Special Clive Memorial Tribute

Clive the Fancy Rat, a cream colored terror from the mean pet stores of Montreal, came into my life almost three years ago. He was accompanied by his brother Vincent, who later died of repiratory disease. He was a distinguished animal, watching me survive a manic episode, and finally crossing the country to be here with me in Vancouver. He had to disguise himself as a hamster to be allowed onto the plane. When not battling the discrimination and stigma of being a rat, he enjoyed nothing more than to clean his owner's ears, poop, and eat headphones and books.

His bad ass reputation began with a series of confrontations with other animals, including cats, Golden Retrievers, and an attacking chinchilla, which was soon seen scampering away with Clive in hot pursuit, mouth full of fur.

While all these acts of petty assaults seemed amusing enough, things came to a head in 2004 when he devoured the miniature hamster of some friends who were rat sitting him, a grisly incident which left him with nary a scratch.

He survived a near euthanization when the vets decided he was going to live, even though he had an awful absess, and an SPCA worker chased me down the street to come back and get him.

Clive mellowed with old age, and never attacked the many mice which roamed the apartment. On the few occasions I fell asleep and left him out, he always went to the same garbage bag to curl up in and sleep.

Bon voyage Clive, and put in a good word for me.

Trauma T.V.

Did any of you watch CSI and ER last night? Holy crap. I have never felt so traumatized, oh well, except for that night I was waiting in a friend's place for their unwanted roommate breaking in. Yeah, that wasn't very fun. But jeez, the stories last night. My friend told me that Quentin Tarantino had directed CSI. You could tell. For one thing they buried Nick alive in a box, and fire ants started to eat him alive. Poor Nick. Bad things always happen to Nick. Yeah, so then ER starts, and a whole party house falls like the World Trade center collapse. Totally freaky.

Then my friend had the nerve to suggest watching House of Wax, and I was just full of trauma. I didn't want any more.

It's a fascinating phenomenon to see how much we as a culture like watching traumatic stories. I mean, how many prime time slots are filled with stories of crime? Law and Order (SVU, CI, etc.), CSI (NY, Miami), Cold Case, and a few others. And sometimes they are on every night! It's wacky. It's like we're fulfilling some primal need to scare ourselves. Even when I think about my reading choices, murder mysteries. I mean, how grisly.

Doing a'ight

I'm pretty proud of myself these days. I've been feeling more and more competent, and having had some more or less steady work has made me feel better about myself, oddly enough. I'm scheduled for a job interview at a post production facility tomorrow, which is really exciting. If I get the job I'll be an Avid DS Operator. Fancy fancy! I'm glad to be working again, mostly because I need to get out of a huge debt load. I really hope I get the job, because editing is something I love so much. And it would be a good opportunity to see how feature films are edited, as opposed to the short projects I have worked on. Besides that, it would be nice to have a job in a field I was trained in.

Yep, life after film school is okay. I'm so glad I went back and finished my degree.

A State of Grace

Nobody every paints the Virgin Mary changing Jesus' s diaper.

Recently I was on the bus, without my trusty ipod since Clive ate my new headphones and I stepped on my old ones, which had only been working on one side. Anyway, a small child was behind me, at the age when their voices are really high pitched. It was just squealing and hurting my ears, and I was like "Dear God, how do parents put up with that?" And I thought about creativity, and states of grace.

I'm in a pretty creative period in my life after a very long bleak stretch of nothingness. There's a feeling that happens in the middle of a creative process. Suddenly things become very clear, and for myself anyway, I always enter a state of rapture. I just stare and I'm somewhere else, floating in the clear air, like when you find the right notes to play. There's this hum that shoots right through me, it doesn't last very long, maybe fifteen minutes at the most. It's a state of grace.

And I just wonder, since there is some connection between parenting and creation of any kind, is there a state of grace in child rearing?

If you look at all those paintings of the Virgin Mary, she was totally grooving on something. She's a one woman ad campagin for motherhood that one. I mean, who can compare with the Mother of God.

I feel conflicted these days about the prospects of motherhood. I'm not sure about bringing a person into the world who has a really good chance of inheriting a life-long chronic illness that could drive them to suicide. On the other hand, that's what the Nazi's were all about, stomping out bipolars in a big drive to purify the genetics of the race. And there are really good things in my genes too, it's not all bad. Ah whatever.

Weird.

Total Overhaul

The other night I had a great conversation with my friend Robin (hi Robin!) about our respective call centre jobs and why in the world people would choose such a way to make a meager living. She pointed out that basically the reason people do work such as ours is to live a double life, doing something else you're passionnate about yet for some reason doesn't pay the bills.

It's true that in the past few days I've been a working stiff again, I've been having more and more time to think about the feature film script I've been doggedly working on for the past two years. I think I have finally had a breakthrough on it. I've realized that certain elements which were there in the beginning have kind of petered out, such as a sub plot about a dead brother. At the same time a much stronger theme of the effects of living in poverty has manifested itself in a much more interesting way. I've discovered that the past two years of writing has really been workshopping my characters, and that I need to do a total overhaul of my script to make it have more of a structure, as well as paring away the various sub plots which are needlessly taking away from the main story. It's pretty humbling to realize that of fifty-five pages I have written so far, I will probably only be keeping thirty pages or less in the final draft. Such is the life of a writer.

At the same time, ideas are starting to sparkle and shine again, which is great. I've been in a bit of a writers block, probably because I went back to school for a year, and that took up my intellectual headspace. But now I am freed, ironically enough, by a job that I don't have to take home with me. While it's sad to not be working in my field of expertise, at the same time I'd much rather devote my creative energies to my own projects.

Whenever people ask me what I'm working on and I say a feature film script, I can almost always feel the internal eye rolling. I suppose it does sound kind of pretentious or something. The kind of project someone could embark upon and never complete, yet gives them some kind of weird cachet. In truth, sometimes I have nearly thrown in the towel. I sit to write and my characters get grumpy and don't want to say anything, sometimes I have a brilliant idea but "reality" says I shouldn't write it that way. Mostly my struggle has been getting this little feature to have a stronger direction and message, while it has thus far prefered to meander in aimless conversations between characters.

But I'm finally optimistic. I'm going to try and set a deadline for myself so I can take it to some scriptwriting workshops and hone it even more. I refuse to rush a final draft just so I can say I wrote a feature. I want to be able to say "Hey, I wrote, directed, and edited a really important feature," and have it be something I can be proud of. One of the things I'm liking the most is that even though it's tackling some really quite dark material, it's still pretty comedic. Even though I do love creating quite dramatic serious work, my first love is and always has been comedy with a political message.

So call centre work's not so bad when exciting scenes from an unborn film are running through your mind.

Time seems to be seeping

Okay, I know how hokey this may sound, an aboriginal talking about her dreams and what it means. But I'm telling you, I think time is slipping backwards into my dreams. For the past year, and with increasing frequency, I've been dreaming things before they happen. Strange things. Like the tsunami. I had a dream about being in a building with a tsunami rushing in. And then two months later it happened. But now I'm getting more and more little snippets of the future, really vague simple stuff. Nothing like "The world will end at two pm and I will be eating a pink donut!" But stuff like this pipe, a sort of sherlock holmes pipe, then the next two days I saw the exact pipe in two different television shows.

Time is a funny entity. It loops, it can split off into two or more timelines, it can go backwards and forwards. I would really like to experiment more with time in my films.

In my dreams at least, future images are showing up like clues. So bizarre. And I keep falling asleep at regular hours. How weird is that?

Work is aggreeing with me so far, I'm remembering how to do it. First day, I'll get better. I just wish people weren't so hostile.

Hmm, why are we so hostile to strangers doing a job? And to strangers who can't find a job. You can't win, someone's going to be mean to you no matter what you do.

Meeses!

I caught a mouse today, in a pink plastic cellophane bag from Ruebenesque, a store for fat ladies where my mom bought me a fancy shirt-thingy. It was eating popcorn from Kernels, Double Hit, freaking mouse, I wanted to eat that. It was cowering in the bottom of the bag so I picked it up, went downstairs, and set it free in the alley. It darted across the street, attracting the attention of a bored kitty cat. Last I saw the cat was in hot pursuit under a fence. I doubt very much the mouse lived. It kind of defeated the purpose of setting it free. Oh well.

My graduation ceremony went well, I didn't do a prat fall on the stage or anything. And I even got to graduate with some of my old art school buddies. That was nice. Sally Potter, the director of Orlando, was there getting a honourary doctorate of letters. Afterwards my mom spotted her leaving and pushed me in her direction so I could tell her how much I liked her work. She was very gracious. I always feel so nervous around famous folks, because they probably face that all the time. Who knows though, I have limited experience with fame. Oprah's not exactly banging down my door wanting to see what the views of a halfbreed leather dyke video/performance artist are. Not that I mind terribly, I'm shy. I'd probably pee my pants in front of a live studio audience.

Peeeee!

They'd think it was some sick NEA funded statement.

So now I officially hold a BFA with a major in Film/Video. I must admit, it's pretty cool to think my studies are behind me. But at the same time, there's the challenge to remain a practicing artist while juggling work, and learning how to keep making work without all the support offered in school. It's strange. And even as that's closing off to me, there's also more opportunities, like being able to apply for grants again.

Back to the drawing board

I've been offered my old job back. It's kind of funny, to end up back where I was. At least it's in an air conditioned building now, before it was brutal working there in the summer. So I guess I'll take it, I need the cash. And I'm going to keep looking for work, a coffee shop would be nice. Editing would be REALLY nice. Whew, life after school is weird so far. I'll get used to it. At least I'll be making money again. I start working on Monday. I already know their computer system well, so hopping back on the phones won't be too bad. It's just temporary, while they need the staff. That's fine by me, as long as I can get another job in time.
Anyway, aside from that I'm just hanging out with my ma, goofing off. Soon it will come to an end. But I sure am glad to know I'm not going to struggle to find a job soon.

