October 1997.

October 30, 1997.

Read Kafka's "Metamorphosis" yesterday afternoon for Short Story class...I started to feel an affinity with Gregor as I was struggling to get up at an obscene hour this morning to go to work. It's not worth the stress & low marks for little more than $200 a week. Especially since my entire future career could depend upon my BA grades. Roach no more, then. Fuck this shit.

I'm flashing back on all the other night-before-Hallowe'ens in my life...the best one was when I was 16, getting all gothed up for the first time ever in my Anne Rice vamp get-up. My costume was a thrift-shop black evening dress, black hose, a red cape that was just a 2-meter length of cotton & a black silk ribbon for a drawstring, and exquisite makeup, requisite for all of the group (including the boys). When I was 17, I worked on the yearbook, and managed to find an incredible photo of me & my friends as the characters Louis, Pandora, Maharet & Akasha...a photo which was later autographed by Anne Rice herself. It sits in my room right now, encased in a horribly cute green frame that only serves to draw attention to its' own inappropriateness.

I know this is unfashionable to say, but high-school was a really good time for me. Each year had it's own highlights: 16 was feeling attractive & accepted by creative & wonderful people; 17 was more of the same, along with my first kiss & my first drunk; 18 was my first year with Mr. Blonde and one of the most socially active years in my entire life (from labour day to the end of term, not a single weekend went by without a great party. Not one.)

Through it all, I was thinner, sweeter, more innocent and my hair was its' natural colour. But a lot of things that were wrong with those times are right with the present; such as living on my own, being in Toronto, intellectual leisure, and being regarded by a significant minority as a "hot chick." (No, I can't figure out why either.)

So there's good & there's bad. I think it's important to look critically at everything, 'cause I have a tendency towards gloomy nostalgia. But maybe the Lawyer's right when he tells me I think too much entirely.

"I read too much. I thought we should kill ourselves. She doesn't read a thing, she believed me. Are you really the Messiah? Yes I am. Believe it."

- the hip

October 29, 1997.

I really shouldn't talk to my ex so late at night, because I invariably dream about him. Last night I dreamed that we'd fallen asleep in this big double bed. When we woke up, he was kissing me...then the dream moved on. Great way to start a day, huh?

The funny thing is, the Japanese poetry I've been studying directly informs on this situation. Listen:

Did you come to me
because I dropped off to sleep
tormented by love?
If I had known I dreamed,
I would not have awakened.

Since encountering
my beloved as I dozed,
I have come to feel
that it is dreams, not real life,
on which I can pin my hopes.

- Ono no Komachi

Except for the fact that he isn't my beloved (any more), and I wasn't tormented by passion, it's pretty accurate. Well, maybe less accurate than close to the romantic ideal that I constantly work towards. Or something.

Felt very lucid in my 3 English classes today. Especially in my Victorian Fiction, where I usually doze off or write notes to Tiger Lily. For some reason, I was really getting into the religious symbolism of Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Like, essay writing excited. Weird, huh?

This lucidity seems to have spilled over into my practical writing, too, as I was able to almost finish my Poppy Brite piece for the Varsity. This is what I miss most of all this year: writing recreationally for campus rags. I'm seriously thinking about quitting now. We'll see...by Monday I should have my Art test back, & that'll be the deciding factor. I'm not letting myself off the hook this time-I don't have time for 6 courses & 18 hours of work a week. I'm here to enjoy academia, dammit.

And if that's selfish, well then I guess I'm just a selfish bitch. Naaa. :P

October 28, 1997.

"I wanna live...I wanna love...but it's a long, hard road outta hell..."

- marilyn manson

I just spent 2 freakin' hours on the phone. First, catching up with Sister Sunshine, and secondly conversing with Mr. Blonde. I didn't intend to spend so long talking to my ex...I just wanted to say the word "pleather," laugh, and hang up. This hearkens back to many giggling conversations we had in the past about silly-sounding words. (You can find "pleather" in the Victoria's Secret catalogue, BTW.)

Ok, so he's not as much of a jerk as he has been in the past. Sometimes I think that this is just a really difficult period for us, like the ones where we fought every day, and that we'll snap out of this one, too. Problem being that he no longer loves me. This whole idea is inexplicable to me, because I can't figure out how I'm different right now than I was a year ago. A little bit more bitter, a little bit more wary, and a little less tolerant of bull-shit...I think that's it.

Rrrr. Love sucks. I can't understand why anyone would ever love me...and why they would stop.

Man, that was depressing.

Here's something else that's under my skin. I took a dive on that Eastern Classics mid-term. Here's the worst part: 5 1/2 out of 10 on the essay. On the essay!! For an English major, this is the ultimate shame.

Perhaps I should take my father up on that idea he's recently proposed, that I quit and let him give me the money. I'm certainly not getting everything I could out of this academic year. And I'm not really enjoying myself, either. I just wish I hadn't fucked my schedule up to allow shifts. I could be in a really cool Victorian fiction class now taught by a Cockney, instead of with my current professor, world's quietest man.

We'll see how my essay comes back tomorrow...that and the art mid-term. Those 2 will be the deciding factors in the "should I stay or should I go" debate.

October 27, 1997.

"The more I give to you...the more I die!"

- nine inch nails

What a day.

It started out so badly, and for such silly reasons. The causal chain goes like this: Thursday I went out drinking thus Friday I was too hung over to go to my morning classes, so I re-set my alarm for 11:30 (although I was too sick to sleep) Saturday I went home for the weekend to study, and I left my window open, 'cause it gets a bit stuffy in my tiny room. It snowed both days, thus my room was a freezer upon my return, thus I wore a lot of clothing to bed, thus my sleep was very sound, in fact too sound to realize that I'd never set back my alarm from Friday, thus I slept through my 2 morning classes.

Thus, I suck.

