Once upon a time there was a disillusioned grad student, screen name: scarsarestories. Blocked from carrying out a government scholarship funded project on children and psychotropic medications by a right-wing educational institution, she decided to start a blog. She had never wanted to write for an “academic <cough> elitist <cough> <ahem!> audience” before, anyhow, she wanted her words and opinions to reach a much wider spectrum of people – that of anyone, anywhere, that could easily access her words. It was a dream come true when I started seeing page views slowly rise from ten per day to one hundred and beyond. I certainly have not made a killing (or a living !) *lol* ) as a blogger, though I hope that eventually I can jump off this platform into a career as a writer. But I’ve made some things that are far more valuable than dollar bills.
I’ve made friends. I encourage you to “friend me” on facebook to interact, because that is just how I met a couple of Ontario readers who I now consider soul siblings: the fantastic Sarafin, author and illustrator of Asylum Squad, a web comic (soon to be in print! ), and “Ma Magie”, Richard-Yves, also a wonderful writer, of the lyrical poem that shares its title with this post and countless other gems, some of which you’ll find on his blog and elsewhere on the web. I do not make friends all that easily, but I’ve made two, and I did not ask for or anticipate them, but they arrived and I knew I must be doing something right. These two are now good friends, and get to see a lot more of each other than me due to geographical realities <jealous? me?! >.
I guess what I’m trying to get out of my trap is that a tiny little community has arisen among these archived writings – two years of my life, expressed whenever I could, really, express myself, and a new brother and a new sister sprung from the annals, and I love them more than many ——.
Rick wrote these beautiful “lyrics”, the sum and fabulous poem is as great as its parts. The song is the metaphor. I am reminded of this Bright Eyes tune:
, but it pales in comparison to Rick’s rhymes. I leave you with, “…The Song That Never Ends”, lyrics by Richard-Yves Sitoski, vocals, etc. by (the awesome, as well) Jake Chegahno, photos added by yours truly. (click for youtube music video).
Here are those fabulous lyrics, and a fabulous poem:
“HERE IS THE SONG THAT NEVER ENDS…
This is for the ones who never learned to wait,
And this is for the ones who formerly were great.
And this is for the ones who just ran out of luck,
And this is for the ones who just don’t give a fuck.
And this is for the gravel you picked out of your wound,
And this is for the decade you spent locked in your room.
And this is for the nipple that burns beneath your tongue,
And this is for the majesty you had when you were young.
And this is for the sparrow singing in the rafters,
And this is for the bomb and the silence that came after.
And this is for the crimes committed by your god,
And this is for the children spoiled by the rod.
And this is for the morning and the promise that you gave her,
And this is for the evening when you knew you would betray her.
And this is for the side effects that are worse than the disease
When the pills you take to kill it bring you to your knees.
And this is for the book that’s full of wisdom till you read it,
And this is for the wolf that’s full of kindness till you feed it.
And this is for my sister who crawled out of the wreckage,
And this is for my brother who never got the message.
And this is for the grownups who like to play with dolls,
And this is for the clerks who liberate the malls.
And this is for the gambler who knows he’ll never win,
And this is for the regiment and all their next of kin.
And this is for your third eye rolling in its socket,
And this is for the soul that fell out of your pocket.
And this is for the sow’s ear you made out of a purse,
And this is for the tricycle, the ambulance, the hearse.
And this is for the bricklayer whose bricks contain no straw,
And this is for the boxer with crystal for a jaw.
And this is for the martyrs whose heads are served on platters,
And this is for the Dormice, the March Hares and the Hatters.
And this is for the radical defeated by tradition,
And this is for the moderate lost in the transition.
And this is for the shackles and the chemical restraints
And all the clothes you soil and all the air you taint.
And this is for the captain who left you on the boat,
And this is for the chill that creeps beneath your coat.
And this is for the angels who’ve never heard of sin
And give away to devils their alabaster skin.
And this is for the vinegar that happened to your wine,
And this is for the tapeworm that happened to your swine.
And this is for the id that rises from the seas,
And this is for the ego that cowers in the trees.
And this is for the cross from which your son descended,
And this is for the mantle and the shroud his mother mended.
And this is for the silt that used to be the harbour,
And this is for the leeches and the razors and the barber.
And this is for the moth that made it through the flame,
And this is for the freedom of abandoning your name.
And this is for the magnet that’s buried in your breast
That draws you to the iron of an imaginary west.