The long day

Today I drove with my mom and a friend out to Merritt to pick up my stuff. Merritt is my Dogville. I lived there for four months during adolecence and left being totally crazy. Oh, nobody said I was crazy, but I was, crazy. Add to that the fact that my only outlet was at the shooting range, and watching Star Trek: The Next Generation, and Lampchop's Playhouse, before Lambchop died. I was going to pull a Columbine if we'd stayed, I was being bullied and sexually harrassed that much. Maybe that's why years later when Columbine did happen, I thought "Hasn't this already happened?"
Anyway, bad memories, BUT my stuff was there from when I left Vancouver. It's been shuffled around the country staying in different relative's basements or storage areas. And now I finally have it all! Opening the boxes was like christmas. It probably sounds really materialistic. But most of my stuff are books, videotapes, film, and items of personal sentiment. Like the Marvin the Martian figurine my mom gave me. Oh, and diaries. Tons of diaries. I've kept diaries since I was thirteen. Some people burn theirs. I don't want to burn mine. They're kind of useful for me to remember where I was at specific points in time. And who I was.
Anyway, me and my things are reunited after a very long day. Hurrah! I feel somewhat more normal, I haven't had my stuff in years. Now I just have to fit it somewhere.

I am a bad rat mom

This morning I woke up, looked around all groggy, and then realized that Clive's cage door was open. He was not inside. I remembered falling asleep while he was crawling around. He was no where on the bed, and my apartment is still quite a bit messy. Added to this the sudden realization that there was Warfarin in the apartment for the mice.
I was in a state of distress when I found him curled up, happily sleeping in a garbage bag. Rats will be rats, after all. I picked him up and kissed him and said "I'll never lose you again!"
He's such an old rat, I'm amazed at his determination to keep living. It's inspiring.

And when I don't speak . . .

I spent time with my family today, which was so lovely and wonderful, except for the dangling participle that became involved, and things got very ugly. My family are such sticklers for proper english. Maybe that's why I don't often speak.

It's true, some of you may have wondered about my tendency to not say much of anything from time to time. The real reason is because I am crazy. But aside from that, since all I've ever known is shyness, I'm pretty used to my cycles of speaking/not speaking. I have noticed the following interesting trends:

I can speak with up to three other people around. Four or more are out.
I can't speak to anyone I think is really grand.
I can email people, but that's not really speaking is it?
I can often be coaxed to speak if given food or pot. Actually, that last part was a lie, I just wanted to see if you'd give me pot to make me say something.
When manic I can speak to anyone, including seven strangers in a bar in Saskatoon one holiday night, and I was so talkative and friendly that soon the whole bar was chatty and someone even trusted me with their hundred dollar bill to go get change.
(I did come back, I was crazy, not evil)
I often find it difficult to think of things to talk about that aren't going to freak people out. There is a stringent process new friends have to go through during which you can figure out where the boundaries are.
Confessions are my chocolate, I love hearing other people's dirty secrets.
Ghost stories are also useful at getting my interest.
One on one conversing is usually the best way to talk to me, IF I am not in a weird environment, which I can sometimes be found in, where disco lights are spinning and there's some naked girl on a stage, or almost naked, and everyone's pushing and horny. Yeah, so that basically cancels out talking to me at a bar or an event. Also I don't often tell people, but I have poor hearing and it's just not the best environment for me. Yep, little disability heads up to you all.
Filmmakers talking shop, come on, sooooooo sexy! I love those gatherings,like in film school when we were accumulating a debt and learning on equipment older than ourselves. (It has all changed since my days there already, they have a decent number of computers. Although I am sad to see the Steenbecks go.)
I will sometimes interject a conversation with an off kilter comment in the hopes of being able to converse. One time I was at a barbecue of some people I had only gotten to know a short time. It was a nice sunny day, we drank Pims, someone was talking about how they fed McDonalds to people in jail. I said "Oh yes, my babysitter used to go to jail all the time, she said they gave you McDonalds for every meal. It was disgusting, she hated McDonalds."
"What did she go to jail for?"
"She stabbed her boyfriend."
A curious silence ensued.

Really though, I am chatty when I'm in the mood. I guess Virginia Woolfe was right, manic depressives are cameleons.

Take a chance on Me

Last night I downloaded as much Abba as possible. I am now listening to Waterloo. I love that song.
"How could I ever refuse? I feel like I win when I lose!"
My mother bought me some kicky new shoes for my birthday, they are lime green and ultra cute.
Finishing school has left me feeling somewhat bewildered. I need to figure out some crucial things about my life, like how I plan to make a living, how I can finish this script so I can get funding, looking into further training programs in directing (ie Sundance), and then some more personal issues related to my own health up-keep. It's all really startling, almost as weird as graduating from high school, but not as shocking. I mean, then I had to move out on my own.
It is a funny thing, moving out on your own. I survived on pizza by the slice for the first year, and lived in a one room apartment in a dodgy neighborhood. Once there was spilled blood and coffee at the bus stop. I was lonely most of my first year.
Then I ended up living with some leather girls and much fun ensued. Fetish parties, poppers, floggings, stories of dirty adventures, ecstacy, I was a bad ass.
I dare not do ecstacy again because of my medications. The mushroom trip to the hospital was quite enough thank you. But I like being around people on e, all that hugging. It can feel pretty religious, just loving everyone for who they are.
I hope I can find a nice job that isn't soul shredding. It would be great to get work as an editor, because I love editing! WHO KNOWS!

I beg pardon?

My mother and grandparents have arrived, which has left me feeling a bit bewildered by the sudden entrance of relatives into my proximity and the old habit patterns which remain. I really don't know how to relate to my relatives the way I can to my friends.
Or it was because I forgot some pills last night. My bad.
But I really think it was the Secret Talk I got after dinner with my family. My mother had been watching me like a hawk all day, and then she leaned in and said, "Your grandparents and I want to talk to you about something."
Oh shit, I thought, I'm crazy and I haven't noticed, and now she's going to send me to the bin again, and god knows what that would provoke-
"We think you pee too much."
"WHAT!?"
"You're only supposed to pee eight times a day. You should really go see a doctor about that. They have medication for it now."
Yes, so now my mother wants me to throw another medication into my cocktail for peeing. PEEING!
There's a comic by Natalie Dee which relates:
I Quit
See more of her daily comics at:
www.nataliedee.com

The bubbles have melted.

I bought a mint Aero bar for my birthday breakfast and I left it in my pocket. The bubbles have melted. It is a chocolate and mint paste.
I'm displeased.

Googly Eyes

I googled her. She googled me. They googled him. He's gone googly. Ah, Google, it's one of my all time favorite things, to google. Especially googling people. Recently I googled an ex girlfriend under Images and found a picture of her name on a tombstone, which I promptly emailed to her.
People have told me they googled me, which always makes me feel weird, kind of like the time I found a friend's webcam site and got trapped in the popups. I tried so hard to shut the windows, but no, they kept coming.
Anyway, whew, that took me back.
I'm glad I have medication.
Well, today is my birthday. The Dali Lama once said that every birthday is really a celebration of your coming death, so celebrate I must. I have some money in my pocket and cigarettes and a small crowd of good friends, going out dancing wearing a sexy outfit, looking for spankings from girls. It's going to be great fun. Every birthday I try to think if I've learned anything over the year. I mean, life lessons, not just what I learned at Emily Carr.
I shall have to ponder while I clean for the mice exterminators.

Nearly there . . .

I met with the prof of the class I was really concerned about passing. We actually had a really good meeting. She told me my attendance was appalling, and I knew that to be true. In fact, it's the worst attendance I've had ever. But she liked my paper, and was even going to keep it for future students to read. That was really great, because I had felt like my paper was so shitty while I wrote it. I guess I was hard on myself. Anyway, basically all it means is that I'm graduating! Yippee!

We also talked about grad school, and she asked why I wanted to go, and told me now the marks they want are 3.5 GPA's, and mine is hovering at a meager 2.974. But she said I could get into grad school if I made a larger body of work, and making my feature will really help. So, looks like that's the plan.

Back to Bunnyhug. It will be really nice to write my script again. I like living in a fantasy world part of the time, I guess that's why I'm an artist. And slowly my characters are starting to develop lives of their own. I'm also really happy about my script right now because a stronger structure is coming into form, whereas before I had really started writing blindly. Anyway, the deadline for the Sundance Screenwriters Lab is coming up in February, so I'm going to submit my script and see if they'll take me.

Wow, so soon I will walk across the stage and get a degree. It seemed like it would never happen.

A Salute to James Dean

In continuation with my recollections of adolescence, I thought it would be wise to mention James Dean.

See, I was a nerd, and queer, and crazy, and I didn't really have a life. Oh there was that naughty escapade with the bisexual witches in grade twelve, and the rave scene I was in, and making videos that went to queer film fests all over the world, but before all that life was pretty grim. Watching music videos, playing video games, reading bell hooks. pimply nerd girl stuff. And I needed some kind of outlet, and it came in the form of the movies.

The movies was where I could dream about who I wanted to be and who I wanted to be with, it was it's own magic world. I was all about finding queer subtext. I mean, I was sticking deep complicated meanings on these movies based on my identity and gender. My two icons were Marilyn Monroe and James Dean.

Ironically my favorite diner in Saskatoon where I whiled away much of my youth is absolutely PLASTERED with James Dean/Marilyn Monroe memorabilia and photos.

