thoughts

My hell is a place where I am held accountable, responsible for everything I say and write. "let's pretend..."

I think it would be healthy for adults to engage in elaborate make-believe games the way children do (or used to before the advent of video gaming). We need giant adult sized playgrounds and every house should have a tree fort. When was the last time you took all the cushions off the couch and made a fort? I'm in the mood for a giant game of capture-the-flag…wanna come out and play?

is that a 4kg bag of weed in your bag or, are you just happy to see me?

Schapelle Corby, what did you do? I wonder if anyone will ever know the truth - regardless, she has been sentenced to 20 years, minus the 7 months already served. If she serves the full term she'll be 47 years old when she gets out. This is serious business. Indonesian prisons are not like what we're used to in North America. There aren't any tv's or libraries, no movie nights, no crafts room - just hard time served on a hard concrete floor with no electric light and no bed except for during sleeping hours. 20 years of hell awaits this girl. I wonder if she did it though. I wonder if she was offered the chance to drag herself out of her Queensland trash family by making a one time delivery that would pay her thousands? But, then I think, how much could she really have sold 4kg of weed for? Not enough to make a sane person risk being caught and excecuted I'm betting. The whole thing just seems really unlikely. Bottom line is, if she stays in Bali her life is over. If she is somehow returned to Australia (political wheeling and dealing) she'll be rich in movie and book deals. What a fucked up world we live in.

Having lived in Australia it amazes me that anyone tries to smuggle drugs into Indonesia in the first place. About once a month there is news of someone being arrested, jailed for life or sentenced to death after being caught for some drug related offence. The Autralian government is powerless to do anything. A word of caution to all you travellers...lock your bags.

See the story here.

Everyone seems concerned with the fact that she smiles too much and laughs at inappropriate times...how does that mean she's guilty? I smile at inappropriate times because I'm scared and uncomfortable. Think about it.

scaredy cat

Yes, I laugh at my friends who lock their doors and cars. I scoff at people who won't hike alone or walk alone late at night on the streets. And before you launch into the, "well obvioiusly you've never had anything bad happen to you" rebuttle, read on.

I have been taken advantage of and bad things have hapened to me. I was followed and attacked by a drunk man in Edmonton when I was 18 - another man on a bicycle helped me out and led me to safety, a man cornered me and grabbed my breast in the Victoria YMCA when I was 17 - I punched him in the ear and ran away, a man followed me through Melbourne when I was 23 and grabbed my ass before trying to steal my bag - I was speaking on a payphone with my dad at the time so did nothing because I didn't want to alarm him. And, yes to all you people who think otherwise when I say that I don't lock my doors, I have had my home broken into - locking my doors did nothing to prevent it. In fact, both times I've had my cars broken into the doors have all been locked thus forcing the theives to break my windows to gain entry. So why don't I feel afraid? Because I refuse. Sure, I have experienced the after shakes, the feeling of being exposed and ashamed, but nothing long lasting. If anything these encounters have made me more ruthless. I think it's disgusting to live in fear. Obviously caution is important, but come on. Stop watching Dateline horror stories and get out in the world.

the glass is not half full

Sunday morning, again. This is definitely not how I had envisioned the long weekend panning out. I saw myself sitting on the boat, rocking peacefully in the waves with the sun shinning down on me. I saw my self waking up on this Sunday morning and hearing the sound of the halyards tapping out their comforting tune on the mast and feeling that crisp chill that only comes from an early morning at sea. Instead, here I am at home. It's raining so hard that all the veggie plants I planted last week are rotting. Fack.

disclaimer

So, I guess I should mention, for anyone who does read this stuff, that there is a fine line between truth and fiction. Sometimes I sit down to write and what comes out is not exactly me. Like I have echos of impressions from other people rolling around in my head. Of course, I am notorious for dropping terrible news or truths onto people and then retracting them by saying they are made up or I was writing a story. It's easier to hide behind fiction. But, looking back through my entries I feel like half of them are in different voices. I am trying to get the hang of fiction, but, like I said, there is a fine line.