But other than that, that day's gone ok. My art history test was hard, but I know that I passed, and I'm pretty sure I nailed some of the slides..."Saturn devouring his children" by Goya, "Napoleon Seated on his Imperial Throne" by Ingres, "Monument to Agnes Cromwell" by Flaxman...etc. There was a bunch of last minute cramming that seems to have helped, although I also enjoyed taking a 1/2 hour off to go for tea with the Lawyer, to relax & integrate. I would've liked to write on David & Goya, but that wasn't to be.

I think that this party was a turning point for me, as they so often are. I want to be a Fun Attractive Woman, like the ones at the party (that's their title). I still lack an emotional centre, so I'm orbiting around a vacuum (I don't know if one can orbit around a vacuum, and I don't care). I don't want to do it any more. There's no point in making life any worse than it's already doomed to be by dragging around like one dead.

Well, must go...I have to get up early for that double shift at the Cinnabun. *wink* (We all saw that sketch on SNL, right? Right.)

October 26, 1997.

Oh, tomorrow is just going to suck.

I've been studying for my Art History mid-term since last night, and I've got a real bad feeling about the outcome. I think that the test will be very objective...and memorizing the title, artist, date & significance of about 200 slides just doesn't play to my strengths. My only hope is to ace the essay part. I'm much better at synthesizing movements than memorizing dates.

It doesn't help that I know for sure that the Lawyer's going to kick my ass on this one.

It's inevitable. This is what he does: he aces stuff. I kind of half-heartedly stumble along, propelled by big ideas and vague factual recollections, which doesn't get me the best of results. But I'm doing okay. My university average is 72%, which isn't great, but I'm in a very competitive university. We're all a bunch of over-achieving nerds...except for the commerce majors, who are well-dressed over-achieving nerds.

I was actually going to be a commerce major for Hallowe'en...but I was defeated by the cost of the props. Expensive, dark clothing, leather agenda in one hand, car keys in the other. Sunglasses. Lots of hairspray & dramatic (but not extreme) makeup. The best part would be telling people why I was respectable-looking. But I think the fun would end there.

Went to church this morning. Man, they never give you enough time during the quiet meditation to really talk to God. I always get cut off by the minister.

I've got a kind of weird relationship to God. I'm a believer, but it's not at the forefront of my consciousness most of the time. I'm also a smart-ass in church, a habit I picked up from my mother, and which scandalizes Palaver whenever we go to see Preacher. I like to converse with God rather informally, as a way of getting my head straight, but I usually don't do it out of church.

The one major exception was the day before I went crazy last year. God & I had a long chat about my emotions...and then they took over & wrecked my life. Perhaps there's something to the Greek idea that madness is a manifestation of the divine. Thus, I prayed for help, and was granted divine inspiration. And went bonkers. And drank a lot. In that order.

October 25, 1997.

I ended up going to the UC Jaymore after all. I'm glad I stuck around, for truly it was the party to end all parties. I was up dancing 'til 4 am-the girl who hasn't gotten a decent night's sleep since the night before Goth Day. That's how amazing it was. I wasn't raucously inebriated, as I was at the Alpha Sigma Sigma kegger. Actually, I was barely drinking at all. I don't think I'm up for that kind of punishment the night after Preacher's birthday bash.

But still. One thing that you can be sure of: the lads at the Upper Canada Jaymore ("where all the amenities of life & love can be yours") know how to throw a fucking good bash. I'm becoming more & more convinced that the Lawyer has perfect taste. Not perfect habits of taste, as in he likes everything that I do, but perfect taste in that he enjoys quality regardless of source. Take music: he loves Neil Young, Led Zepplin & Bob Marley, but he didn't duck out of my birthday party in a goth club. (I can't say that I would've had a good time if we'd gone to a techno place for a similar reason, 'cause I'm a bit too terrritorial in my cultural habits). I think that he defines "charming impartiality" in the matter of taste grudge matches. There's also the stunning fact that every friend he's ever introduced to me has been great. There's not a single exception. To borrow a phrase from Preacher, he's just a big slice of good guy.

And all this funneled down into the ultimate good time last night. A fine time was had by all-even me, miserable sulky bee-otch that I am.

Speaking of miserable sulky bee-otches...(just kidding!)

See, I'm in trouble again. I've never been emailed such obscenities. It's kind of interesting. All I'm gonna say about the damn thing is this: there are only 3 reasons to read this diary if you know me in real life:

1. you love me dearly, and are genuinely interested in what makes me tick (and what makes me start wailing like a banshee)
2. you hate me bitterly, and are looking for inside information on my deranged obsessions so that you can mock me from the safety of your terminal
3. you neither love me nor hate me; but you find my prose so captivating that you can't break away.

I have to assume that reason #3 is not motivating as many as I'd like it to. So we have to fall back on 1 and 2. If you can still love me after reading this on a daily basis, I think you're fabulous, and I'd like to buy you dinner. If you hate me, ok. Fine. But I tend to think that because you have to actively seek out this work, that you have the option of going the fuck away again.

As Poet pointed out this morning, cartoons will tell you something profound: "The truth hurts, but not as much as being hit in the head with a coconut."

(Was that a far-away conking sound? I thought so...)

October 24, 1997.

I feel like 7 different flavours of zombie right now.

Yes, last night went relatively well. Yes, there was a lot of drinking to be done, but I'm proud of the way we rolled up our sleeves and set to the task at hand. There were songs to be sung, jokes to be made, dances to be danced, and well-wishes to well-wish.

So why do I feel like shit now? I don't just mean physically, although that's a big part. I only got 5 1/2 hours of sleep last night, after a truly punishing night on my liver. I guess that's the vehicle for the depression. But I also feel a trifle cheated. I've been looking forward to this party for a long time, but I can't trust myself not to make a scene if I go to the Upper Canada Jaymore tonight. I've tried going to parties with Mr. Blonde. Remember? By the end of the night, I'd burst into tears, pissed off all my old friends, depressed the righteous fuck out of Mr. Blonde (and everyone within earshot), and managed to give people the impression that I was after their man.