And this is for the lover who rose and walked away
When hearts became a game she got too tired to play.
And this is for the artist who pissed upon her canvas,
And this is for the boss who pissed upon your answers.
And this is for the mother who took to drugs and drink,
And this is for the son who took to wearing pink.
And this is for the women the detectives file in boxes,
And this is for the chickens guarded by the foxes.
And this is for the trees because they grow on money,
And this is for the flies because they die in honey.
And this is for your joy at playing with the heads
Of men who think they own you when they strap you to their beds.
And this is for the drug they slipped into your liquor,
And this is for the spine that was broken by a feather.
And this is for the bandage and the blister and the blood,
And this is for the fight before the flight before the flood.
And this is for your daughter playing in the sewer,
And this is for your mother who died before you knew her.
And this is for moonlight that spills across the floor,
And this is for the luggage that night drops at your door.
And this is for the brine on Adam’s dying lips
The day he fell in Eve and drowned between her hips.
And this is for your body on which you carved a picture,
And this is for the Braille in which you wrote the scripture.
And this is for the song that ends as it began,
Like the face of Ozymandias weathering to sand.
And this is for the song that begins the way it ends,
Like the mortal enemy who used to be your friend.”
Words by Richard-Yves Sitoski, Photographs by scarsarestories
Cat Power. Meow. Phoenix the cat rushes to my side. 5:09 am. I think that qualified as a nightmare. Or is this the nightmare? The truth. The reality in which these beings actually act, watch, punish. This is the second time I’ve woken up. Last time, 2:03 am. NOOOOOOOOO. I usually “wake up” around 5 or 6 as Phoenix runs up to me purring, and then starts suckling (read: clawing) my face. Feeding time. At 2 she was plopped down right on my chest. I laughed, ignored my need to use the washroom, went back to sleep. 5:11. Purring at my side for several moments. Oh, that’s nice, baby cat, that’s nice…
Then out come the claws. She starts playing with the nose ring I’ve just put back in – after forgetting that I finally had money to purchase nose jewelery. First I cover the other nostril and blow out, hoping that the backing of one of the earrings I’ve been using in lieu hasn’t made its way down farther yet. I wonder how many have? Where are they now? I didn’t set off the metal detector at the airport two weeks ago. I think I’m safe. These things have a way of working themselves out. Or being made of such crappy material that they’re not metal enough to be metal, and manage to lodge themselves so deep… I imagine my autopsy for a second.
“It appears to be the back piece of an earring. Was the killer trying to leave some kind of message?”
Is that how I will die? Murder? It would probably be one of the easiest ways. Unexpected. It’s the anticipation that really kills you.
I cover my face with the blanket to avoid what she does not realize is a potentially painful attack, not play, though I cannot blame her, the thing is quite outlandish, a hoop with little green beads woven into it such that they stick out to the side.
A bauble, a bookmark, a bee-sting.
We lie there for a while, I need to digest. Jima and I sitting here, there, at a bar. An uncomfortable scene that we’ve turned in to a play. Play. So much fun, like two little children, sitting together and giggling about something that doesn’t exist. We arrived with my father and ex #1 in tow. Jima knows him too, well – well, not as well as I do. He has managed to charm his way into coming to a bar with us after some kind of play, the kind with actors on a stage. Jima and I know how to talk to each other such that no one else can hear.
“This is really awkward.”
“Yes it is.”
But we are together, so it is also highly amusing. Will father slam his fist on the table and demand that he be repaid $20,000? Will I look down, will I run away, Jima following me out into the street, when he starts speaking of the damage he did to his daughter? Will daughter start crying?
Actors on a stage.
Back to reality. No, the dream doesn’t end there, but I must mark the passing of the magic hour when no one else is awake and nothing exists but my hands. A cigarette. Cars humming past, the wind sounds about 1000 times stronger, people waking, jogging, showering – all proper, like. About the order. A cigarette.
A cigarette in the garage, the first of the day, the only good one. I’m “not supposed to smoke in here”, but it is early. The beautifully thick orange ashtray that belonged to my grandmother. She was allowed! She was in her seventies and dying of lung cancer. Fair enough. But the wind – from here it squeals. A baby pig begging for milk. Next time I leave I will take the ashtrays (they are a pair) with me. By then I will have quit this horrid habit and I will plant herbs in them and put them on a windowsill. The space exists, but I am not there yet. Still running.
(at least that’s what they say.)