morgan

I went to class last night after all. I really wasn't feeling well but the main reason I didn't want to go was lack of studying. I knew the prof would call on me for some question and I would sit there stammering until my face went purple and she moved on to someone else. And, she did. But really, it wasn't so bad. I had been working ahead in class, doing the exercises as we were reviewing them and so I actually had an answer. It just wasn't right. So, now today is Saturday and I get to decide what to do with a whole day, yuck. I know exactly what's going to happen. I'll motivate myself to go for a walk to grab a coffee on the pretext that I will then come home and do some homework, clean up a bit, read, and other productive tasks. Instead, I will come home and stare around, thinking about all the things I would like to do. I'll think about going for a run (can't do that because I just ate), doing some yoga (again, just ate), calling up a friend (I have too many chores to do to be having fun), housework (it's not really that dirty), shower (housework first) - until finally I'll just give up and sit down and end up watching 10 hours of crap TV. I know myself well. I have willpower problems. According to a recent study dome by Tulane University students human beings have a limited amount of willpower. Their research suggests that if a human exercises their willpower repeatedly that eventually their willpower will run out. I think mine might have run out a few years ago.

sandra

I’ve been reading the latest Miriam Keyes book. I know! It’s awful. I mean it’s worse than awful, it’s chick-lit. I don’t know. I just don’t feel like dealing with adult issues and themes this week. I can’t believe that this is life and yet at the same time my life is good. I have fun and love and friends and “stuff” but honestly, is this it? Aren’t I meant to do something epic or to have some great realisations or to do exciting and adventurous things? I had this thought the other day that maybe reincarnation is not so far fetched. Here’s what I was thinking. I was trying to pinpoint just exactly what it was that I was craving and I realized that what I wanted was warmth and comfort. I pictured myself floating in a warm pool curled in the fetal position and having the sun shine down onto my face and through my closed eyelids. I was on the exercise bike at the gym while imagining this and noticed that the further into my fantasy that I went the lower my heart rate dropped. At 71 beats per minute I had this thought that maybe when we die we get immediately transported into the womb of our next mother. We get to feel that comfort and warmth all over again and then after a few months we find ourselves back in this world.

Then I started thinking about what actually occupies my mind most of the time. I mean what exactly do I think about? I don’t really think about men anymore because I am happily married (I really am mostly happy, isn’t that weird.) and I don’t think about partying or fun and I no longer think so much about death and escape and all the things that I thought about during my youth. I think about having kids a lot. I think about being fat a lot. I think about smoking and dieing and I think about how I suck and how I’m a failure and I think about how pathetic I am and I think about what I want to do with my life and I think about taking courses in school and I think about getting really fit and being flawlessly beautiful and perfect and I think about the dust that has settles on the table and I think about not being perfect not ever ever ever ever being perfect. I wish I didn’t expect so much from myself. I wish that I wasn’t so insecure and unable to see myself for what I am. Why do I have to always tell myself that I’m no good? These are some of the things that I say to myself in my head:

I am disgusting.
I’m fat.
I am unhealthy,
I’m going to die.
I have to be perfect.
I look stupid
I look ugly.
This outfit makes me look ridiculous.
My hair is ugly.
I’ll never succeed at anything.
I’m not good enough.
I have never made a right choice.
I have to be perfect.
I have to be perfect or else everything will fall apart.
I have to be perfect or else everyone will realize what a looser I really am.
I am not as good as her.
I am better than her.
I am a looser.
I will never be anything.
I can’t do anything.
I will always let myself down.
I am not worthy.
I am a looser.
I have to be perfect.
I am stupid.
I am uncomfortable.
I never say the right thing.
People hate me.
I have to lie or people will hate me.
I have to lie to make things look perfect.
Everything has to be perfect or else everything will fall apart.
I have to control everything.
I have to be under control at all times. I have to be in control.