I think I wanted to fuck Marilyn, but I was also watching her, trying to figure out femininity. I wasn't around uber femmes in my life, all my cousins my age were boys. It also made me really want to try out smoking. Fuck, she smokes a lot.

But James Dean appealed to me. Later I would find out it was a gay/lesbian attraction. But what I liked so much was his vulnerable masculinity. I wanted to BE James Dean. He was my role model for masculinity.

I don't know where it went wrong.

Do you suppose it's the bunnyhug?

Hazing Parker Posey

I was recently thinking about the scene in Dazed and Confused where Parker Posey hazes all the freshman girls. There is something about the scene which makes it totally hot. Squirting condiments all over other younger teenage girls. I dunno, I always wanted to interact with the older hot teen girls when I was younger, but I had no idea how to do it. And there was this element of hazing. At my high school select girls were attacked with bingo dabbers all over their face. And it stayed for a really long time. I never got hazed. I didn't want to either. I was going through my angry bleak and cynical year and was just about to realize I was a homo. I wore long hair to hide the growingly obvious fact that I was a butch dyke heading into four years of high school in Saskatchewan.

What mean grim times my friend! It was about a mile from my house to the school, and I walked there rain or shine or snow. Sometimes it was minus 60 with the windchill. I was steadily working my way through the Vampire Chronicles and being very dark and troubled about it all.

Realizing I was a queer was the weirdest experience, next to going to the bin. It's moments like that when your life totally changes. I stopped being so bleak and dark, sort of. I started being less afraid of people. And more afraid, but for different reasons.

I have often wondered if there is a hazing procedure for the queer community. I think I know what it is.

Queer youth groups.

Now I have a soft spot for my youth group days. I did it for five years, in three different cities. And to be totally honest, I always went hoping to score. I had grand dreams for queer youth groups. I went imagining it would be lead by a Parker Posey look-alike who would demonstrate fisting to us, or something else worthwhile. Knitting, even. Instead it was circle check. Man, everybody telling us how their week was, or something. And terrible things would be happening to everyone. Like live coverage of the war stories of trying to find your way as a queer in the world. So sad. I think it made us all crazy.

And then we'd all go out after. Usually to that place with the really great fries.

The second part was where all the fun came in, because people would gossip and flirt. But somehow we had to endure the circle check. Even if someone was still talking after half an hour.

I still know a lot of ex-youth group people. So in a sense it did serve it's purpose as a social bonding experience.

Oh noooo, red pen!

I am editing my final draft of my paper and my red pen has disappeared! I think the mouse took it.

Blue Bunnyhug

I was on the bus today when a creepy eerie thing happened. I guess I have been reflecting lately on turning twenty-seven in less than a week and what I've learned since I was seventeen. How I got more accepting and compassionate for those around me, and also just thinking of all the shit I've been through to get to where I am today. All those years with the wrong diagnoses, all the bad marks on my transcript from when I would go crazy. Anyway, I was wondering if I really am so mature, or if I'm still seventeen.

Then I got on the bus with my friend and these teenage girls who were Paris Hilton wannabes were tittering and making me feel awkward. And sitting next to me was a girl their age, probably from the same school, who looked like the girl from Welcome to the Dollhouse. I hope they didn't make her feel weird. I remember being at the mercy of mean girly girls.

Paris Hilton scares me. And Britney Spears. I've seen whole hordes of Britney Spearses, hey, how do you say Britney Spears plural? Britney Speari? Anyway, hordes, like a biblical plague of locusts, descending on everyone, sprinkling perfume samples amidst the holy rollers that picket in front of the Virgin Megastore. You Will Burn in Hell! But on the way, be sure to purchase our new scent "Capitalist Beauty Queen."

Really though, I love femmes. There is only one thing I would like to change about dating femmes; buying clothes. There is something about it, I dunno, it's a bit like taking your medicine. You know it's a good idea, femmes have a flair for picking out things that make you look good, especially if they groove on butch vibe. However this could go wrong if you're shopping with a femme who secretly wants to make you over into a girly girl for a night. But ooooh, it takes so freaking long to pick something. I go out shopping, I'm like "Blue bunnyhug." And I hunt through all the stores on Granville street and usually it's at the Bay and I pay my money and I have my blue bunnyhug for the year. Or I buy jeans. That's pretty much it for clothes shopping, that's all I want to do. And I wear my blue bunnyhugs pretty much all day year round, so that's it for fashion.

It's because I am a bachelor. A blue bunnyhug wearing bachelor.

For those of you not in the know, bunnyhug is Saskatchewan for a hoodie.

Clean and Beautiful

I am going to a reception full of funders tonight. I'm taking my friend with me. I said we needed to dress up. She asked how.
"You know, clean and beautiful."
I have to write my paper and the mess in here had totally become thouroughly disgusting, especially with the mouse getting bold. I had to set some boundaries. And there were some flies getting interested, oh it was awful. So I hauled out all the garbage. A mouse had been living in my garbage. Now it's still a disaster zone, but cluttered more than anything. And I have a lot more energy. I think I was seriously depressed and I didn't even know it. I mean, I must have been to sleep so much and not clean as well. I forgot how good it feels to clean. So much more room! And now that mouse will go away.
My name used to be Mouse.
I've just always loved rodents.
But I hate maggots. And I thank heavens that I didn't see any on my cleaning spree.
Oooh, but there's still the fridge.
I'm just glad I'm not a public hazard site anymore. I like my rat, but I got him at a pet store.
Clive's gettin old, he doesn't use his back legs as well. I hope he doesn't pull a Pope and die a long drawn out death. He's so old. I'm going to have to make a decision sometime this summer I fear.
I got some more clean and beautiful preparations to make.

I have a secret. . . .

I have a dirty fantasy in my head set to "School's Out for Summer" by Alice Cooper. It's the sexiest idea I've had in ages. It's as dirty as my dishes, and believe me, that's as dirty as it gets.

Burning Down the House

Maybe I'm playing psychiatrist, but I've recently noted a bizarre fixation/fear with the idea of all my possessions going up in smoke, burning our lovely building. I've often wondered if this obsession is some OCD symptoms coming up that hasn't been previously diagnosed.

So you can imagine it was a shock for me to come home to four fire trucks pulling into the front of my building, along with a stray City TV news van, two ambulances, and one police car. I was so sure it had happened, my apartment was a flaming wreck, goodbye computer, goodbye clothes, goodbye mice, goodbye Clive. Roasted alive so sad. And then I see my friend from down the hall. Turns out it was some guy burning things on his stove, and firemen kept going in and out of the building because he wouldn't let them in.

Crisis averted.

But what a mean trick for the universe to play on anxiety-ridden me.

Dissed-ability

Having a psychiatric disability is a little confusing at times. I got accommodations at school for my sudden decent into craziness brought on by some stress, but it has made me feel all weird. I'm really glad I got it, I don't think I would be able to graduate if I hadn't. But I was so scared to ask for it, so humiliated by the fact that my illness has once again inturrupted my life.

But as I think about it, what am I so ashamed of? Is it being bipolar? Not being able to be grand master student? I think sometimes people with disabilities (and not necessarily psychiatric ones) are made to feel guilty about the things we need to get through the world.

I will not feel guilty for being crazy. Whew.

Graduation is coming up fast, May 7 I will be walking up onto a stage in front of thousands of eciad students and family/friends that I don't know. And mum will be there. And I'll get to grab my degree and hang out with mom and I want to drag her off to see The Interpreter with Nicole Kidman. Mmmm, Nicole Kidman, I wish she still had red hair. Her Moulin Rouge hair was the best.

I still can't quite believe that I'm finishing my bachelor's degree finally! Maybe I'll get to stop being a bachelor soon. Although I've grown tragically accustomed to the bachelor lifestyle.

Scary Models

Ever since watching America's Next Top Model's, models have scared me. Especially that one with the dark hair, eeee, she's like a villian out of a Jacqueline Susann novel. And when Tyra Banks flipped out the other night, I mean holy shit. So dramatic!

And then living your life as a model, ugh, I always think of the movie Gia. Poor queer model.

It's kind of sad that all my knowledge of the modeling industry is mediated, I don't have any first hand knowledge. And anyway, there's not a huge demand for fat butch models. Unless there's a niche market. I guess there probably is, but I doubt I could make any kind of a living at it.

America's Next Fat Butch: Thirteen chubby butches compete for the chance to star as a mechanic in a lesbian porn calendar.

It would be so lovely. I should enlist my other fat butch friends and make a porn calendar.

Ahhh, bipolar!

Some days I really hate being crazy. Today is a perfect case in point. I felt too hugely fucked up to go to school, even though I had a presentation due. Too much of a mess. My paper is still not done and I'm still tired. Last night I got so wired up, my hands were shaking, it was a terrible sight. I don't really have that much work to do on my paper. But my anxiety went through the roof. I've never been so freaked out.

That's a lie, I've been freaked out way worse than that. I love conspiracy theories, but when you think you're living in one, it totally sucks.

Anyway, this leads me to the debate around how to explain to my professor that my bipolar disorder is acting up and could she please give me an extension and another day to present? I mean, bipolar is such a weird illness to have. In the first place, it's all in your brain, and no one looks at your brain on a daily basis unless you are in some kind of medical testing facility. In the second place, it makes really simple daily things seem insurmountable at times. And it's really hard to communicate to people why those things get so difficult.

Plus living with it is like being super sensitive, emotions get cranked up, depressions are like being buried alive, mania's like riding shooting stars. And somewhere in between is this place called normal. How do we ever attain the goal of normality?

Reasons to be paranoid

This is just getting really sad.