The waiter is clever, and swoops in to save the night. “A Guinness.” Jima is wearing a button down workshirt emblazoned with a Guinness logo. She does not drink beer, so I should know this is a dream, not when I notice the shirt, but when she smiles that huge smile that only she can smile and announces, “A Guinness sounds great!” I rest my elbow on the table, always the indecisive one. “Yeah, actually, a Guinness sounds pretty good.” Ex #1 orders some ridiculous cocktail that probably costs $15. So who will be paying for this now, Daddy? You’re disgusting.
Did I say that out loud? Ex #1 gets up from the table as soon as the drinks arrive. Soon he is sitting next to a girl whose chair is pulled up to a booth behind us.
“I think he slept with her,” Jima whispers from across the table.
“Who?”
“Behind me!”
“Her?”
“No, the one he’s sitting next to! The one wearing hot pants!”
I am awfully dense about these things, and have usually looked around and caught the attention of everyone in the room (is she looking at me?) by the time I see the person I’m supposed to be looking at, if I see them at all. However, the acid wash hot pants give me a break. Green-streaked mousy blond hair with thick bangs. Some grrrrls could pull it off, but not this one – I catch a glimpse of the most average face in the most average bar on the planet. Not the moon. I don’t belong here, I don’t belong here. Medusa, the green streaks are snakes in disguise. The two are sitting very close now, and neither notice my gaze. Of course not.
The chatter, the charmer, the Chaplain.
“Ew!”
“Uh-huh!”
Why are we sitting across from each other? Father has found that there are old Nintendo games that can be played for free at the back of the place, not far from our table – I think he looks like he’s having fun. Maybe not, as Jima utters once more,
“Awkward!”
I slide up beside her; she is filling out a passport replacement application, like the one I have been putting off for weeks.
Wait, how did she get here, from overseas, without a passport? I forget that she has double citizenship and assume she pulled it off somehow. She has her ways. Filling out this ridiculous form on a shitty bar table with deep grooves in it – it’s perfect.
At the very top of the form: three boxes. Male, female, or…Other?!? We can finally be Others?
“What? We can finally be Others?”
“Mmm-hm.” She grins maniacally.
“I’m going to be an Other, too!!!” I clap my hands and bounce up and down on the booth. I squeal. I’m finally going to get around to filling out that form – or picking up a new one, as I can’t for the life of me remember this box for Others on the papers that sit on my desk. Yes, a newer one, that’s all I need.
Waking. Reality. In which there is yet no room for Others. There are fewer boxes, much less diffused awkwardness, and the band is not playing my song. It became my song when I waited for the bus the other day, here, on the surface of the moon, but no, not the moon, and the album reached the final track by the time the bus pulled up…
I am like powder
I am like relaxation
I am the snow
I am the snow
I am the snow
I dig in this ocean
And I try to fill it with gold
Fill it to the top
Fill it to the top
Fill it to the top
Do you look for hope in other people’s eyes?
Well that may be your worst redemption
Do you feed and clothe yourself?
Well that may be your best defense
I am from the moon
So they say So they say
Facing, confronting, branding each other
We were made through one another
Great expectations
Great expectations
So they say So they say So they say
I am the snow
I happen to be the snow.
(Cat Power – “No Matter”, from the album Dear Sir)
A busy day…no appointments, an empty email inbox, no calls from authority figures, but having fun and seeing friends that battling Simon Fraser has kept me from seeing so many times I cannot count. Thinking about physics and literature and numbers – picking out books that I want to read. Books I ordered last summer or several years ago whose covers had never been opened before.
I realize – for the first time since high school. Aside from a few retroactive withdrawals and one stint as a part-time student for three months while my arms were in bandages after I painted myself with scars, I have been in school since… age three. 22 – closer to 23 – years have passed. I think a break is well-deserved. I think so. That is all that matters.
I am working on a few longer articles I wanted to write for the blog including a photo documentary I wanted to post over a month ago, but I’m not quite done yet, so today I leave you with four other music videos (+ lyrics) of genres I haven’t shared here yet…like all I post, they speak to the my (recent/current) present, and I’m sure those of some others’ pasts, futures or presents as well… and perhaps one of these conditions applies to you, or will after you’ve listened. Like so many amazingly talented folks, they all struggled with varieties of “madness” as well! wink:
Bob Dylan “Mr. Jones”
(Dedicated with much love to my former “friends” at grad school )
Lyrics:
You walk into the room
With your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked
And you say, “Who is that man?”
