hooah.
Tonight I spent absolutely hours cleaning up my room, vacuuming, and putting up all the pictures & posters & articles & various decorations that mark any dwelling of mine. Usually they're the first things that go up, so as to make me feel welcome-like. (brief descent into horrible grammar is over...now. Thank you for your patience.) But this year I was too bloody busy.
Every year the organization gets better...what began as an explosion has become almost neat rows of shapes, colours, words, people. I love my room. No reservations now. It's finally mine again.
It's kind of the way I feel about my college building, University College. It's a massive structure of sandstone, concrete, brick, wood, carpet & glass that was first built in the early 19th century, back when it was still possible to house all students within the college itself. Now it's classrooms, offices, and libraries, with different features added on or subtracted (there's a reason we call our formal dance "the Fireball"...) Every time I walk in after an absence, I feel all the good vibes of the building. It's probably not everybody's favorite place on campus, and its' personal history includes at least one known murder, so I must conclude that the good feeling is of my own making, that its' the essence of 2 1/2 years of serious classes and 2 riotous Fireballs. One of my favorite memories of university life as a whole, was when a group of us climbed onto the roof during the last Fireball. I was gloriously bombed out of my skull, I was barefoot (you can't climb ladders in 2" heels), I was surrounded by some of my closest friends and perched high above the GTA. Was it possible that I could be less than ecstatic?
Even gloomy old Eeyore me can't be sad all the time.
November 3, 1997.
Got my Art History mid-term back today...75%, very good news indeed. I am the Art History Goddess. No, I do not know what the Lawyer got, because he refuses on principle to tell marks of shared assignments. But I do know that I got the ship wreck artist right, and he argued very persuasively against my answer...it's a cheap thrill, but I do like the taste of vindication. Kind of salty.
But despite this fine showing, I'm still going to quit tomorrow. I just need the time too badly. How stupid would I feel if I jeopardized my chosen career for this, hmm?
For the first time in my university career, I went in to see my instructor without an appointment. This was in regards to that Eastern Classics midterm where I flamed out so spectacularly last week.
Remember when I said my Eastern Classics professor was a good guy? Well, I had it emphatically confirmed today. I got the sense that I really didn't deserve even 5 1/2 marks on the essay question, but that he'd been as lenient as possible to an essay that didn't address the fucking question. Wow. DO I ever suck, hmm? Using my prose style to cozen marks I don't deserve from kindly young Eastern classics professors. Oh, well. It has to have some practical use, after all.
He (my prof) has the most romantic story regarding his choice of study. Apparently he began as an English major, and started to study Chinese literature in high school to win over the mother of his now-wife. So he got both a bride & a Ph.D. out of it...neat, huh?
I love "the Diviners." I take back everything I've ever said about Margaret Lawrence, which was mostly based on my high-school fellows' reaction to "the Stone Angel." "The Diviners" is absolutely brilliant...and I identify really strongly with the main character, in a way that I haven't since Adrian's girlfriend's letter in Stephen Fry's "The Liar." (Which you should all go out and read right away. What an enormously wonderful book!) Listen:
"A popular misconception is that we can't change the past-everyone is constantly changing their own past, recalling it, revising it. What really happened? A meaningless question. But one I keep trying to answer, knowing there is no answer."That's me to a T. T for tattoo, of course...je me souviens, indeed.
November 2, 1997.
It's been a very emotional day for me. I can't isolate the reason, but I've been going into little crying spells all day. Maybe it's the oppressive fall weather. Maybe it's my feeling of failure at not being able to make a go of this part-time job thing. Maybe it's anticipatory worry for my killer schedule in the days ahead. Or maybe it's just that I'm a gloomy soul, and Mr. Blonde did a hell of a lot of work to keep me propped up emotionally.
The first tearful episode happened this afternoon. Perhaps I've never explained that my house is in a perpetual state of mess. There's 4 of us (3, now that I'm in town going to school), and we all work full-time. Nobody's really that concerned about the mess, as it's a familiar & rather comfortable state. But when I breeze in for the occasional weekend, I get revolted & depressed & guilty. I know I should be a better person, and devote more time to chores than I do-take some time away from the fucking computer. On the other hand, I feel bad for obsessing about such a minor thing. In the grand scheme of things, who gives a flying fuck if my room is vacuumed? 10 000 creatures from Alpha Centauri don't give a shit, basically.
But I was still motivated to do something, as I had some time at home to spend-and why start on Margaret Lawrence, when I could feel morally superior? So I cleaned both bathrooms, vacuumed the kitchen floor & some of the stairs...and felt like the world's biggest bitch.
What right do I have to feel superior? I'm just as messy, just as sedentary, I work just as hard...judge not, lest ye be judged, I guess. But at least the bathrooms got cleaned, emotional outburst or not. And I somehow communicated to my mother all my ambivalent emotions about housecleaning. It was a rare & powerful moment of understanding indeed. And I need a few of those every once in awhile to keep me going. Someone has to understand me-otherwise there's no point, is there?
But all of this meant that I was in the perfect mood for Margaret Lawrence. I identified very strongly with the lead character in "the Diviners" - who feels shame at the messy state of the house and then more shame for thinking badly her "mother," a woman with no harm in her. What a coincidence, hmm? Thought I'd die with laughter...or something.
November 1, 1997.
Mmmm...I had a good Hallowe'en. (Despite the fact that every day is Hallowe'en...he he he!)
This year I decided to be Discordia, that Greek goddess-type chick who tossed down the golden apple, causing, well, discord. Last year I had a bit of a fixation with the Judgment of Paris, but then I saw myself as jealous Hera, wrongly cast into the role of nurturing mother, when she's really a psycho bitch. (I was wrong for the parts of beauty queen Aphrodite and cerebral Athena...yes, there's some issues there!) This year I decided to move out of the passive role, and fuck some shit up.
But I couldn't wear a toga to work, so that left the main part of the day without a costume. I decided to improvise, 'cause I could think of nothing more heinous than wasting the one God-given day when I'm allowed to dress like a freak. So I got all decked out in black, slung a tiara on a messy head of hair, and put on too much dark make-up...thus I became Persephone. But the best part about this costume, was that NO ONE thought it was a costume. They just thought I was wearing a tiara...
Makes you re-examine your life a bit...when it becomes one big costume party...
So Palaver (W.B. Yeats), Cranly (Sick Boy), Tiger Lily (chick in rubber dress with great big water gun) & myself (Discordia) went to see the greatest dancing-singing-chanting-throwing spectacle of the 20th century...the one, the only, the Rocky Horror Picture Show!!
Man, I must've seen that movie close to 40 times before I saw it in full-fledged theater form last Hallowe'en. What a fucking great time. But I felt underdressed...there were such great costumes & I was in this silly toga. I particularly loved the male gangsters (all eras) & the females in wedding gowns-black or white.
What a great holiday. I've never seen so much black lipstick on men in my life. Maybe next year I'll play against type...go as an angel or something. The Queen of Hearts, perhaps. That would be a lot of fun...wings, halos, wands...it would be nice to be sweet & pure, I think. (I don't quite remember, y'see!)
All material is copyright Tisiphone. That's right, me!
Talk to the Queen of the Harpies.