Cramps

I have cramps. I don't know why they are here. It's not even the first day of my period anymore and I am crampy, and it makes me crabby.

It seems the aliens were interested in the Pope's funeral, they did a little fly by. One of my friends thinks it's a good thing, a little inter-galactic gesture of goodwill.

So I finally heard back about my grad application. I didn't get in. Which is good and bad. On one hand it gives me the chance to work on some more projects and not be in school trying to do them, including the big feature I am still plugging away on. On the other hand now my future financial situation is a little bleak, much like my puberty. However trying to live on the meager funds my reserve gives me for going to school has been totally taxing on me, I can't remember being so poor. So maybe being out of school will make things a little easier.

I still have to write a paper and then I'm pretty much done.

Now I just have to find a job. Sigh, I really hope someplace decent is hiring, like Chapters. I could work in a bookstore. That would be nice.

Just please, no more call centres!

Near Death Experiences

I have never had a near death experience, although I have had the wind knocked out of me. I'm doing some homework and listening to my favorite radio program, Coast to Coast AM. It's not on the air in Montreal, one of the reasons I didn't like living there. It's a super crazy program, sometimes they talk about earthquakes, sometimes ghosts, sometimes aliens, remote viewing, all kinds of things that I like.

Tonight the topic is near death experiences.

I hope there's something after we all die. It seems like such a shame for someone to gather so much life experience and then just die and have all that disappear with them. Plus I don't like the idea of never getting to see someone again.

I hope there is an after life for rats. If there is, I know Nikolas is there, waiting for me.

Nikolas was the best rat in the entire world. He was my best friend for the majority of my art school experience. I got him when he was just a little baby, a fussy triangle face and climbing all over me danging off my glasses. He liked to steal my food, once he got away with an entire pie. He would also dance on my feet until I picked him up and carried him around. He hated granny smith apples, once I gave him a whole bunch and he just flung them out of his bowl, all stubborn. He was also the victim of two unfortunate meetings with candle flames, totally singeing his whiskers.

One he tried to eat my thai food, but it was too spicy and he started licking the carpet trying to get the taste out of his mouth.

He also gave dirty looks to my lover any time we had sex in front of him.

I hope to see him again, I know he'll be dancing at my feet, asking if I brought him a pie. His death devastated me. He was pretty special, no other rat has charmed me so completely. I used to sing Hey Nicky you're so fine to him.

Feelin' Wibbly

Some of you may be curious to know about today's long awaited psych evaluation. I went to the neighborhood mental health team with my list of relatively minor complaints, but in the interests of staving off a manic episode and effectively destroying my chances at graduating this year, I thought it best to be as honest as possible. Yeah, I can't go to sleep until three or four am, and then I can't wake up until two pm. I'm bummed out, stressed out, and then once in a while I feel myself start to soar like a paper kite in the wind. Just feeling wibbly moods.

While I was there two people were carted away to the nuthouse by cops and paramedics. I didn't see it happen, I left before the shit went down, but the ambulances were patiently waiting outside, two more mental casualties of downtown eastside living. I was kind of glad not to see it, because I knew it would totally bring on flashbacks of my own pitiful cop escort to the bin.

I didn't get a psychiatrist, because they say their services are primarily for people who can't look after themselves. However I did get a new medication regime, now I'm on 1500mg Epival, 5mg Zyprexa, and 20mg Celexa. The Celexa is new, although I've been on it in the past. It's worked relatively well, except for making me as disinterested in my own genitals as I am in non-politically relevant art. But who knows, maybe that side effect won't happen.

I have to say I have a remarkably zen approach to my drug cocktail these days, I even had a good chuckle at the side effect profile of Celexa. "Coffee-ground" vomit, erections lasting more than four hours, lactation, black stools. I had a friend who started lactating on one of her meds, she called it her geysers of plenty. Once one of my girlfriends accused me of lactating in her mouth spontaneously. I still don't know if I really did.

I've been assaulted with breast milk!

The doc was impressed with my recall of the many and varied psych drugs I've been on in the past five years or so. I remembered which made me manic, which made me anxious, what stopped working.

Paxil is an evil mofo to get off of, by the way. Withdrawals from Paxil have been compared to the illness experienced by heroin addicts trying to get clean. It really does a number on your body. I remember shaking and quivering and getting auditory hallucinations that sounded like a big truck wooshing by going clunk clunk clunk. I would run to my friends house to get emergency paxil to tide me over until I could go to the doctor again. And by that time it had stopped working!

But I remember when it first worked for me, and I looked at the little flowering plants and admired their tiny lives.

I think there is a two tiered system for crazy folk. One for the people who lead reasonably sucessful lives, and another for people who can't take care of themselves. But what about folks stuck in the middle? I guess I am still trying to find my place in this crazy world.

School Screams!

Primal end of semester/end of bachelor's degree screams: "Aaaaah! Ahhhhrhrhhghgrr! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Eeeeeeeeeghhlhbla! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!"

In other words, I have a shitload of work to do. But I'm happy, because today I wrote a seven page summary of my research for my Professional Practices class, which I am supposed to present tomorrow morning bright and early. I even have a few good websites to show the class along with my presentation, which is nice. It's not powerpoint, but dammit it's something.

One thing that troubles me, however, is that I need to write 5000 words. That is a lot of words. I hate it when profs say "write such and such many words." Why not simply say "Write fifteen pages, double spaced, twelve point font." Who knows.

I've had three requests for my videos in the last two days. It's kind of nice. And so far I've been getting positive feedback for my zine, Fit of Pique, at least from the three friends I gave it out to. It's a nice thing to read when you're sitting on the toilet, pooping out your eyes. (read the last post if you don't get it)

Aside from that, I am feeling like my career is chugging along again, I think it went into remission when I flipped out.

I recently re-read an article about Clint Star and his untimely suicide. It made me feel sad. The art community sure does lose a lot of our colleagues to suicide. I wonder what we could be doing in our community to prevent things like this from happening.

Go check out this funny dubbed GI Joe. "You ain't no pimp, dude!"

Filling the blank computer snow

Why am I writing so much? Could it be hypergraphia, the need to write constantly? No, I'm just in the middle of doing research and creative writing gives me a bit of a rest. Actually, it's late, I should quit while I'm ahead. I got a lot of work done today, considering I got stoned and watched Robocop while dyeing my friend's hair. I hadn't seen that movie in years. That big robot that shoots up that guy scares me, I mean the giant robot, not Robocop. What a freakin intense boy film. We should have watched something funnier.

I'm tired, but wired, the worst kind of feeling to have this late at night. I think sitting at a computer screen does something to your body. Kinda poops out your eyes.

That's a really weird image, now that I think of it, someone pooping out eyes. Sounds like something Bataille would write.

Eye poops, is there no dignity?

You, you're Uninvited

My short film Anhedonia is screening at this year's Uninvited Film Festival in Paris. Ah, Paris. I would kind of like to go. I haven't been to Paris in ages, and I wonder if I would like it more going there without a broken heart. It's such a great city to walk around in, not to mention the sheer plethora of art that is exhibited there. Last time I went the Pompidou was in mass renovations, so I didn't get to see it. I did, however, get to see the Louvre. I remember seeing this great sculpture of an intersexed person, I think it was Roman. I was looking at it and this guy pointed at it and started gesturing wildly and hissing bad french words I was glad to not understand.

I also saw a painting by David of the Sabine Women. The story is "We are in the early days of Roman history. The Romans have abducted the daughters of their neighbors, the Sabines. To avenge this abduction, the Sabines attacked Rome, although not immediately--since Hersilia, the daughter of Tatius, the leader of the Sabines, had been married to Romulus, the Roman leader, and then had two children by him in the interim. Here we see Hersilia between her father and husband as she adjures the warriors on both sides not to take wives away from their husbands or mothers away from their children. The other Sabine Women join in her exhortations."

I remember the painting was huge, bigger than it seemed in art history class. I looked into the haunted eyes of the children stuck in the middle of the battle and it reminded me of how I felt as a biracial person. I nearly cried. It never made me feel so emotional when I saw the slides of it.

I wonder if I could get a travel grant to go.

My 12 Inch Stapler

Yo dude, check out my twelve inch stapler! It's long, hard, and heavy, and it has purple staples.

Okay, so maybe it's not that exciting, but it sure was pricey, as far as staplers go. I'm awake late and tomorrow I get to see one of my best friends/ex lover after years of being on the other side of the continent from her. She's here for a few weeks, just as all this school stuff is finishing. But of course I'm gonna make time to see her, I don't know when I'll get the chance again. She didn't bring her man with her, which sort of disappointed me because I wanted to scope him out and make sure he was the right dude for this lady.

Some lesbians get really upset when their ex lovers go on to have partners that are male. Like they've been betrayed, like it's the equivalent of their ex saying pussy's really stanky compared to dick. Or that they've sold out for hetero privillege. Or easy access to sperm. Some lesbians operate on a strict no-bisexual policy, and then wouldn't you know it, their ex lover falls in love with a man anyway.

Personally, I like dating bisexuals. I like playing with my gender in the bedroom, being a dual gendered person. Two of my ex's have gone on to settle down with male partners, and the other two ex's settled down with female partners, and they're all happy with their choices. I didn't get picked, but whatever. I'm more or less content with my ex's remaining ex's. That sounds like a support group!

Ex's Remaining Ex's, 6pm, Community Centre, bring your baggage, snacks of bitterness provided.

Really though, I think my longstanding (since grade eleven! Woot!) preference for bisexual women stems from this desire to be recognized as both male and female, and to be desired for it. Besides that, bisexuals are freaking hot, boys and girls. Period.

Now I'm going to go play with my 12 long inches.