I'm just impaled on the horns of this issue, I guess. Horn 1: my honest desire to be nice & sweet & perfect so that Mr. Blonde will love me again, and I won't have to be so goddamned lonely all the time. This is how I acted during the "hiatus." I was a goddamed angel by anyone's standards.

But just when I get nice & impaled on that particular horn, I feel another prick at my back (no pun intended). This is Horn 2: the new character of Mr. Blonde which has manifested itself since last spring. He's a jerk to me, plain & simple. I shouldn't want to be with someone who not only doesn't love me, but doesn't even think I'm worth the effort to be nice.

I never thought I was the kind of girl to be drawn in by this anti-feminist, anti-human being bullshit. I feel like I'm one step away from those women who marry imprisoned serial killers, because they see something in them that they want to nurture.

This fucking sucks.

October 23, 1997.

"Unearned unhappiness / Well, that's all right, I guess....
This should cheer you up for sure / See, I've got your old ID and you're all dressed up like the Cure."

- ben folds five

Well, Goth Day went well, as did my interview with the esteemed Ms. Brite. No, I don't think I'll be posting the interview transcript yet (not that I've finished typing it up!) Although I will remark that she was very sympathetic to my Bell woes ($103 on my last phone bill, with no long distance...anybody else think I'm being sodomized by a monopoly here? And all those little green plastic houses hurt...)

As for Goth Day, the main part of it was spent stalking around & fixing makeup. Dinner was an interesting production, to say the least. At about 5pm, Aphrodite, Jenni & I stalked into Fung, bearing candles (many in liquor bottles), a stereo, multiple goth CDs & tapes, and a banner festooned with black symbols of goth culture, including several smeary lipstick prints. Lit candles, a Sisters of Mercy tape and lots of black clothing...what more could a gothette ask for? Or a university student in the most secular college on campus, for that matter?

But it was also Preacher's birthday yesterday (he turned 12...just kidding.) Which is why I found myself eating an excellent Greek meal at midnight, still wearing too much makeup. Didn't realize what a kid I still am until last night...I'm dressed up like Hallowe'en, Preacher & Palaver are ordering adult-food (red wine & coffee), and I can't even join in superficially 'cause I hate that shit.

Last night we also determined why Palaver & I shall never wed. Suffice it to say, that it had to do with an incident in Trainspotting. No, not heroin...

Well, I should go. There's still a powerful lot of drinking ahead of me tonight. We have to celebrate Preacher's birthday in the style to which he has become accustomed (i.e. shit-faced). He deserves no less. And it's also probably going to be my last night out until my Art History test, since I've received covert word that Mr. Blonde shall be showing up to Lawyer's party on Friday. I'm just not in the mood for emotion right now (decode that paradox, if you will!)

October 21, 1997.

So yesterday I received the hallowed number of one of my gothic heroines...called to arrange the interview time...actually SPOKE to Ms. Brite (who has the coolest Southern accent, being from N.C. and all) and traded phone #'s and email addresses. Tried not to act like an ass. It helps, not actually seeing her, I think. There's less adrenaline...although still a powerful rush involved in actually saying "can I speak to Poppy, please?" to her husband Chris. And getting email from her, of course *smug smile*.

We've tentatively scheduled the interview for tomorrow afternoon (Goth Day, that is). I just hope the questions don't come out as dumb as they did on paper. She's actually already committed to a Canadian show "Big Time" on that day (a show that I've never heard of). She said that they claimed to be really popular-I responded, rather sassily, "well, they would." (hmm..."sassy" = "rather snarky", now that I think about it!)

My relationship with the Varsity just fuckin' rocks. I get cool stuff for free, I get to socialize & work with some of my popidols, and I don't have to suffer through the crappy "important" interviews like Sister Sunshine does. In the past week, she's interviewed Rocketman (the star of that Disney film) and Atom Egoyan (critically acclaimed Canadian film-maker), and had to make coherent prose from both of them. Yuk. I much prefer my "have gun-will travel" situation to real journalism. Which is why I suppose I'll never turn pro. I've met some pro entertainment writers-they have a lean & hungry look. No thanks.

Something I've neglected to mention, is that my friend the Rev has posted a new song of mine on his own page, the Wilderness. Actually, I should plug Cranly while I'm here, 'cause he had poetry up there before I did. Full points for poetic atmosphere...you should check it out!

That's it for now. I've been exhausted all day long, and I have a bunch of reading to do before I sleep. Ta!

October 19, 1997.

It's power hour, and Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" is battling the Knack's "My Sharona" for dominance. I live in a wonderful, wonderful world.

After weeks of being too busy to do anything social (especially during the week, which seems to be when my friends most want to be social) I have a weekend to fuck around with & enjoy. We all know that I got drunk on Friday (which prompted the rather incoherent entry of that date), but what, pray tell, did I do yesterday? What was so important that I couldn't write an entry in this journal?

Well, after 2 straight years of telling myself that I was going to make time, I actually had enough free time to go see a Reg Hartt presentation.

(For those who have never lived in the Toronto area, Reg Hartt is a demented ex-hippie who shows unusual & hard-to-find films to about 30 people in his living room. That is, before they kicked him out of his house on Bathurst 2 years back. Now he rents an unheated concrete bunker-like building which gets full points for ambiance. During the year, he puts on presentations of some whacked out stuff-there's the "Surrealist Anarchist Film Festival," and the "Vampire Film Festival" which includes a rare as hell copy of Nosferatu (possibly the last uncut one in existence). There's his regular showing of "Metropolis," and then there's what we attended last night-"The Sex & Violence Cartoon Festival."

(Reg also makes a point of ranting for an unpremeditated length of time before every performance. And you do not want to catcall-according to rumor, he responded to some girl by screaming, "You want to see the show?!! I AM the show!!" and kicked her out before the reels began. Ok. End of long explanatory digression.)