You try so hard
But you don’t understand
Just what you’ll say
When you get home
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?
You raise up your head
And you ask, “Is this where it is?”
And somebody points to you and says
“It’s his”
And you say, “What’s mine?”
And somebody else says, “Where what is?”
And you say, “Oh my God
Am I here all alone?”
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?
You hand in your ticket
And you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you
When he hears you speak
And says, “How does it feel
To be such a freak?”
And you say, “Impossible”
As he hands you a bone
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?
You have many contacts
Among the lumberjacks
To get you facts
When someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect
Anyway they already expect you
To just give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations
You’ve been with the professors
And they’ve all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have
Discussed lepers and crooks
You’ve been through all of
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books
You’re very well read
It’s well known
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?
Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you
And then he kneels
He crosses himself
And then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice
He asks you how it feels
And he says, “Here is your throat back
Thanks for the loan”
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?
Now you see this one-eyed midget
Shouting the word “NOW”
And you say, “For what reason?”
And he says, “How?”
And you say, “What does this mean?”
And he screams back, “You’re a cow
Give me some milk
Or else go home”
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?
Well, you walk into the room
Like a camel and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket
And your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law
Against you comin’ around
You should be made
To wear earphones
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?
Leonard Cohen, “Master Song”
(Dedicated to one specific former “friend” from grad school)
I believe that you heard your master sing
when I was sick in bed.
I suppose that he told you everything
that I keep locked away in my head.
Your master took you travelling,
well at least that’s what you said.
And now do you come back to bring
your prisoner wine and bread?
You met him at some temple, where
they take your clothes at the door.
He was just a numberless man in a chair
who’d just come back from the war.
And you wrap up his tired face in your hair
and he hands you the apple core.
Then he touches your lips now so suddenly bare
of all the kisses we put on some time before.
And he gave you a German Shepherd to walk
with a collar of leather and nails,
and he never once made you explain or talk
about all of the little details,
such as who had a word and who had a rock,
and who had you through the mails.
Now your love is a secret all over the block,
and it never stops not even when your master fails.
And he took you up in his aeroplane,
which he flew without any hands,
and you cruised above the ribbons of rain
that drove the crowd from the stands.
Then he killed the lights in a lonely Lane
and, an ape with angel glands,
erased the final wisps of pain
with the music of rubber bands.
And now I hear your master sing,
you kneel for him to come.
His body is a golden string
that your body is hanging from.
His body is a golden string,
my body has grown numb.
Oh now you hear your master sing,
your shirt is all undone.
And will you kneel beside this bed
that we polished so long ago,
before your master chose instead
to make my bed of snow?
Your eyes are wild and your knuckles are red
and you’re speaking far too low.
No I can’t make out what your master said
before he made you go.
Then I think you’re playing far too rough
for a lady who’s been to the moon;
I’ve lain by this window long enough
to get used to an empty room.
And your love is some dust in an old man’s cough
who is tapping his foot to a tune,
and your thighs are a ruin, you want too much,
let’s say you came back some time too soon.
I loved your master perfectly
I taught him all that he knew.
He was starving in some deep mystery
like a man who is sure what is true.
And I sent you to him with my guarantee
I could teach him something new,
and I taught him how you would long for me
no matter what he said no matter what you’d do.
I believe that you heard your master sing
while I was sick in bed,
I’m sure that he told you everything
I must keep locked away in my head.
Your master took you travelling,
well at least that’s what you said,
And now do you come back to bring
your prisoner wine and bread?