Getting away with art

I have two major projects due in the next couple of weeks, and I'm quite swamped with it all. Luckily I found out tonight that I can make an art project for my science class, instead of a regular paper. I am studying hallucinations, the lovely/scary friend to mental illness, along with many other illnesses as it turns out. In particular I'll be looking at visual hallucinations, and since I've already learned a bunch of stuff on making a zine, I'll be making a book, with some clear pages that have images that will overlay on top of other images.

My experience with visual hallucinations is really limited, when I went crazy I had auditory and sensory hallucinations. Nobody ever told me you could feel things moving on your body when you go crazy. It's true, you can! They are quite startling, one happened while I was manically talking to my best friend and I told her about it. It felt like a cloth was moving under me, wriggling and bumping me trying to get me to stop sitting on it. Thank god those days are in the past. However, when I've had migraines I get really AWFUL visual disturbances. My vision goes all yellow, blurred, and opaque, except for a tiny spot in the centre of my field of vision. It makes walking in the world really scary, and then I need to rush home and hide in a dark room for a few hours until it goes away. Luckily it's been a long time since I've had a migraine, I used to get them all the time when I was a kid.

The first time I got a migraine I was walking with my school group through the University campus, and as I was looking at the snow I realized I couldn't see. It scared the hell out of me and I didn't know what to do. I was scared I would never see again.

Another time I went deaf, but it turned out I just had too much ear wax.

(eeeew, the crowd says)

Anyway, the world of hallucinations is fascinating to me, especially as a video/film artist. And I think it will make an interesting one off book project, although time is running out and I will have to devote many hours this coming weekend to getting the whole thing due in time for Monday's class. But after making my zine, I think I know how I can do it.

Mostly, I am just relieved I don't have to write another paper. One is quite enough for this semester. I still can't believe I managed to write three papers at the end of last semester. Wow. That is insane.

School makes ya crazy!

I'm glad I'm almost done. Soon I'll be at the grad ceremony, with my mommy, finally getting my degree. And after that I have to find a job.

I still haven't heard back from grad school. I have some tentative plans in the event I will have to find something else to do, it would just be nice to hear a yay or nay and move forward on something. I hate ambiguity, except in gender, in which case it is sexy.

Launch of the Fit of Pique Zine: Coming soon!

The first issue of the paper Fit of Pique zine has finally arrived! There's things about it I would change, given the chance and the time, but overall I am pretty happy with it. Finally after about four years the Bottom's Manifesto has been set into print, and even though it's been published in another zine, the short true story I Could Kill Myself With My Panties has a really nice section, complete with illustrations. I even dug up an old short lesbian vampire story.

So if you are looking to trade or buy the zine, it's 3 bucks plus the cost of mailing it (I don't have an estimate for that yet). Email me and I'll give you the address to send cheques to, or wait around a while longer while I find a distributor. fanggrrl @ excite . com (without spaces, I'm just trying to fool the roving spambots)

That was pretty much my day, copying and folding and looking for an appropriate stapler.

The class in which this zine was created will be having a launch/opening of all the students work. I will keep you updated on the wheres and whens. It's a great chance to broaden or begin your zine collection.

Close friends: You'll be getting your copies soon!

Portrait of a Maniac

Today I did some volunteer work at the school's art auction. My piece went for 45 dollars. It was a steal of a deal. I actually really liked that piece, I wouldn't have minded taking it home. It's was a lomo photo of a bunch of goofy trinkets and knick knacks for sale in a store window. The colors came out really lovely. Plus it's such a classic manic image, oooh, things to buy that are worthless really!

Anyway, in between doing tasks I surfed online, looking up comparative execution styles (the question: is lethal injection really as humane as we think?), and poverty and mental illness (the question: which came first? The mental illness or poverty?) The answer, according to various studies, is that poverty is a factor in many mental illnesses.

Ever since going crazy I've been on a journey to understand why. Why did I go so ravingly psychotic? Me, a generally calm, laid back individual. There's genetic factors, to be sure. I am far from the first person in my family to go insane. But then as I was leaving school and waiting for the bus, I considered my economic situation when I was running up that hill to fly into cold blue air. I thought in the interests of illuminating the process of going manic, I would explain my lifestyle in the months leading up to my episode.

I was poor, and new to a city where I didn't speak the language. My apartment had bullet holes in the walls and cracks, I was sleeping on a child's mattress on the floor in a sleeping bag. Our couch was from the street, the television didn't have an antenna and you had to tie it to your toe to keep the picture clear. I smoked pot everyday because then I didn't have to care about the terrible surroundings I was in. We ate kraft dinner and anything else that was cheap and could be cooked in one pot. We had plain muslin curtains and a swiffer. All my belongings fit into two suitcases. I read academic theory a lot, hoping to find some kind of an answer to a question I didn't fully understand at the time.

The question was about poverty.

I wasn't eating right, I couldn't, I didn't have proper kitchen utensils to cook for myself like I had in Vancouver, and besides that, good food cost money. I was self medicating, I was depressed and for good reason, anyone who had been in that apartment would feel lousy. I felt like urban lichen, hanging on desperately to a life in a big city. But lichen doesn't really live, it just exists, always hanging on, tenuous, ready to be ripped from it's moorings at any moment.

Add in an antidepressant at a really high dose, and I was due for trouble.

I think the hardest part of putting my shattered memory of those times back together is seeing all the triggers that were happening for me, and blaming myself for not avoiding them. Too much drinking, too much pot, too much Effexor, not enough soul friends (as in, people you can truly bear your soul to, something I have a hard time doing with people, with some very notable exceptions). I was a car crash waiting to happen, dancing on a razorblade.

My film is now taking a more interesting direction, looking at the crushing poverty of the working poor Urban Indian and her spiral into madness. I think it give my story a much more political bend to it than the themes I've been working with thus far.

They didn't need to do a study to find out poverty causes mental illness, I could have told them that.

Fireworks Factory Blows Up

I had a whole night of no sleep and it has freaked the bejeezus out of me. La la la, trying to do things. I'm finding that I'm more goal driven, which is actually a good thing because I have so much work piled up from what I now suspect was a bit of a depressed slump. I got my zine nearly finished, all I have to do is take it to the copy place on Saturday. I researched the hell out of first time feature film funding. I think I even discovered where I want to work on my first feature. So that was all dandy.

But I HAVEN'T SLEPT ALL NIGHT! My circadian rhythms are all fucked. And I'm being extra careful and nice hoping it isn't a big manic-depressive catastrophe. I made an appointment to see a psychiatrist, maybe this time I'll actually get a shrink, instead of just being sent back to my GP.

Having a manic episode is kind of like this VIDEO CLIP of a fireworks factory blowing up, imagine each firework represents a thought, and you're thinking them all at the same time. AhhhhhhH!

Don't want to go kaboom again. I feel like a ticking time bomb.

Hopefully tonight will bring blessed sleep.

We made bannock out of my Baby

When I was finishing grade four we got a letter in the mail saying I had been accepted into Actel, an accellerated learning program for gifted students. I still think it's because I knew what a perambulator was.

Most of my children's books were british, and they of course mentioned such things as perambulators. Being an inquisitive person with access to a brit dictionary, I soon found out it was the brit term for a stroller. Anyway, one day in class we were reading a british book, when we came to the p-word. What was it? I was the only one with an answer.

I must have done other smarty pants things, because the next year I began Actel.

It was a funny mix of kids, some of us wondering when the Dummy police would barg in and take us back to regular school. They all played Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiago? There wasn't much plot to the game, beyond naming the capitol of Indonesia and things like that. Still, it was better than my educational game, Math Blaster. I was always weak in Mathematics. Oh yeah, and we all sat around playing Uno during lunch. Uno, I don't even remember how to play it now.

Even in a class full of nerds, the nerd-popular dynamic soon showed up again. I once did a magic show with one of the popular girls. She would yell Presto-Chango and our trick happened. Her name was Stephanie. She dressed kind of like Madonna in the late eighties, which I guess it was.

There was only one other aboriginal girl in the class, and two years later she climbed out the window and never returned. We drew a picture of her legs hanging out the window on our whiteboard, an homage to the turbulent girl who had departed.

There was this other girl, Karen, who somehow straddled the boundaries of nerd and popular. We were best friends for a very brief time, until my longtime best friend Lyndsey came along. We broke up our friendship a year after high school, it was very sad. Karen was a red head, and in retrospect I think I had a little crush on her. I wonder what happened to her. She was in some religious group, Sisters of Job I think. I think it was a secret society.

There was this other guy, Jimmy, who was such a nerd and had bookish ways, that he was almost above taunts. I think we all instinctively wanted to protect him. He was socially stunted and brilliant, dressing in little cardigans. Now he's a computer science graduate.

We had all kinds of wacky academic adventures, school was suddenly really fun whereas before it had been quite boring. I remember our first orientation together we had to make something to cushion an egg that would be dropped from a ladder. We covered our egg in foam and cartons and all kinds of material.

Later on, during sex ed, we had to carry around an eight pound bag of flour and pretend it was a baby. This was to teach us that having unprotected sex had consequences. Later we made bannock out of my baby.

I feel like the penguin

Here's a flash game for you:
Poke the Penguin

It is a holiday

Brr it's cold in here. Hmm, just picked at my hangnails. I was wanting to write something really amazing, but there's not much to write about. It is a holiday after all. I have to pee. Watch the creative process unfold before your eyes!
Not that peeing is creative, although it does eliminate waste from one's body.
I meant more as in, watch me ramble through ideas for a few paragraphs before ending today's blog.
I had a pot brownie last night and watched Boogie Nights. That film is intense for so many reasons.
I like intense films. Some people don't, some people get really annoyed by intensity, for personal reasons. I understand that I suppose. As long as they don't impose their viewing choices on me.
I've decided not to finish writing today's blog. It is a holiday, after all. Supposedly 2000 years ago a religious figure was nailed to some wood and left to die, which he did, and then everyone could point and say "see, he's not the son of God." Then he woke up on Sunday and let some dude named Thomas stick his finger in his wound. If that had happened today we'd expect him to wear latex gloves.
So the moral of the story is, always carry around some latex. You never know when you'll want to stick your hand in someone.