The theme being censorship, Reg also showed us some shorts that were less on the sex n' violence side, and more on the downright offensive side. There was the Warner Brothers short, "Coal Black and the Seben Dwarves." Imagine a fairytale with every blackface stereotype of the 30's, and you've just about got it. It didn't even stop there-the "hunters" that the Wicked Witch called up to off Snow White (a very sexy little lady, BTW) drove a black can with the following legend emblazoned on the side: "Murder Inc.-Anyone: $1. Midgets: half price. Japs: free."

Then there was the Lenny Bruce-narrated short where the Lone Ranger requests Tonto from the grateful townspeople, so that he can perform "an unnatural act." This was actually LESS offensive now that it must've been when it was produced-and damned funny stuff.

And finally, there were 2 Bugs Bunny shorts that never get shown anymore-"The Rabbit of Seville" and the one where he dresses up like a woman in order to get 2 hillbillies to beat the crap out of each other (I don't remember what it was called). Sheer, unadulterated genius, the both of 'em. That Bugs Bunny, what a sophisticated trickster.

As you can tell, I had a great time. The sex & violence was great, and I enjoyed the freedom of the whole show. Free speech-what a weird concept.

Obligatory CanCon:

Apparently, Al of Nova Notes is depressed because almost no one knows who Robertson Davies is. Maybe in Nashville, Al, but Davies is required high-school reading here in Ontario. He always sold well nationally, too-proving that he was popular outside the narrow confines of literary criticism. That's the funny thing about Canadian novelists-the critically acclaimed ones also have large popular followings. Margaret Atwood (who also attended my university), Michael Ondaatje, Anne Michaels...you can always see people on the subway reading their latest books.

Did I mention that Mr. Davies was a member of the staff in my university? He died in my first year, and although I didn't make the funeral, we all talked about him in Fung that day, mostly about how good "Fifth Business" is compared to other required Canadian readings (Margaret Laurence-yuk).

So I don't find that depressing at all, now that you mention it.

October 17, 1997.

Woah. I'm a tad more fucked up that I thought I was upon leaving Ein.stein's.

I discovered tonight that I have absolutely nothing to talk about with Poet. I don't know why we still get together. Auld Lang Syne, I suppose. He once said that there was a point at the beginning of every relationship where there was nothing to say, because you don't know anything about the other person. And that there's a point in the relationship when you've used up every word anyway, and there's nothing left.

I know that tonight didn't have anything to do with either categories, and it makes me wonder about my own motives for pushing social contact with Poet.

Heard a Big Sugar song tonight that powerfully reminded me of my bus ride through the UK this spring. "Joe Louis." And that reminded me of the hopeful spirits in which I traveled through the Isles: I'm healing! I'm getting better! I'll be able to mend the gap between me and Mr. Blonde!

And then I returned to Canada, and he wasted no time in dumping me.

Charming.

In other news, I am distressing the fabric of the dreaming as far away as North Carolina. the Gus has reported that I am appearing in his subconscious, purely through the power of my comment that my pink sundress "...shows off my bra to such good advantage."

At least I'm wearing one. Commando week is next week, you know.

October 16, 1997.

Oh...

I was cruelly cruelly tortured today at dinner. Chicken fingers, a.k.a. the only good meal that Fung EVER serves was on today. But not 1 hour after eating the delicious fingers, I was struck with gastronomical tortures the intensity of which hasn't been seen since the days of the Spanish Inquisition.

I guess I just didn't expect it. But no-one does.

So I'm going to keep this real short, since I've been a tad under the weather ever since I dragged my weary, hung-over carcass to Gra...my job (whew. That was a close one!) Actually, nothing much happened today. I felt ill, I bailed on Aaron, and I vegetated in front of the MTV Video Awards. Man, there is no reason on God's green earth that Nine Inch Nails "Perfect Drug" video shouldn't have won the top prize. To borrow a phrase from Aphrodite down the hall, I nearly creamed my jeans the only 2 time that I've been able to catch it. What can I say, I like Edgar Allen Poe fictons.

Good thing res-wide Goth Day has been postponed to Wednesday. I'm not up to The Fishnets & The Dress in this state of mind. Which makes me think that it's time to wrap up this entry & sink into black-clad oblivion.

October 15, 1997.

Yesterday at work some guy refused to buy a purple folder, because he thought it would make him "look like a fairy" ("not that there's anything wrong with that!" he quickly assured me.) He settled on a black folder-although perhaps I should've pointed out that those who carried those folders were often stereotyped as pretentious poetry-reading people who enjoyed listening to the Cure.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Umm. Yeah. I went out and got drunk tonight to celebrate finishing an essay and writing my Eastern Classics Midterm. I didn't really allow myself to become super-hosed (despite the consumption of a tasty stein of Grasshopper) because Palaver and Preacher were really depressed, and I felt it incumbent upon me to maintain some semblance of sobriety just in case they wanted to talk seriously. There's nothing worse than unburdening yourself to someone, I mean really pouring out your heart & soul, and having them forget the gist of the conversation by the next day.

"All I want is to be with you again/All I want is to hold you like a dog..."

I don't get this whole unrequited love thing. You'd think that affection would be welcomed in a world as cold and hostile as this one. But simply wanting to comfort and caress someone isn't enough.

I've seen this played out around me again and again, and I've wondered. I've felt the pangs of unrequited love & tried to figure out why I couldn't offer love as a gift, why the immediate reaction is to reject tenderness if it comes from an unknown quarter.

Poet once said that all men are skittish, because you're supposed to run away when someone chases you. But how do you know when the other would like to be caught?

I think that's enough vague ramblings for one night. I'm on the verge of becoming as depressed as my companions-and I was the most cheerful tonight. Go fig.

October 14, 1997.

And sometimes we would spend the night just rolling about on the floor.
And I remember ever though it felt soft at the time, I always used to wake up sore..."