Johnny Cash, “I Hung My Head”
(Dedicated to survivors)
Lyrics:
<Not needed in my humble opinion…the only singer on the list who innunciates very well…not a complaint, I’m a fan of unusual voices, and lyrics that take time to figure out!>
Bright Eyes, “Easy, Lucky, Free”
(Dedicated to my anam caras, and my blogosphere buddies)
Lyrics:
Did it all get real? I guess it’s real enough
They got refrigerators full of blood
Another century spent pointing guns
At anything that moves
Sometimes I worry that I’ve lost the plot
My twitching muscles tease my flippant thoughts
I never really dreamed of heaven much
Until we put him in the ground
But it’s all I’m doing now
Listening for patterns in the sound
Of an endless static sea
But once the satellite’s deceased
It blows like garbage through the streets
Of the night sky to infinity
But don’t you weep
(Don’t you weep for them)
Don’t you weep
(Don’t you weep)
There is nothing as lucky
Honey, don’t you weep
(Don’t you weep for them)
Don’t you weep
(Don’t you weep)
There is nothing as lucky
As easy
Or free
Don’t be a criminal in this police state
You’d better shop and eat and procreate
You’ve got vacation days, then you might escape
To a condo on the coast
I set my watch to the atomic clock
I hear the crowd count down until the bomb gets dropped
I always figured there’d be time enough
I never let it get me down
But I can’t help it now
Looking for faces in the clouds
I’ve got some friends I barely see
But we’re all planning to meet
We’ll lay in bags as dead as leaves
All together for eternity
But don’t you weep
(Don’t you weep for us)
Don’t you weep
(Don’t you weep)
There is no one as lucky
Honey, don’t you weep
(Don’t you weep for us)
Don’t you weep
(Don’t you weep)
There is nothing as lucky
As easy
Or free
I realize that by deleting the original wordpress.com address for this website, Alarryyk also erased the documentaries and some .pdf files that I had streaming from the wordpress.com site. I will upload them to the domain for this site and have them up and running ASAP.
As for “technical difficulties” in my life, I cannot believe how many days have been monopolized by dealing with the “criminal justice” system, and the psychological fallout that I experience each time I have to deal with cops/detectives/legal council/victim services/filling out forms/etc. I think the worst of it is over now. I am probably wrong, but I am hopeful.
Except for the fact that 2/3 of my regular readers always redirected from the original site. I hope you find me out here!
Oh, and I am “raining blood” of the womanly kind early, no painkillers on hand as my doctor (GP) is on her second 8-week vacation of the summer. The last was spent in China. Must be quite lovely!
For all of these reasons, I feel it is very appropriate to post the one Slayer song I can stand – “Raining Blood”, covered by Tori Amos . I am blown away by the way she literally makes the “sound” of boiling blood during the instrumental introduction using the lowest keys of the piano.
(lyrics)
Trapped in purgatory
A lifeless object, alive
Awaiting reprisal
Death will be their acquisition
The sky is turning red
Return to power draws near
Fall into me, the sky’s crimson tears
Abolish the rules made of stone
Pierced from below, souls of my treacherous past
Betrayed by many, now ornaments dripping above
Awaiting the hour of reprisal
Your time slips away
Raining blood
From a lacerated sky
Bleeding its horror
Creating my structure
Now I shall reign in blood
I wish I could find a studio version online – the only one available has also been destroyed by a man, who is making fun of Tori, voicing his thoughtsi over the track. I wonder if he is aware that Slayer allowed her to release the cover because they thought it was better than their heavy metal version… I suppose this individual may also label and consequently write off any music performed by a woman, calling is “vagina music”. The irony continues, as “Only Women Bleed” (the title of one of Tori Amos’s first releases):
(Lyrics)
Man got his woman to take his seed,
He got the power, mmm-hmm-mmm, she got the need.
Spends her life through pleasing up her man.
She feeds him dinner, ye, anything she can.
She cries alone at night too often.
He smokes and drinks and don’t come home at all.
Only women bleed. Only women bleed. Only women bleed…
Only women bleed. Only women bleed. Only women bleed…
Man make your hair gray, a-he your life mistake.
All you’re really a-lookin’ for is an even break ’cause,
He lies right at you, you know you hate this game.
Slaps you once in a while and you live and love in pain.
She cries alone at night too often.
He smokes and drinks and don’t come home at all.
Only women bleed. Only women bleed. Only women mmm-hmm…
Only women bleed, you know it is sweet… sweet, mmm…
He lies right at you, you know you hate this game.
He slaps you once in a while and you live and love in pain…
She cries alone at night too often.
She smokes and drinks and don’t come home at all.
Only women bleed. Only women bleed. Only women…
Only women bleed. Only women mmm-hmm… mhmm, mmm-hmm… mmm…
I have always been an absentee. Sometimes by choice, sometimes by chance. I still do all of my work, and put great effort into it. But I have never been keen on always attending class. Sometimes I feel that the time is better spent working from home, getting much more done. Some classes I never want to miss, and am sad when I do. I don’t play hooky, like I must admit – I did quite often in elementary school – but at times absenteeismt is necessary. Sometimes I need “mental health” days off. Actually, I find it ridiculous that this isn’t expected at the “workplace”, since it has been found that most “sick calls” are due to feeling mentally worn out, than due to being physically ill. If you get the flu, go home, best that you not spread it! I feel the same is true of mental exhaustion and the need to get away for a while – a short leave of absence is simply necessary for one to “perform to the best of their abilities” (what any employer assumedly wants – accuracy, efficiency, obedience…, but when you try to suppress the negative energy that fills your disposition, it spills out onto the people you are working with, and for (diners, students, etc.)