Fascism in the Aboriginal Community

Today I went with a friend to the friendship centre in town. Friendship Centre, it sounds so warm and fuzzy, like a big Plush Indian is giving away hugs. Actually it was nice, got some free chow in my tummy, listened to a bunch of Aboriginal women debate with each other about who was preparing what food. Went to the bathroom and saw a little round sticker that read "Stop Racism."

It's an interesting thing, we want to stop racism from white folks, but so rarely do we look at our own communities and see the racism within.

Once in high school a friend passed me a joint, first time I ever put my lips to smokeable substances that weren't ceremonial. I passed it back and she said "You nigger-lipped it!" I was speechless. For one thing, I had known this friend since the tender age of two, when we were both in Kakesate Daycare together, learning how to count in Cree. But this wasn't the limit of her racism, she also had several choice words about Asian people, none of which I care to repeat, except to say that it was a mockery of Asian languages.

The reason I bring this up is that later on this evening (my date got postponed) I was channel surfing at a friend's pad and there was news about the most recent school shooting at the Red Lake Indian Reservation. They say the shooter was a regular on Neo-Nazi websites, and expressed hatred towards Aboriginals who were not full-blooded. One might consider it a fluke, one errant Aboriginal boy with the means to express his hatred violently. However, if you ask any light skinned Aboriginal such as moi, this kind of hatred is deeply ingrained in our communities.

Canadians may remember David Ahenakew's praise for the Nazi party back in 2002, and the shockwaves which rocked the country. Yes Virginia, there really are fascist Aboriginals.

I think the natural question is why. Why would a minority of Colour group be attracted to the dogma of an Aryan race? Why would oppressed people who have suffered (and still are suffering) genocide, like the granddaddy of all Genocidal leaders?

I think the interest in fascism stems from this idea of a disappearing (rather than continually evolving) race, and this desire to keep the race pure. It's written in the legislation around being Aboriginal, and it's something our leaders often spout without thinking of the consequences. The purity of the race. We have heard this phrase before. There are Aboriginals who really want to basically evict those of us who don't measure up via blood quantum. We're considered genetic traitors.

The irony of this is that in terms of cross-cultural alliances, Aboriginals and Jewish people have a lot of common ground, and have formed strong bonds. I've found myself feeling at home with Jewish friends as easily as with my Aboriginal friends. We both have horror stories woven through our ancestors plights, and we both like to eat. We've both been re-located and put through institutions to kill us and/or our cultural practices. And yet Hitler liked Aboriginals. He liked the idea of a pure race, a noble savage, fighting to keep our homeland, just as he thought he was doing.

As an Aboriginal community, let us not ignore this one school shooting as a rogue youth with some bad internet influences. Let's take this opportunity to really, I mean SERIOUSLY, take stock of the lack of respect for cultural diversity, the racism towards other minority groups, and our own self-loathing of mixed race members of our communities. It's time to admit that Aboriginals can be racists too.

Straight Takeover

Why is it that straight people take over queer spaces, yet queers never take over straight spaces? It's like we're always fighting to hold onto what little we have. New management is always a threat, and they ALWAYS tell us they won't change a thing, then a few months down the road we're looking for a new place to hang out.

Maybe it doesn't sound so important to other people who aren't marginalized, oh boo hoo, got to find another bar. Well it is a sad thing, even for me, and I don't go out to bars that much. It's like we're being constantly colonized and re-located.

Whatever. I don't know how to stop it, I don't have money to invest in a bar. Currently the only quasi regular dyke bar in town is ridiculously small, while the boys have way more clubs that are huge and dedicated to being homo hangouts. Are there more gay men than lesbians? And where do you go if you want to find cute bisexual women?

It is a quandary, to be sure.

I overslept again today. I've been having these really vivid dreams, and they are more interesting than anything going on in my life right now. So naturally I choose sleep over real life. It looks like I am just laying there, but really I am sailing in dream land. Recently I dreamt that I kept choosing beauty over trust in relationships. I woke up and I was kind of like "That is so true!" In my dream trust was withering away and dying, all because I kept fucking beauty. Weird.

I have a date tonight. I haven't had a date in years. I mean that very literally, YEARS! I think the official count is four years.

I want to eat a banana.

I'm a bit nervous about my date. I showered, found a clean shirt, found my old army pants. I still have to put some smelly sticky stuff in my hair. I took my medication, rolled a cigarette from butts (gross, don't do that in front of anyone!), I q-tipped my ears. It's such a late date, I'm a little nervous sex is going to be involved, and I am horribly out of practice. I never had much practice to begin with either. I am serious, eveyone thinks because I make work about sexuality, I must be scoring all the time. It's so not true. Even when I was a slut, I didn't have sex very frequently. With a lot of people, yes, but a lot of those people were one or two night stands.

Why is it called a one night stand when no one is standing?

File it under "This can't be good for you"

I remember being a little kid in Montana, and on the television there used to be an advertisement for a Starving Artist sale, Rock Bottom Prices! They weren't selling ACTUAL starving artists, they were selling mainly landscape paintings at Rock Bottom Prices! I often wondered about those starving artists. Like why wasn't there a Feed the Artists fund? That being said, there is often food at openings and in recent times I have even scheduled my eating around the free grub.

After I pay all my bills, there's pretty much diddly-squat left over for me to get essentials, like food and cigarettes. I'm trying to quit the ciggys mostly for economic reasons. I won't DIE without cigarettes. However, without food I probably will die. So I've been trying to streamline my meals. Right now I'm down to about one meal a day, which is REALLY REALLY bad for folks like me with bipolar disorder. It's a major trigger for another episode, no matter how dilligently I take my medication. So that's pleasant.

My life has become a search for food, it really consumes a lot of my thinking. I know a place where I can get dinner for three dollars, if I only eat carbs I can buy a bunch of sweet buns for pretty cheap in Chinatown. And today I went through a really really long orientation for a Clubhouse in town which serves up a one dollar lunch and gives out sandwiches for fifty cents. Fridays you can get dinner for free there too. The food is pretty bland.

The other day at Stef's she had this funny tofu chunk stuff that tasted very much like slightly moist dog kibble. People kibble. A lot of the food for poor folks in this town is just about filling your belly, not exciting the tastebuds or anything. Last night Stef ate kibble while we channel surfed Babette's Feast. It was kind of sad really. I wanted to pull little quails out of the television set and eat them. Sorry little quails, you can't help being yummy.

So it's true, is what I mean to say. There really truly are Starving Artists. And (to shift topics somewhat) that is why paying CARFAC fees is so important. It's not often that we get paid what our work is really worth, and when it comes down to basic living, telling someone "Well it's just an honour to be allowed to show here at all" is not going to put food in their stomachs.

Usually when I get suicidal it has to do with the lack of food. A lack of food makes me panic, and then I think I should just take the death option because then I won't have to worry about getting stuff in my stomach anymore. It's probably a completely natural response, I'm sure in the wild it would be a good solution in the middle of a drought or scarce food supplies.

The thing that pisses me off the most about being a starving artist is that I'm fat, so no one really notices how terribly tormented I am by hunger most of the time. I don't know why I'm starving and fat, I just am. Life's full of cruel irony.

Violence against Queers

The other night I went out for drinks and dancing with a couple of friends. We were going to hit Celebrities and I was going to scope out girls. Anyway, life's going fine, we're stoned and on the sky train, blathering on about various things stoned queers talk about. Then this very straight guy with his girlfriend starts staring at us. Just looking with this really weird look on his face. And then all of us just shut up. We're pulling into our stop. Nobody moves a muscle, we just all wait and then slowly, so freaking slow, make our way to the door and get out before it closes. And then once we're all off and he zooms off into the night, we all say "Weird!" And it was. Like the beginning of a bashing. It reminded me of so many other encounters with homophobic/transphobic violence.

I think one of the reasons I left Saskatchewan was because of the amount of homophobic violence directed at me. Being queer in a Saskatchewan high school is really weird. I knew five queers in my school and that was it. Almost everybody was keeping it on the qt. Hiding your sexuality is a horrible feeling. It's too much effort to worry about. I don't know how movie stars do it. That must be such a troubled way to live.

So I left Saskatchewan. I was tired of people throwing pop cans at me and yelling dyke. I think being crazy made it harder, because then instead of just feeling persecuted, I really was. It made for a lot of being scared. And then there's the whole being Cree AND Scots, in a racially charged city. Yeah, that was a lot of stuff to balance out. I've experienced racism from both of my races! And people thought I was a boy for most of my childhood. Actually, I got sir-ed again recently. So when I make work about identity, it's for a reason. Identity just shapes you in the way you get treated in the world. Like having to watch your back on the Sky Train because you're queerer than queer.

It's scary and it sucks. And maybe if I had been stronger I would have stayed in the prairies. I think I was like a lot of young queers, like Smalltown Boy by Bronski Beat, all leaving home to find a community in the big city. I think a lot of us also have this idealized image in our heads of this loving warm nurturing community, like a tribe, and then reality hits. It's like any community, it has flaws too.

I don't understand hate, just blind hate towards groups of people. Doesn't make any sense.