I don’t want to think these things any more. I want to think the truth. I am beautiful. I am equal. I do not have to be perfect. I don not have to lie. I can be at peace. I will not let myself down. These are the things that I desperately want to believe, so why can’t I? I know. As much as I hate the whole “blame the parents game” they really are the greatest influence in our lives. They are our compass and I think that what they tell us when we’re young stays. My father. He was a tough one. Nothing I ever did was good enough for him. If I did something well he would always ask me why I didn’t do it better. He would hassle me about everything. Nothing I ever said was right. Nothing I ever did was right. He hated me. My mother. She just didn’t want to have to deal with me. Everything was fine as long as I wasn’t being a bother, as long as I was perfect. Thank god I was ok because her life was going to shit. My parents never nurtured me in anything. No sport was ever “right” for me, I never played hard enough or practiced long enough. Music, no. I was shy and anti-social even as a child and they never thought to help me out of my awkward fear. I get along ok with my parents now, but here’s a little bit of weirdness. I am still shocked that my father seems proud of me as an adult. I feel like I have disappointed him by not being a lawyer or high earning business woman and I feel like I disappointed him by getting married. I feel like I disapointed him by not traveling to more places, not being more…everything. And, here’s the crux, he is proud of me. I know that in his heart he marvels at me for what I’ve accomplished and who I am. But, why couldn’t he do that for me when I was young and really needed it..I used to have this bad habit of slipping into baby talk voice around my father when I was about 7 years old. He would always call me on and tell me that I sounded ridiculous. That is not how you speak to a 7 year old! My parents treated me like an adult from the moment I was born. They really, really fucked me up. I have intimacy issues up the wazoo and some characteristics that border on obsessive. I suffer from chronic fears and anxiety, I feel myself wanting more control over everything as I get older. Writing about all this is really helping me get some perspective but, where so I go from here? How do I mend myself and become whole?

I went over to this woman’s house today. A friend I guess. Her home was so different from mine, so welcoming. It wasn’t perfect, it was warm. There was stuff everywhere. I mean seriously there wasn’t a surface anywhere that wasn’t covered with stuff. The garage was filled almost to capacity with stuff and the house didn’t have any orderliness to it. But this woman, I really like her. She seems so in control of the right things and so willing to let the other stuff go. How did I become the way that I am? I’m like a nightmare to live with. Can you imagine kids growing up in my museum-esque house? Getting into trouble for living and being dirty. Honestly, I’m not just being negative here but I need to get my priorities straight. What is the use of a perfect house and a perfect me if I’m afraid to use them? I’m so afraid of my perfect-ness disappearing. Why? Why does everything have to be so fucking perfect? Why? Here’s what I would like to believe:

I do not have to be perfect.
I do not have to look or act perfect.
Perfect sucks. It really doesn't exist.
I am nice.
I am worthy of good things and I work hard for my successes.
I am comfortable.
I am equal.
I am what I am.
I do not have to change.
I do not have to stay the same.

lifecycles

I planted my veggie garden today. Took out the giant, old cedar bush and then spent 4 hours digging up all the roots and cultivating the soil. Mulched in some mushroom manure, worm castings, lime, kelp meal, and rock phosphate. Then, I planted: cucumbers, carrots, cilantro and parsley, two varieties of squash, tomatoes, three lettuces, a curry plant, two kinds of mint, jalapenos, green peppers, oregano, chamomile, garlic chives, leeks and one giant pumpkin that has to grow alone in a giant barrel. I love growing food. My garden is tiny, but I know from experience that even a small raised bed can have a high yield if it's properly maintained. We'll see.

I'm still craving solitude. Like a thirst that won't be quenched. I half-jokingly e-mailed a friend overseas about us traveling to Australia together. We met there in '98 and now that we're both in our 30's seem to be scrambling to find meaning, or lack thereof, in our lives so far. I think we both have this idea about how great it would be to go back. To be back in that frame of mind, to escape. My fantasy was crushed though, when I realized that her ideal is Melbourne and mine is Cairns - two cities on opposite ends of the continent. Fack. There's nothing for me there anyway. The man who waited for so long stopped waiting a year ago and got some young girl pregnant. The friends I had have all moved away, because no one actually lives in Cairns. And, what would I realistically end up doing? Working in a pub, drinking too much wine every weekend and...and that's just the thing. Nothing. There is no escape. Anti-up or leave the table sister.

I need to walk endlessly and smoke cigarettes and be real and not worry about time and getting up in the morning and cleaning the house and getting fuel at a good price and whether or not I've made the right choices and eating healthy and caring about all the things that I wish I didn't care about. Let's go for a walk.

hey Morven, you're crackin' you are

I’m sitting here trying to write a Twilight Zone-esque monologue for a project at work, looking up hotel deals for the long weekend on the internet, checking my e-mail, helping customers (because I am at work), and eating a granola bar. Multi-tasking. Everyone thinks that multi-tasking is such a great skill, that it’s the essential tool for success. I disagree. If your doing more than one thing at a time than how can you be fully engaged in any task? Do we really listen to our friends when we wash dishes while talking on the phone? Do we really speak from the heart when we e-mail from work amidst the bustle and the watchful eyes of our supervisors? We need to become more involved. We need to spend each moment actually in the moment. In my humble opinion, anyway.