This is a good example of absenteeism that makes me sad – every time I look at a blank page or blank word processor screen, I have so much I want to share, that I can’t keep track! I was going to share this info. in a post of its own. It’s here now. So be it.
So, the Tori Amos song, the full lyrics (and subtitle of this post) and music are posted at the bottom of this entry. I had the great privilege to see live in Toronto with my sister when she played this song live – clutching each others arms in excitement! (we both, at times, could much relate to the “daddy preaching to himself” bit) I tried to share this energy with a boy and co=traveller sitting in the other chair – me in the middle – when “Glory of the 80′s” began, a song that he claimed to love and that she rarely plays live – my attempts were in vain. I will discuss more about the song/lyrics later, as well, but first, a little about why I have been absent from this blog much too often lately. This is one of those “classes”, to use an analogy, that I never want to miss! Including participating in BlogCatlong, Blogger’s Showroom, and so many others that I’m in a little over my head. And every time a blank page crosses my eyes…
But the shock Alarryyk leaving our house and our relationship, an absolutely unexpected event, turned my world just slightly upside down – along with my plans for the future, both near and distant. I planned to visit him in the hospital the next day; I did not plan to be court ordered not to have any contact with him for a year. Then, I did not expect to discover I had absolutely no power to change the mind of “The Crown”, and the bodies and bureaucracies within the criminal justice system. Not until then did I even have time to go through all of what happened in my mind. I am alone now. For at least a year. Alone, like I planned to be for at least a couple of years when I moved to Vancouver. A relationship was not in my cards. A happy silence caresses me. I will no longer have to do anything I don’t want to do. There will be no Slayer and other heavy metal music blasting all night. I can listen to music I like if I feel like it. When there are visitors, we take turns choosing music, and let each person have a turn, especially if they need to hear a certain song immediately – I’m saying things are equal and everyone is respected, thus we all have great fun. I had forgotten about being able to play the piano or write without being subconsciously guilty for perhaps being “selfish” – this should have been a red flag, much sooner, and I apologize it felt so familiar that it went whizzing past my head and wasn’t thought about again.
How much can happen in a year! Our “anniversary” (I hate these trivial celebrations, but for the purpose of measuring time) was days away. Then there was the year before that…it’s shocking how boring or hopeless or terrible things can seem when they will only be part of another year, of which parts will be remembered, others forgotten, and unexpected obstacles or hitchhikers blocking the road will lead to times that change who you are.
Since July 16th, when Alarryyk was ordered to leave, I have been too occupied with dealing with matters that had to be immediately, and trying not to fall into a pit of depression. A rut. I think the time has come to see the impossibility of that happening. I actually feel wonderful about this freedom. For days, I slept for two hours at very best.
I haven’t even been checking my e-mail on a daily basis. When finally my body took over my mind and sleep came, I nearly slept for two days. I’ve been surviving mostly on cheap pizza, leftover cheap pizza, and cheesecake, which my favourite pizza delivery restaurant has on their menu. Since then, about all I’ve been able to do is curl up and watch old episodes of Law and Order, trying to distract myself from being paranoid every time I hear a motorcycle pull up to my building (Alarryyk’s preferred method of transportation – a recent post on his blog states that he abandoned, not sold, his truck – an asset – to have the bike…a liability ). Every time I hear sirens I wonder if Alarryyk has accomplished his deepest desire – to have my “psychological state” assessed and be taken away to a hospital. I realize these are ridiculous worries, and that the sound of sitens in East Vancouver has always been relentless, and will continue to be. They used to be signals of a social commentary (East Van being quite the scapegoat, has been, is, will be…, not some fantasy that they’re “coming for me!”. I am stable as can be now that I’ve been able to sleep. Even before then, I was compus mentus, albeit very tired! Those sirens not interested in squealing for an “SWF” typing, reading, watching bad TV, playing the piano, etc. This is a ridiculous, not to mention narcissistic (i.e. “the world doesn’t revolve around me” notion. I didn’t water the magick garden for a few days as I was glued to the couch and a few plants died. Luckily, not the most important ones! I still feel like crap for letting this go, even though I’ve gotten back to it and once again the strength of plants to spring back up amazes me. I had to use my “phone a friend” when loud noises on the roof and in the hallway scared me – squirrels, and our building has never been quiet.