The neverending search for love and meaning

This weekend I was a bit low, thinking about the long time it has been since I've been intimate with someone I loved, or even just cared for. I know it might seem as though in my years of bachelor life, that a relationship is just not high on my priorities. Sure, there are great things to being a bachelor. I can wear dirty clothes if I don't feel like doing the laundry, there's no one calling me to ask me where I've been, I don't have to plan my life with someone else's needs being weighed in the process. But it is very lonely. And over the years that I have been single, I've watched myself grow more and more stone, disliking physical touch by more and more people, except for the few special people who I trust enough to hug. I've discovered I need more than hugs these days though, something HAS to change, or I can see myself spiraling into complete stone butchness, and I really did like snuggling with girlfriends back in the day when I was cute and quirky, not old, crazy and cranky.

So I thought I would try online personals again. I went to this site where I already had a profile, logged on, and waited for something to happen.

What happened was the closest to an online stalker that I care to get.

First of all she comes on coy, asking me to tell her more and more about myself, all the while revealing very little about herself, besides the obvious fact that she likes sex. This makes me anxious. For one thing, I think it's rude to pry into a strangers life if you're not going to be completely bare and honest about yourself at the same time. "But Thirza, you post things about yourself online all the time and never ask us for anything." Yeah, but I know the vast majority of my reader ship, and so in a way I do know about you all. Except for you, little lurker in the corner! Yeah, I mean you!

Anyway, then she starts asking me what I'm doing tonight, what I did today, what I did last night, what I am thinking about. When rats get angry with other rats they do this cute hopping thing. They look totally frustrated (and adorable). That's how I felt, like a hopping mad rat. Where does she assume she can ask me all these questions while totally deflecting any questions I ask? Then I ask "So, do you make any art?" This is a crucial question, this is the question that makes or breaks any continued interest on my part. I'm an artist, it was what I was born and bred for, it is my passion, I think about it all day, I devote time in an institution learning about it, my social circles are all artists. Even those that don't make art know they should at least be able to talk about films with me. Besides that, it's a perfect "Getting to know you" question. It's platonic, it's general, it's easy to answer. What does she reply? "I take that as a hint to change the subject." WHAT! What kind of bloody answer is that?

Meanwhile this other girl comes online and we start talking about 80's music, and I'm really wanting this other girl to go away when she's all like "Do you want to play, are you playful?" And I respond with this gentle kind of "I've been burned and I just want to be friends with people first." And she's like "Oh, what do you want to know." For god's sakes, anything, just give me anything for fucks sakes! SOMETHING NOT RELATED TO WHAT YOU DO IN BED! So I say "Someone I can have a conversation with, someone who's honest, blah blah blah." Really trying to reinforce this concept of being able to relate to someone on an intellectual/spiritual level, not just a sexual level. Then she invites me over. WHAT! We haven't even gone for coffee, I mean, that is like, the first step, it's like some kind of social non-sexual face to face interaction HAS to happen before all else. So I tell her no, and I again explain I am looking for friends first. Then she says "Snuggling is not fucking." SIGH. See above where I wrote about turning stone? THIS IS WHY!

I am not someone's snuggle bunny until I say so. No cuddles for you. So I went offline, grumbled, that girl with the conversation about 80's music was more promising.

AND FURTHERMORE: On the topic of becoming stone butch and having tattoos, here is my pet peeve. Once at a dyke bar, short short sleeved shirt baring my tats for everyone, so many women just assumed they could grab at my arms without asking any kind of permission. And being crazy, having a sense of personal safety around your body is extremely crucial. I mean, the last time someone grabbed my arms was to drug me and put me in restraints, which is pretty much a routine type of rape performed by the psychiatric system. It's demeaning and it's an issue of control. So when this butch dyke grabbed my arm, I nearly flipped out and punched her in the face. DO NOT TOUCH MY TATS UNLESS I TELL YOU YOU CAN. One of my friends with tattoos says he has the same problem with random strangers assuming they can touch him there, it's quite weird.

Living, breathing, Aboriginals

So I've been secretly plotting to apply for this program out of the country, and I'm trying to figure out how to get the dough to go instead of counting on Lotto 6-49. Anyway, I've been researching grants and scholarships online, especially related to all the minority status I get which white people always cheerfully tell me to cash in on. Whatever, it's like they think my life has been full of free money for being a halfbreed queer crazy pervert. I wish. I mean, that's such an easy job, pfft! Just hide and make videos, alone, in the dark, in the deep dark. Oh, where was I? Oh yeah, grants.

Anyway, I will not name the organization, but one of them stipulates you must have a "living connection to the Aboriginal community." Okay, WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS MEAN? Does that mean you're an upstanding member of your tribe? Like doing good Aboriginal deeds? Like I've got all my Aboriginal patches. Or does it mean you actually spend your time among living Aboriginal people? Do you have to spend a specific amount of time with your Aboriginal friends and family? Do you have fifty percent cut off if most of your friends are biracial? Does it make a difference if the woman who taught you bannock was your Scots grandmother?

And this 'living' word, that troubles me. Because what does it mean to have a dead connection? Like the horrible moment your girlfriend hangs up on you, and in the buzz of the dead line, you realize you've lost her forever. Like you're standing there with the reciever, bewildered and wondering "What happened to my culture? Why did she leave me? I said all the right things, I brought her flowers." Well whatever.

I mean, I guess I have a living connection to the aboriginal community. I'm living, AND I'm aboriginal! Ha!

What about people who have a dead connection to the aboriginal community? Is that like they hang around with the Aboriginal Undead?

Very weird.

Race, le sigh. It's completely evolving and people still can't get beyond a binary theory of it. I don't know where race is going, but it leaves a lot of us with these complicated meanings in our bodies. Like strings stretching from us around the world, holding us to all the places our ancestors walked.

I have the internet again!

Yes, it's true. I've moved into my new place and got hooked up again. So now I'm set. But it's funny, it's been so long since I've had the internet at home, that I have forgotten what I want to do.
I spent most of today wrestling with my old/new computer desk. Here's the story: I wanted a computer desk. They were out of stock of the one I really wanted. So I bought another one. Then a few days later a knock at the door, here was another computer desk, the nice one. So I really had two, but for a year I didn't care to put the better one together. Then I moved, and threw away my other one. Then I couldn't find the instructions. A week passed. I got the internet. Then I really wanted my desk together, because surfing while sitting on the floor is painful. Try it and you'll see.

The problem throughout most of my attempts to get the desk together was the abstract concept behind the instruction booklet. 223306 in HA second hole from the left. Pound small plastic thingy into this slot. Three boards all of the same size were simply titled I, yet three other boards of a similar size were F, T, and SA. And none of them had convenient little stickers saying what they were, you had to look at them all and decide for yourself. And then there was a small tool which seemed to come into use quite frequently according to the instructions, yet didn't exist, and was square, and looked like you dripped it into holes OR used it to cut something. Honestly, I feel like I should get extra credit just for getting the damn thing together. However there is one extra board, which is rather suspicious.

A suspicious board. It's quite large as well.

Blah de blah. So anyway my apartment is slowly but surely turning into more of a liveable space. I have the internet, I have a small television, my bed is set up, Clive the hamster killing rat is back up on his little perch above the tee vee. The rug is slowly but surely gathering crumbs. When I first moved in I couldn't find my medication for a couple days. Fly me to the moon! Then I found it, all shaky and quivery and ready to pounce on someone. Swallow. Yummy mood stabilizers/anti-psychotics.

Fuck it I'm hungry. I'm going now to find some food and stuff. I'm going to surf the net all day and revel in it. I think if you live alone especially, having the internet is kind of crucial to your well being. It's entertaining anyway.
here's some fun for ya all:
Tasteful (ha ha!) Cannibal Porn
http://www.mukiskitchen.com

So i didn't win the lottery

But now the jackpot is up to 24 million dollars. Squeal! Squeal like a little gambling piggy!

I am poor and broke and everyday is my date with poverty. A friend has a bicycle he wants to sell me. I really want it. And it comes with a television. Well, the t.v. isn't attached to the bike, that would be stoopid. I'd get into a lot of accidents. Anyway, I might have a set of wheels again, which would be nice. I haven't ridden a bicycle in forever, about half as long as I've been celebate. Celebrate Celebacy! Is that even how you spell celebate? Fuck it, I hate celebacy so much, I don't care how it's spelled. A bicycle would make me feel better about being terminally single.

Not much exciting has happened, except my roommates drank the milk I was going to live on for the next few days. Which is another reason to be glad I am leaving. I don't know why the milk bothered me so much, it was all going to expire today anyway.

Oh crap, I'm running out of time on the computer. Can anyone spare four bucks so I can buy a couple tickets for the lottery this week? I'm really living on gambler hopes, it's pretty tragic really. Don't even look at me, I'm ashamed.