Shyness.

Yesterday, as I was walking home form the grocery store I imagined falling into another world. I was walking through the forest trail behind my house and as the sunlight filtered in through the trees I shut my eyes and felt transported into a new place. This world was fashioned after medieval times, but with none of the dirt or disease. It was filled with heroes on horseback, and I was one of them. An elven acrobat with neutral alignment and a beautiful white stallion named Okesat. Completely free I traveled this vast world meeting new people in new villages and spending weeks at a time alone in the mountains. To take my imagining further I imagined myself a sorceress with powers to tame wild beasts and alter the weather. I was an outstanding sword fighter and with my acrobatic skills could outplay any opponent without harming them in any way, save for their pride. In this world I was immortal. The keeper of all time and history and forever alone.

Today it felt like I was in control of everything. The radio played the right songs at the right time to drive me into nostalgia. I felt like I could feel time whipping past me like strands of hair in a convertible. It seemed as though I could recall every moment that I’ve lived so far and it was so overwhelmingly beautiful. All of it, so beautiful.

Aujourd'hui il s'est senti comme j'étais dans la commande de tout. La radio a joué les bonnes chansons à l’exact temps pour me conduire ver la nostalgie. Je me suis senti comme je pourrais sentir le temps fouettant après moi comme des rives des cheveux dans une auto ouverte. Il a semblé comme si je pourrais rappeler chaque moment que j'ai vécu jusqu'ici et il était tellement, primordialement beau. Si beau.

Sometimes we need to hang on to things that aren’t real just to keep from falling.

ferdinand

I met a guy a couple of years ago who had the worst body odour I have ever smelled. He was stick skinny and wore several layers of clothing every day regardless of temperature. He worked with me as a volunteer on an urban farming prioject in Victoria. When the project was finished we celebrated by having a big open house at the Compost Centre. He came up to me while I sat nibbling a spelt cookie told me he was going to start walking towards Port Renfrew the next day. His plan was to walk from Victoria to Duncan by way of the wilderness that lies between the two on the coast. He was taking no food or water or anything to provide shelter. When I expressed concern he assured me that a human being can survive for three months by just chewing on grass to release the water and nutrients inside. He went on to explain further that he wanted to be at the mercy of the environment and destiny, to feel what it felt like to live from day to day. I never saw or smelled him again.

encyphalitic catch phrses

My hatred is mounting(ok, that's a strong word, how about...revulsion, disgust, odium) . Actually, chalk it up to extreme frustration over being incapacitated. I'm not dealing well with letting my broken self heal; I don't like sitting still and I especially don't like asking others for help.

Aside from my grievances, the morning is beautiful. The sky is my favorite shade of gray and the air is fragrant and still. It will rain later, but for now the air is just charged and waiting.

That's all I got. Just had to post something so that James would have something new to read.

oh ya

I just read a blog that was about the uselessness of all blogs. The writer was lamenting the fact that his, and all other, personal blogs have no substance, no depth. Well, isn't that the point? It's personal! It's like keeping a journal, not like writing a Pulitzer Prize winning novel. Some people (namely this guy) seem to be confusing journaling (= bloging) with writing. Not to say that there is no creativity or thought put into journaling. No, journaling is an art form all of its own. But writing, as in fiction, with characters, plot, antagonist/protagonist, climax, ending - different thing altogether. Just thought we should clarify. Anyway, in the spirit of celebrating the creativity and usefullness of personal blogs...here is one of my faves: Dirty Olive

ranty

Why does spell-check correct my capitalized seasons? Summer is spelled with a capital S dammit! And neighbour and colour and cheque...they're all correct you dumb-ass microsoft. Toque you.

"It's the american way"
"She got a man"
"I've got a root beer"
"So, I have to take off"
"You know the funny thing is that everything works out"
"Don't you want to have something for lunch"
"We can go through this door"
"If you parked down there..."
"Ya, because it looks bad if you're losing"
"That's why I do it"
"How's it going"

Snippets. I gotta go.

voices

I'm no starving intellectual. I don't read all the right books; I don't read newspapers or contribute to any political discussions.

I met someone yesterday. This person is someone who I have wanted to meet for a long time and have always suspected that I would get along with. As it turns out, we're as different as night and day. Anything and everything that we spoke about we literally had opposing views. What was really devastating about the meeting was how disillusioned it left me feeling. I mean, this guy is a writer. This is a guy who writes for a living and he writes about things that I really identify with. So, how could we be so different?