- the cure

I am really exhausted.

From nervous last minute cramming, to a half-hour lecture on tales of the Tang dynasty, to a midterm exam that I was really not that well prepared for, to paying the res office $10 for a new meal card (my classiest one yet, and I fuckin' lost it!), to a horrible lunch at fung, to working for 5 1/2 hours, to microwaving chicken to writing an essay due tomorrow...yuk.

Fucking chicken company. It's supposed to be "fun" chicken nuggets, slogan being "if kids could cook!" No microwave directions, tho'. (I don't think that even if, by some weird fluke, my kids can cook, that I'll let them use the deep fryer. Anyway.) Thus I had to approximate the cooking time.

Now let us digress into a brief dip into my rather nervous psyche: I'm a bit leery of salmonella. Not as much as I'm afraid of ghosts or spiders nesting in my mouth while I'm asleep or someone pushing me in front of an on-coming subway train, but afraid nonetheless. I figured that 10 minutes on maximum power would kill any lingering microbes.

Ha. I guess that's why the call it 'nuked.'

Little salty hockey pucks. Probably how a kid's meal would turn out if they could cook, now that I think about it...

...Which leads nicely into today's diary collab topic: "Invite 10 people to a dinner party; who are they, and why have you invited them? What do you serve for dinner?"

I think that I'll just restrict myself to celebs, just to avoid the politics of deciding which of my meatspace friends should be included. First would be the authors: Spider Robinson, Poppy Brite, Stephen Fry, Leonard Cohen, and Neil Gaiman; then the musicians: Tom Waits, Johnette Napolitano, Gordie Johnson and Tori Amos; and then Susan Sarandon just for good measure.

Let's see, that's, umm...6 boys and 4 girls. Not quite an ideal gender balance, but I think it might work. Johnette and Poppy and Susan as the strong artistic chicks doing strong artistic chick stuff. Gordie as the sexist blues element (not to mention the babe element!). Neil and Tori as the obligatory Sandman quotient. Stephen and Leonard as the sarcastic wit. Spider as the garrulous friendly guy who can talk to anyone. Tom Waits-because he's Tom Waits, fer God's sake.

What to serve? I'd make it pot luck, of course...nobody wants me near the stove with my track record!

October 13, 1997.

I just spent the last 2 hours trying semi-desperately to memorize the names of major Chinese poets and the traditions & dynasties in which they worked, from about 6th century BC to the 13th century AD. I thought that this course would make me well-rounded. Now I just have the cold certainty that I've made a big mistake. All my other courses are built on the premise that even if I forgo the readings for a few weeks, I can use my basic knowledge of literature (or art history) to bullshit my way through lectures, quizzes, and casual conversation.

But I knew almost nothing about ancient Chinese culture until 5 weeks ago. Actually, what I knew could be summarized as follows: there's this big country with all these dynasties and they've had culture for a lot longer than we have. Also, Poet once wrote a very long email which explained that the superiority of the Taoist philosophy was the reason that he wasn't doing the dishes. Oh, and God In An Alcove & Mr. Shoreleave put on a presentation about the Chinese gods in OAC Literature class for our comparative mythology unit. At least, I think it was the Chinese pantheon - I spent a lot of energy in that class worrying about getting into university, writing notes to Mr. Blonde, thinking about the yearbook I was co-editing, and trying not to hack up a lung (I caught bronchitis that year).

Which basically translates into the simple fact that I have no background of bullshit to tide me over. I'm just screwed.

I guess I basically have to trust in the kindness of my instructor, who really is a good guy, all things considered. He stressed that integration was the important thing, not dates & dynasties. But I really shouldn't have put this off till tonight - I've had the essay question for a week now.

Oh well. Story of my life. Give me a week, and I'll play on my computer for days & days...

October 11, 1997.

It's a beautiful beautiful day - perfect Thanksgiving weather, unlike so many years, when you stare at the oppressive clouds and complain. I don't know why it's easier to be grateful & humble when the weather is peachy. Perhaps I should've paid more attention to the Book of Job.

It's hard not to be uplifted, tho'. Clear blue skies, golden leaves, & bracing gusts of wind (tho' not too bracing!) in my favorite city in the world. It's kind of sad that most of my friends have returned home for the holidays, and are missing such neat days.

I realize that I've been going on and on about the weather in the last couple of days, but I can't help it. My mood is often formed by the weather, and I'm storing up all of the pleasantness for the really bad slate of cold weather that's coming in the next 6 1/2 months. Not that I'd want to live anywhere else, I hasten to add - but the wind-tunnel on Bay Street is absolutely horrifying in the dead of winter. Altho' it's kind of neat to feel like a tough coureurs-de-bois when Cranly's American friends come up for a visit.

"Cab? You want to take a CAB to 89?!? It's not even cold, ya pansy!" (This is almost an exact transcription of my response to Cranly's friend Dave. I never said I wasn't a bitch.)

Went over to the Upper Canada Jaymore (their own pseudonym) this morning to watch the Tick with the Lawyer and his roommates. I was, of course still in my pj's. I mean, what's the point of watching Saturday morning cartoons if you're not in your jammies? Of course, I took a shower before I donned my wine-coloured silky pjs and walked to the UC Jaymore (thru Spadina on market day, I might add). It's funny how a girl in shiny pj's can walk through the heart of the downtown, and not elicit comment from the locals (not that I'm not a local, but you know what I mean). I did plan my route to avoid the homeless men's shelter, tho' so perhaps I cut off my best fund of commentary right there. Who knows?

Poor Heather! One of the Lawyer's friends had slept over at the UCJ last night, and when she returned to her home, she was greeted by a large heap of burnt possessions on the front lawn and the pervasive smell of barbecue coming from the house itself. She thought it was a practical joke - until she saw how the second floor had been gutted.