Quality Assurance

So my phone got cut off. My cell phone, my only phone, my sole connection to the outside world. Sort of.
So I was calling my mom today when this machine lady comes on saying "Your call may be monitored for quality assurance." And the first thing I thought was, boy, standards for mothering must have changed since yesterday. Or maybe she was on mothering probation. I can't think of why, although we drive each other crazy sometimes, things have been more or less smooth.
Then I realized my tricky cell phone company has re-routed all of my calls to their office.
So I call the office and he asks me all kinds of ridiculous questions to make sure I really am Ms. Cuthand, the negligent bill payer. I hate having to prove I am who I am. Then he tells me to cough up a crazy sum of money, which I of course don't have.
Which means I need to call my family for money, which I hate doing because I feel like a sucky baby who can't take care of herself and I already called earlier this month.
I would have to say calling to ask your family for money is one of the most demoralizing things you can do. And I bet it's not so shit hot to be on the other end, heavy sigh as you reluctantly reach for your wallet or checkbook.
But whatever.
Boy, I wish other things in life were monitored for quality assurance. Like sex. Say there was like a referee there, "Oi! You've had two more orgasms than she has! . . . Hey! Don't forget to nibble those earlobes! . . . She has a shrimping fetish, remember! And you call yourself a giving lover!" Actually, come to think of it that would be a buzz kill.
When I worked at the phone centre we sometimes had to tell people their call may be recorded for quality assurance. And we were an outbound call centre. Imagine the nerve it takes to disrupt someone's dinner, tell them this call's being recorded, and ask for money for the SPCA. That's why I couldn't do the job anymore. I just felt like I was being paid to be rude.
So the upshot of the story was I had to call from a payphone in my neighborhood, collect. In my neighborhood all the payphones turn off at nine o'clock to prevent drug deals being made. Like drug deals are only made after nine pm. You can use it to call 911 though, oh thanks, big help that is. I told my Grandmother about the pay phone situation here and all she said was "Those neighborhoods you pick! My word!"
Exactly.
Anyway, if you're wondering why I'm not calling you, now you know.

My Weird Name

Once in the years I went religiously to the dyke bar, we met this woman who was a hardcore regular. Kind of a white shirt blue jeans gal, I saw her wandering on the street once after the bar shut down and went all straight, she seemed so aimless. Anyway, when she found out my name she went all bizarre.
"What a fucked up name! Thirza Cuthand, that's so fucked up!"
Um, thanks. Whatever. Ever since I was a little kid I've been having to say "My name's Thirza, T-H-I-R-Z-A." And when teachers got my name wrong the whole class would say "It's Thirza."
There is a friend of a friend who always calls me Ursula. I don't know how many times I've corrected him, it's like his brain can't compute Thirza. It comes out Ursula.
Once in high school I was calling this girl and her sister answered. When she asked what my name was and I told her she flipped out on me.
"Nobody's called Thirza! What is your name! Really, TELL ME WHAT YOUR NAME IS!" I had to hang up on her.
There are Thirza's out there, I know for a fact I am not the only one.
My sister got the simple name. Sky. I mean, three letters, one syllable, and she even gets a cool y. We used to call her S-K-Y. I asked my mom how to spell it once. "S-K-Y." She said. I was all "Nooooo, how do you spell it?" I guess I was looking for EssKayWhy or something. Considering Sky doesn't talk, it's just as well she got the simple name. I mean, lord knows what would have happened to her if she'd been Thirza. It's a name that involves a lot of correcting people.
Cuthand scares people too. For one thing it sounds like something violent has happened to your hands. It's actually a mistranslation of Frozen Fingers. I'm kind of glad I didn't get saddled with a name like Frozen Fingers, because it would probably make girls not want me to touch them.
"Your fingers are icy Thursa."
Damn.

Sucky Valentines

Tis a sad valentines day for me, like nearly all valentines days. I had a girlfriend for only one valentines day, and I don't remember her doing anything for me, although she did mail me a dildo for my twentieth birthday. Thanks. I don't have it anymore, I cut it up in a fit of pique. Hence the name for my blog, which I have been rather careless about recently. But you'll all be glad to know in the meantime I have been working on the paper version of Fit Of Pique, to be unveilled this April! Price is three to five dollars, depending on what you can afford. And you will want to own this remarkable work of zine-ness. There's a centerfold of all the things people put up their bums and had to see a doc to remove. There's a Bottom's Manifesto written on a particularily crusty day I had after some bad experiences with tops. There's the full on story of what exactly transpired during my visit to the looney bin. Alice makes a cameo appearance, and there's lots of other fun stuff. If you would like a copy, email me your address and I'll try to send a few freebies out, or we could trade, whatever.

I must state now that I am completely indebted to Louis Cruz for showing me a few of the finer points of zine making.

Anyway, where was I? Besides blathering on about the zine version of Fit of Pique, there's also some other interesting stuff going on in my life.

I am trying to funnel my love of pot into a less invasive love of gambling. Ah well, one addiction for another. Lottery tickets are cheaper than pot, and give just as much a thrill when you spend time writing shopping lists for the big win. So if you want to get into my good books, buy me a lotto ticket instead of passing on that joint. I've decided to quit smoking pot, except maybe at laser shows.

Oh yeah, and an alert for all you readers, in case you haven't heard a new strain of HIV has emerged that takes only three months to develop into AIDS and is resistant to a number of HIV drugs. So take care all of you.

Anyone got any tips on quitting smoking? I've noticed that for as long as I have been a smoker, I also haven't had a girlfriend. And according to some news reports, Vancouverites really don't like sticking their tongue where a cigarette has been. Which is really unfair, because when I was a non-smoker dating a smoker I still stuck my tongue in all kinds of places on her.

Soon I will be living alone and have internet access again, so for all you dedicated readers, pleeeze hang on just a little bit longer and this blog will return to it's regularily scheduled program of complaints, excitement, and general bullshitting around.

Oh I know what I should tell yous all. This weekend is IMAGeNation, and a bunch of my videos are screening at the Raja Cinema. So you should come down and see some of the best aboriginal film and video around. I have been working with the IMAG peeps since we were born, and it's a cool festival. I can't believe I just used the word peeps.

Speaking of Peeps, for those cynics out there who need a laugh, here's a fun experiment. Place a marshmallow Peep in a microwave and press start. It will explode, and it's quite funny. At least I think it is. But don't put an IMAG peep in a microwave cause that's just mean.

Hmm. I am sitting at the computer, trying to think of something intelligent to say. Being a blogger is a bit like that courtship part of a relationship, where you want to completely charm someone and win them over to your crazy life.
So here are some things about me you should know if you want to date me.
1. I don't keep house well.
2. I bathe on a regular basis.
3. Given an ultimatum to choose between cigarettes or a girl, I will always pick the girl.
4. I like cheesy pop songs.
5. I get sad on a frequent basis, and I'm happiest when I have the chance to just give of myself to someone special.
6. While I have erotic dreams of cavorting with Nicole Kidman, I'm probably the most monogamous person you'll ever meet.
7. I like gay porn.
8. I'm not scared of committment (although I am a bit scared of my new teeny apartment.)
9. I sometimes eat bacon.
10. I will always want to come to your house late at night armed with chocolate cake and latex.

rUMBLY tUMMY

I am hungry, my tummy's rumbly, my money has yet to come from the reserve. Oh how I want those Indian dollars, so I can grab a burger or a pizza or a bag of marshmallows or a can of pineapples. Wait, I have a can of pineapples.

Well you're probably all wondering where I've been. I have been without internet access for about a month now as punishment for having the dirtiest room in all of the Lower Mainland. My friend Lynn even lent me a copy of Hoorah for the Filthpackets to make me feel better about it. It's that time of year again, when I remember all that befell me two years ago, and it brings me down down down. And so I live in squalor.

Until tomorrow, when I finally clean my dumb room.

It all started in Scotland, if you follow the matrilineal lines. Hey, is that even a word? Anyway, my mum's mum was messy, my mum was messy, I am messy. Housework is not our strong suit. Growing up my mum had this poster on the wall of a woman saying "Housework, it's, it's a bitch!" True. There are other things I do well. Such as making things funny. Sometimes. If I'm in the mood.

Some people believe you are only as good as your ability to run an orderly household. If that is true, I'm going straight to hell. I saw a comic strip today of a girl with a messy room and her mother was telling her "Your room is where feng shui comes to die." I think that pretty much sums up my room.

I had a lucky bamboo plant. I killed it. And it sat on the ledge for about six months. I can't bear to throw away remains of a plant. Isn't that silly?

Anyway, that's about all I have to say today. Life's been pretty crazy stressful, and I still have to find a new place to move, because much as I am a little bottom, I don't like punishment.

If I had a cute redhaired girl boss me around things would be different. Send one my way so I can clean my room.

A Bold New Adventure

This little artist is planning and plotting. This little artist is behind in her homework. Spank her!

I am on the hunt for not Red October, but some new digs. And I don't mean digging a nuclear bunker in someone's backyard. Just a nice little shell for a hermit crab like me to fester away, occasionally spitting out art. A home where I can decorate things my way. Someplace I can smoke.

Although I am in the process of quitting.

Quitters never . . . I don't know the rest of that saying.

It is late at night and I am at the corner store again.

I need the internet dammit. It's my lifeblood!

I am planning a video about figure skaters. Well, not about them really, just about a weird rite of passage figure skaters go through. It should be interesting.

Today is supposed to be the most depressing day of the year. But I think I may have found a home.

Big Belly

This is for all you ladies out there.

Okay, so maybe it isn't.

My internet is broken. I am at the corner store listening to the owners speak in arabic about the high price of Special K with dried strawberries in it.

I love those strawberries.

The best strawberries in the world are grown in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, but difficulties in transporting them out while they are fresh and perfect means the rest of the world is unaware of the bliss induced by these berries. They are small and sweet and evenly red.

My childhood is dotted with memories of jars of my gramma's homemade strawberry jam, the way the sugar in it would almost crystalize, and the joy of being the first one to punch a hole in that canning wax. Like busting someone's cherry, only with berries on the other side instead of an orgasm.

Mmmmm.

So my internet is broken and I am making plans for my life that involve a move. I have decided it is a far better thing to live with other artists, so that's what I'm going to do.

I am trying to work on a video as well, about fear.

My ipod is still my best friend, although I'm a bit annoyed at the music on it and I desperately need more tunes. 972 tunes aren't enough! I need different ones. I can't tell you how weird it is to have it on shuffle and end up with a Carpenter's tune right after a Marilyn Manson one.