I was walking up to the coffee shop in the village centre last night when the strangest thing happened. I wasn't really paying attention to my surrounds, just moving through my neighbourhood lie I've done a thousand times before, admiring the mountains and the colour of the twilight sky. Smelling the spring smells of new trees and lilac flowers and enjoying the feeling of the warm breeze on my face. It's not surprising that I was startled when a man on a bicycle blasted by my right side on the sidewalk. What was surprising is that the shock of the scare made me faint. The feeling was completely alien. One minute I was thinking about the upcoming summer and the next a thick black curtain was pulled over my mind. My head floated up towards the clouds and my body filled with lead. I heard the thud of my head hitting the pavement and then...nothing.

When I think back to last night and the events leading up this moment, I have to wonder if maybe I'm dead. Everything is just too unrealistic to be, well, to be real.

There was a time when I sort of felt normal. It didn’t last very long, but I remember feeling like I could accomplish anything and that I had the same chances and rights as everyone else. Of course the feeling passed into a cloud of regret and doubt about the past, my choices, the future and everything. But, there was that memory still of feeling like a normal person.

I figured out a while ago that most peoples problems come from two things: fear and loneliness. I suppose you can further dissect that into defining loneliness as “ the fear of being alone”, which, would of course make the number one-and-only problem causer FEAR. Well, I’m tired of being afraid; afraid to compete, to do the right thing, to try and to be who I want to be. I know everyone is going to wonder about many things in the coming months but if I could make just one final suggestion, wonder about fear. Wonder about who is controlling the fear and about how much happier we would be as fearless and trusting individuals.

Kian’s going?
Mmhmmm.
Oh, well that’s totally fucked.
Hmmm.
I mean these are my friends. He should know better than to hang with my friends.
Mmmm, ya. Totally.
Fuck it. I’m still goin. Fuck him.
Ya. Hey, where are ya goin?
Gotta get wine. If I’m goin to this thing I’m gonna need a wicked pre-buzz.

wochenende

Today is Monday. Now that my hours at work have been reduced I really don't get any particular feeling about Monday. For all I care, it could be Friday. I'm going to have a lot of time off this summer. The downside, of course, is money. But, I'm of the opinion that my time is much better spent enjoying myself than being sold.

I went to a party in Kits on Sat. night. It was ok. Except that I hate parties and most people annoy me. There was this one guy and his girlfriend, he's an architect and she's a teacher. He was going on and on about all these fabulous buildings that he's designing and about how his job is oh-so important. The girlfriend hardly said a word. She just sat there, nibbling red peppers and looking anorexic. Anyway, the guy (who also, by the way, had a ponytail a la 90's style) starts telling me this story, which is supposed to illustrate just how important and pivotal he is to his company. The story is about how he and the stick girl were in Cuba and the plans for a new building had to be drawn up immediately so that government funding could be procured. "We were lying on the beach in Coooba...eating dinner in Coooba...talking on my cell phone in Coooba...blah, blah, Coooba". I started to get he feeling that this guy really liked saying the word "Coooba"; as if pronouncing the name of a country correctly was going to somehow separate him from the masses. What a goof. Later on in the conversation we got onto the topic of old Vancouver versus new. I mentioned that I had grown up in Van and that since moving back after 6 years away I had noticed some changes to the city that I wasn't too keen on. Long hair asked me what I meant. I felt like saying, "Yuppie shits like you and your stick are taking over my fair city. You're pumping her full of money and cheap housing and media culture. You're killing the mom & pop shops and replacing them with big box and you're turning three wheeled baby strollers into the must-have accessory of the year!" But, instead I said something about too much traffic and an increased population. Honestly, I liked it when BC was in an economic slump. I liked it when everyone was moving away. Stay out of my goddamn city! Stay off my trails and off my roads and get the fuck out of my neighbourhood! Sometimes I have this little daydream while I'm wandering the forest trails. I dream about being the last person left after a holocaust or some sort of biological disaster. I try and imagine how I'd feel, really. And, I think I would like it.

So after Saturday night I ended up at another BBQ on Sunday night. This time though, with friends. Real friends. The ones who you know all their dysfunctions but still like them. We're such a funny group, but I really love those guys.