She came back to the UCJ, and we all changed into sweat-ware to help her salvage whatever we could. I've never been in a burnt up house before. You can see the sky through the roof of all of the upstairs rooms. Everything is covered in soot and water. One of the cats is dead, and another hasn't been found. One room-the room where the fire started-is completely devastated. Half the ceiling is gone, most of the drywall has been burnt away, and the only two pieces of furniture are charcoal-humps. Perversely, the sunbeams on the ruined dresser was one of the most starkly beautiful things that I've ever seen.

It's also one of the most awful monuments I've ever seen to the transience of life. It's just so easy for things to fall apart. I can't imagine how Heather must feel - she left for 1 night, and now she doesn't have a home to return to.

Über-thanks to my own personal font fairy for emailing me "Reznor" & "Anti-Christ Superstar," and motivating me to get off my ass & create a logo for the main page. You can see "Reznor" in the logo for my song "collar (or: i listen to too much nine inch nails)". Neat, huh? My renovations are piecemeal, just like they always are, but maybe I'll have a nice diary page by the 1st snow fall. That is, if all my deadlines magically disappear.

Finally, One Overwhelming Reason Why My Life Doesn't Suck:

I've been playing phone tag with the Meredith, the publicity lady from Simon & Schuster for the past week, trying to set up an interview with Poppy for the Courtney Love bio. Get this: Meredith's gonna clear a slot with Poppy, and then she'll hand me POPPY'S HOME PHONE NUMBER to do the interview.

Jesus, Mary & Joseph. My phone book, filled with the social detritus of more then 10 years of Brampton living, is about to contain the New Orleans number of one of my favorite authors. I feel so over-awed.

Palaver also pointed out that if I make a good impression on her, we'll be able to crash in the living room for this spring's Mardi Gras. Hmm. I'm good, but I don't think I'm that good. But we can always dream, hmm?

October 9, 1997.

Oh-I-am-so-tired. I was/am braindead. Why oh why does my head feel like it is filled with cotton?

2 things: early early morning & the annual Fung "Harvest Dinner." Turkey is the evilest food - it tastes soo good, but makes me feel like sleeping for 1000 years. Do you think some prince will come to my 3rd floor room & wake me up? No, neither do I.

Sister Sunshine & I had a long chat about our love lives. I think I've identified my major problem: I'm socially passive. For one reason or another (usually guilt & lip-service to the Protestant work ethic) I find it had to pursue the people that I want to be friends with.

I didn't always used to be like this. In highschool I was much more confident calling up people & chatting the whole night away. But now, it seems that a death-like pallor has fallen over my social instincts. I feel guilty when I go after what I want, because I don't think I deserve it.

Funny. I can recall telling Poet that he had the exact same problem, not even a year ago. Perhaps if I could remember what words of comfort & advice I offered him, I could stop my tailspin.

One of the things I love about Sister Sunshine is her imagination. She always joins me in my flights of silliness. Like tonight, when I was imagining an illicit tryst between her & Aslan, mostly to tease her about her interest in him.

It would take place in my room, since she lives at home & he has 4 roommates. Thee would be a trip next morning to the drycleaners with my sheets, since I only have one set (hey, the life of the college student, what can I say?). Neither of them being able to keep their hands off the other. And then the next day at work would be like that Looney Tunes cartoon: "Mornin' Ralph. Mornin' Sam." As if nothing had happened.

Sooo romantic, don't you think? Oh well. Youth is wasted on the young, or so they say. But I say that sleep is wasted on the sleeping, and I'd like to go do something about that..

October 8, 1997.

It has been one long stretch of nice weather here in southern Ontario. I can't frigging believe how beautiful the past week has been. I was able to wear my low-cut pink sundress on Monday - the one that shows off my bra to such good advantage, as Jenni pointed out. It was kind of a curious day - for the past 3 summers, I've worn dresses almost everyday, so I've come to associate sundresses with getting up real early, mind-numbing paper ape jobs, and a complete lack of social life. Yet, on Monday I wore one of my most blatantly summery dresses to the very social afternoon tea. And now I'm wearing my overall shorts. Fun stuff.

What I really can't get over, tho', is that it's still temperate enough to allow a cross-breeze through my room. My neighbors across the hall also have their window-and-door cranked open, so that the breeze goes all the way through my wing. And we get to play competingly loud albums at each other. I like to stick with the classics of obnoxiousness - and Marilyn Manson fits the bill admirably. They like to counter with Beastie Boys, Elton John, and Oasis (retch!) It's so noisy & friendly this year in res - unlike any of my previous years here. More like a typical res than the usual sedate, conservative Whitney Hall. I like it. I think.

But what's best about the sun & wind, is that I can sit in my windowsill and read and look longingly at the path below, every once in awhile. It's my Lady of Shalott act. It's kind of neat that an incurable lonely romantic like myself has such a Romantic vantage point, where I can watch the rugby players in the field below, not to mention the middle-aged shirtless joggers. If that isn't romantic, I don't know WHAT is!

Jay's recent discussion of a loud, pseudo-obscene conversation in Denny's struck a particular chord with me. Sometimes I have difficulty remembering to modulate my voice in public. Sometimes I forget that not everyone finds a graphic discussion of sex as funny as my companions and I do. I swear to God, we chased away the waiter at the Golden Griddle 2 weeks ago (or so he claims...)

It all stems from the relentless curiosity of my co-worker Charity. She's like a six year old sometimes, with her total innocence of concepts like 'polite society.' Which is how I ended up drawing dirty looks from a nearby whitetrash couple during my rather loud discussion of my...uh...my biblical knowledge. Yeah. That's it. Almost sounds virtuous, eh?

My ex has been tomcatting around with some of the U of T crowd last week. The funny thing is that people are omitting to mention his presence when they tell me about last Wednesday's gathering at the Dump on Dupont, because they think that I'd flip. But what makes me want to flip, is the idea of hiding stuff from me. Not that I have time to socialize anyway. Well, I would, if I could just stay awake longer & take a bigger chunk out of my readings. I'm so behind at this point that it's almost horrifying. This is why I stayed away from most stuff last week.