Today the 1st of August will be free of these irrational thoughts. Time to “have the wisdom to know what I cannot change! Time to go back to work; time to go back to life! And time to forget, to resettle, to remember that summer evenings are my favourite time of the year, meant to be spent having fun, and being with one’s true friends before September brings colder weather, and a new semester. I am excited about who I will work with, who I will teach, what I will learn. “I am prepared, for whatever…” (Some more song lyrics…Ane Brun). Lyrics mean a lot to me. Alarryyk thought this was “stupid” in our last while together.
Since my plate is very full – with paid work, very important assignments to complete (I had to defer yet another class to make sure I don’t miss calls from e poliecei, and the bureaucracy of the criminal justice system which has its own set timetable one must comply with – I may not be able to post every day and answer every comment immediately, nut I will respond. However, since writing is what I have always (seriously…filling up journals as soon as I could scribble and then write) been my outlet and “survival technique” I hope to be posting and spending time in the blogosphere (damn, did George W. Bush have to use that new term/word in a presidential debate, making it sound silly with that uncomfortable, “I might break out into laughter or poop my pants” look on his face – definitely his most common facial expression… as much as possible, and at times, excusing myself from other work, choosing to give it absence when I feel that non-academic writing holds priority over “what I ‘should’ be doing!”
I am always the straggler. But I’m very good at what I do. Sometimes the straggler is also the person who gets the highest marks in the class, puts in the most hours at work, and is “an expert” of something. Tori was born a musical genius and worked hard to perfect the art of performance. I feel that I was born to write, read, learn and most importantly, to pass on my knowledge and seep up the knowledge that others, a huge variety of people, of which my students comprise a significant group – to teach – both inside and far ouside the classrooom! One must never abandon the path they choose, and the path that often feels like it was chosen for you – I feel this way whenever I think of what else I could to to “work” – to survive, financially – and realize I cannot think of anything. I need each of my days to be different; an “office job” or a remember if “thny other “9-5″ “career”, that came with the the default requirement of working eight hours a day with half an hour for lunch would quickly cause me to shrivel up under the flourescent lights, no longer able to remember if my dealings was yesterday, the day before, last week? A few fellow free- and critical thinkers have all recently and independently described this kind of work as “soul-destroying”/”Soul-killing”. As I get a glimpse at the lives of friends/acquaintances from the quite distant past who now have such “careers”, I must concur.
“The best” musicians/composers get the chance to tour the world every couple of years, putting on a performance, charged by the energy of those in attendance, knowing that one created these melodies and harmonies and chords and lyrics, and they were touched by one’s creations – immediately, with ticket purchases leading rounds of applause and shouts begging for an encore, to hear even more, has always been my “dream” career, although I’ve always known it to be only a dream. My art is the written word, and knowing that people are affected by it is all I’ve ever wanted. Implicit applause, knowing that there are others awaiting your next piece. Academia is only my day job, and I have no wishes to be “tenured” at a point, but only to teach and learn on a flexible schedule. So far this is this is how the only way how I’ve been able to get paid to write. I would leave this “medium” of making enough money to get by if another emerged.