Oh well. What I lacked in social life last week has mutated into a very nice grade on the essay outline I handed in last Monday. 5 out of 5. Neat-o, especially considering that this is my first art class. I wonder how Elizabeth & the Lawyer did on their outline. Is it poor form to brag to your friends? Or is that only my sense of femininity rearing its pink-barretted head?

Well, goodnight. I chucked the last half-hour of class tonight so that I could retire to bed early with a few books, and perhaps be in a better mood at 7 am tomorrow morning. One would hope, because I certainly couldn't feel worse. Perhaps I should just close my eyes & think of Aslan...

October 7, 1997.

Last night was a rather charming departure from responsibility, rather than my usual guilt-ridden duck-and-run. Palaver came over to watch "This Hour Has 22 Minutes" (a wickedly funny Canadian political satire), but was thwarted. One of the problems in living communally, is that occasionally you have to give up the TV. Not that I watch much TV anyway. My habits are pretty much reduced to The Simpsons during the week and whatever somebody else is watching when I'm at home.

There used to be the biggest cult of the Simpsons in my first year. Unless it was a particularly bad rerun, the common room was pretty much filled for the early evening syndication slots. Not to mention the obscene amount of people who would gather for the new episode on Sunday nights. It was in this year that I learned most of the catch-phrases and in-jokes that I rely upon as conversation when out with my Angels. It's almost a ritual.

For instance, one night in December of last year, there was a party at the home of Poet, Wallace, and their 3 roommates. For reasons that are a bit too complicated to get into, Poet and I stayed up all night in each other's company. By 7am, we were hung-over, tired as hell, and still slightly tipsy. And we could not stop talking in the accent of Captain MacAllastair ("Arrr...I hate the sea and everything in it.") It took me 2 days to shake the lingering effects of that night out of my speaking voice.

Speaking of speaking, I have been told by Palaver's roommate that I sound like him. I am a bit unnerved. Palaver has such a distinctive rhythm to his speech, tho' I only know this intellectually. I'm too used to it at this point to be objective. My only explanation is that it must have been caused by the amount of time we spent together this summer. And I tend to be a bit of a mocking-bird, sometimes. A few days ago, I caught myself using the same vowel sounds that are in Aslan's Newfoundland accent, after listening to him tell a 15-minute snowboarding war story.

But I've wandered rather far from my original point, which was simply an account of last night's drinking expedition with 2/3's of my Angels. Oh well. My digressions were probably more witty than the original anecdotes would've been.

Crowley: an angel who did not so much fall, as saunter vaguely downwards...

- Good Omens, Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett

October 5, 1997.

Man, those nights at home have had such a good effect on my research this weekend. Instead of squeezing my work in between parties, meals & late mornings, I've had hours & hours to think about my topic. Too bad the essay isn't due for almost 2 months. I suppose that I could write the paper now & refine it for weeks. I probably won't end up doing that, tho'. Just because there's a little delinquent inside me that refuses to let any act of duty be performed unchallenged.

I can picture her now - a miniature chick on my shoulder. Scraggly, dyed red hair held up by evil looking clips. Black tank top. Emerald green bra straps. Army fatigue cut-offs. A back-pack with several prominent NIN patches. Piercing. Tattoos. And a sneer.

"Oh, so you're going to be a good little girl & let them tell you when to think, huh? Maybe if you're really good, they'll let you do what you really want in 20 years or so."

It's all the buried surly reactions that I never quite outgrew. It's the knee-jerk resistance to authority. It's stupid, and I'm just shooting myself in the foot. But even knowing all this, I'm still going to work against my own best interests this time, just like I always do. And you all can watch me. Fun stuff, no?

On a considerably less introspective note, we had a staff meeting at work today. There's 3 hours of my life that I'll never get back. I took a tip from Sister Sunshine, and spent the duration covertly staring at Aslan, while pretending to concentrate on the agenda. God - he has the most perfect mouth that I've ever seen in my life. It's almost angelic. And his eyes aren't bad either.

It's not like I needed to pay attention to the meeting, anyway. It was basically a bunch of platitudes & clichés designed to motivate us in customer service. Ha. What a joke. Palaver visited me for about 45 minutes last Friday, and he was offered help by every single employee (about 7, all told.) We're really hyper about "the human touch." I can't think of any legal way that we could improve service. That line in "Reservoir Dogs" keeps occurring to me: "What would be really special service - take you in the back & suck your dick?!"

Cutomer satisfaction is job one. Indeed.

October 4, 1997.

It's kind of funny how people will insist upon honesty, but become defensive when honesty is actually given to them. Sometimes discretion is the better part of friendship. The only person I was ever completely honest with was Mr. Blonde. For 3 years, he knew everything about me. But he loved me anyway.

It's Saturday night. I'm by myself. I did not chose this, but there it is. It makes me feel awfully sorry for myself.

Yes, I have been listening to the Cure. Sue me.

10:15 on a Saturday night
and the tap drips under the street light
and I'm sitting in the kitchen sink
and the tap drips,
drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip

Waiting for the telephone to ring
and I'm wondering where she's been
and I'm crying for yesterday
and the tap drips,
drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip

it's always the same...

I just realized tonight that I have a bunch of articles online from last year's issues of the Varsity. I can't quite find the energy to make a separate page to archive them for the Library, which would be the proper thing to do. So right now they're all caught behind a labyrinth of frames, which means that I can't give you direct links.

But if you're feeling bored & want to go read some review articles that I wrote last year, you need to go here and then do a search for my name. Five articles should come up - reviews of "Great Books" by David Denby, "Gammer Gurton's Needle" (a restoration play performed locally last winter), CDs of Age of Electric & L7 under the heading of "Rec Room," and a letter to the editor about my Gammer review which calls my credentials (and possibly my parentage) into question. Don't click on the "Thanks" listing - it's just a list of all the 1996-97 contributors.

Oh, and there's not one, not two, but three CD reviews from last Tuesday's issue, which I think you can still access here In the Potatobug one, I even quote Jay's recent comment on Sonic Youth. Which almost makes it look like I'm doing research when I'm just fucking around on the Net. Slick, eh?

Of course, the best article I wrote last year isn't archived online (not yet). Right at the beginning of last year, I wrote, in longhand, an opinion piece for the gender column of Victoria College's paper; The Strand. The title was "How to bring men to their knees (or cry cry cry cry cry...)." I believe that I've mentioned this article before. It got me booted out of the Gargoyle (the University College paper) and right into the journalistic dreams of a certain young writer who shall remain nameless. Hoo ha.

I really should scan the dern thing & prove, once & for all, that I am a man-hating, ball-busting, right-wing virago. Or something.

October 3, 1997.

Well, to the surprise of many (not to mention myself), I have returned to Brampton on the partying-est night of the week. Why? Responsibility. Yuck. I have some research to do this weekend, and I find it a lot easier to leave the U of T area, where approx. 300 students are vying for the same materials. Not to mention the frustrating way resources are spread out around campus. Here, I can go to one library where all the staff knows me, research in peace, maybe get some fines erased, go home, surf the net for relevant periodicals, and then return to T.O. for S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y...Night!

Sorry 'bout that. I tend to get a bit excited at the prospect of social outings. Although I was out Tuesday & Wednesday nights, I feel like I've been holed up with my readings forever. I haven't gotten used to the idea that this year, Poet has other things to do. I also miss Preacher & Palaver. Although we've seen each other a few times this week, I miss the sort of quality drinking time which so frequently called me away from responsibility's sober grip last year. Now I huddle at home with my readings & write.

Wow. I'm such a hermit. I should get really good marks this term...either that, or I'm going to waste a lot of time working on the Aerie. I wrote a new poem today...perhaps this is the first example of things which keep me away from school work. It was a fun little jaunt...all about riding the subway. And because it was just a lark, I purposefully made it as phallic as possible. Which means that I doubt I'll post it. Not a quality work...but a fun one all the same.

I'm going off to catch upon some sleep. Let's keep our fingers crossed that tomorrow night's entry will be substantially more upbeat, and (dare I say it?) inebriated.

You know what? I don't really like drinking. I just realized how often I talk about it, and how misleading it would be to someone who doesn't really know me. I use drinking as a means to a social end. It allows me to bond with some difficult guys (i.e. - my Angels) but that's pretty much as far as it goes. I drink to be accepted. I don't know if it casts more doubt on me, or the people with whom I want to be accepted.

Maybe it's time to give up the sauce. I'm serious. Maybe it's time to act a little more dignified & reserved. Hmmm. I'll think about it tomorrow, while I'm paging through books on art history. Cheers!

Before I go, here's ten things that I love, in no particular order: UK accents. Candles. Bass players. That stupid look on my brother's face when he's in the middle of turning a really clumsy fall into a work of art. The moon. Sister Sunshine's strut. Close-to-sleep voices. The Simpsons. My fishnets. Diet Coke.

October 2, 1997.

I'm soooo tired...

I was doin' real good on Tuesday. That evening I was able to catch my fave female performer in solo concert, not to mention meeting her for the 2nd time at a local radio station interview. Yup, you guessed it - Johnette Napolitano hit town this week, and put on a fabulous performance. You may remember the entry when I bought the tickets from my personal goth hero, God In An Alcove. And as soon as I get my film developed, I should be able to post some pics from the radio session. Choice stuff. She's so beautiful.

If there are any other hard-core Johnette Napolitano/Concrete Blonde fans out there, I wrote a long concert review for the Concrete Blonde mailing list, which Dean Mah has posted here, on his thorough CB home page. But I think that this is the last word I have to say about it in the diary until the pictures go up. The first time I met her, I thought that my head would simply explode from joy. But Tuesday I was just highly pleased...but I still acted like a goofball. Ohmm, when don't I?!

Aphrodite has been using my convenient PC to check her email, something that she has avoided doing since the day before Valentine's Day. Yes, 2 days after I went crazy. And her mailbox is flooded. Over 250 messages, and 90% of them are from Poet. No, that's not a dig. It's not hyperbole. It's just a fact.

It's kind of weird to see her eliminate all the messages that I obsessed over, often without even reading them for herself. It's a bit like a lapsed Christian watching an atheist systematically burn the Bible, book by book. The other weird thing is that I think some of my own recent messages from Poet have disappeared down the virtual hole. I could've sworn that he wrote me yesterday...but where's the damn messages? Oh well.

I've been musing on the split within the loose grouping of qualities that describe the things I am attracted to in guys. (man, that was an awkward sentence!) This was probably prompted by Meghan's latest entry, wherein she lists 50 things which will turn her to putty. I tried to make up my own list, but then I realized that I was often listing polar opposites.

I blame it on my mother. Y'see, she socialized me to idolize 2 very different kinds of men: the babe & the intellectual. She taught me that there's no shame in spending time with a brain-dead pretty boy if he's surpassingly attractive (so many goths fall into this category!), but there is also no shame in falling for an intelligent, urbane guy who doesn't look like he could get a job in the "exact change" toll booth lane.

The unfortunate thing is that so often wit & beauty are mutually exclusive. It's like setting up a blind date for those girlfriends that you try to sell on the basis of "personality." Nobody wants personality. Except me. I'll forgive a lot of bad fashion sense if they can recite Chaucer without sounding like a goon (yes, I'm aware that the proper accent almost guarantees one sounding like a goon. I can't help it if Middle English turns me on!)

(Hmmm...maybe I should cut out all this suggestive stuff in future...what will the parents of my friends think?)

All original material is copyright Tisiphone. That's right! Me!

Talk to the Queen of the Harpies.