“I guess I’m an underwater woman so I guess I can’t take it personally…” You said it, Tori, a woman from the “outer regions”, a woman who is “different” than most, a woman who refuses to leave without an answer, a woman who refuses to come home to an unsatisfying environment – is not well-received when she complains, is expected not to let the many nasty names she is called get to her, nor the endless gossip. She is actually hated by some, but must not be hurt but flattered by the ability to have such a powerful effect on someone – most often a complete stranger – but always loved by those who count. She chooses only to befriend people who she can be her true self around, and who can be their true selves around her, without judgment even coming into the picture, but instead graced with the silent promise to give advice (that the majority of “friends”would be embarrassed to share) that will make her compatriot aware of things s/he couldn’t see clearly from his/her perspective, or with her/his sometimes faulty vision :wink , founded on honesty, sincere caring, affection, the desire to see him/her flourish – all balanced on love (the unconditional kind). Sometimes we call each other spirit sisters, but there are brothers, too, of course – sisters and brothers who somehow find each other amidst the other 99.? % of others… others who care about trivialities. “Fake friends” that cause each other drama – I have always slightly pitied the people who miss out on experiencing deeper friendships because of a socially inflicted concern with shallow things – obsession with all aspects of appearance from your haircut to wearing at least some make-up to the colour of your pants; obsession with material goods of particular brands or clothing that is “in” “this season”; and of course obsession with the “m” word (those pieces of paper assigned value that I hate) and your bank balance and the colour of your credit card – obsession with the location and “view” from your apartment, the higher up in a building someone lives being a unit of prestige. It isn’t surprising that these folks are constantly creating drama from the tiniest of situations, and gossip about “underwater women” for entertainment, as the obsession with aesthetics, “things”, and dollar bills could only amuse someone for so long, right?…
The outer regions are dangerous, and my sisters and brothers are well=versed in pain. Tori shouts, “and keep this just between us…” near the end of the song, “Liquid Diamonds”. Our battle scars and the tragedies that have happened during our lives scare the others. I have discovered that my scars are a good litmus test. Like I profess, they tell stories of both strife and survival. I know I’ve encountered a rare person and co-dweller of the places outside the “safety zone” when I am asked to tell the story when they are first seen. Then, there are surprises = people who have known me for 15 years who cover their ears to my experience – in one case, yelling, “stop it! stop! don’t tell me any more!” Even stories that happened quite some time ago are “off limits”. I don’t want “friends” with whom certain topics are “not allowed” to be brought up – demanding dishonesty be the first rule of friend club. What is the second rule? This simply does not compute for me. I would much rather have three friends in the world, who I can pee in front of, talk to about the experience of having loved ones die, and call to say, “I feel like killing myself. I have a gun. Help me.” – than have fifty friends who I must put on a show for to be accepted. I do not collect friends. I forgot about the prestige of “being popular” after high school and assumed everyone else had done the same. Then I found the opposite to be true of so many – that how many times one’s cell phone rings during dinner, each call of course being from a different person, of course – is seen as some kind of accomplishment in life; one far greater than getting into grad school or having one’s writing published in a magazine.
And don’t you dare tell me to get plastic surgery to cover the scars on my inner forearms if you won’t even hear the story of how this body modification came about. Not only are there different definitions of what a “friend” is, there are apparently different definitions of what is considered “disturbing”.
I am much happier in general, and much happier with myself since I made the decision never to waste my time with “friends” that whisper when I turn my back, who use their imaginations instead of just asking me when they are “weirded out” by something I’ve done or said, and, most importantly who make me feel uncomfortable in my own skin. Yes, I get lonely sometimes, but I would rather be happy and deal with some loneliness, than be miserable, but always at the centre of the conversation, the centre of a group on the dance floor of some club, and get “hugs” before returning home every night – you know, those fake hugs where you fit your arms around someone and give a little tap while preventing any other bodily contact. My friends and I prefer the “tight hug”, the embrace.
I know I’m playing poker with the rest of the stragglers. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Life is supposed to be interesting, colourful, and stories are to be told…I suppose matte black, “yuppie beige”, and keeping stories to oneself, what, “match” well with the BP oil spill?
Well, I’ve never been one to “match“. Tori, would you give up your favourite dress because it “looks strange” with your red hair?
I didn’t think so. Neither will I. I will accept my position as the one that does not belong graciously and laugh along with the other square pegs at the people who conform to arbitrary “rules”, wear uniforms by choice and without the ability to see the pattern, and spend those bills on going to clubs where everyone dances exactly the same. Attack of the ticky-tackies! They always appear to be “doing oh so well”. They are phonies in J.D. Salinger’s exact conceptualization of the term!
urrender then start your engines
you’ll know quite soon what my mistake was
for those on horseback or dog sled
you turn on at the bend in the road
I hear she still grants forgiveness
although I willingly forgot her
the offering is molasses and you say
I guess I’m an underwater thing
so I guess I can’t take it personally
I guess I’m an underwater thing
I’m liquid running
there’s a sea secret in me
it’s plain to see it is rising
but I must be flowing liquid diamonds
calling for my soul at the corners of the world
I know she’s playing poker with the rest of the stragglers
calling for my soul at the corners of the world
I know she’s playing poker with the rest the rest
and if your friends don’t come back to you
and you know this is madness
a lilac mess in your prom dress
and you say
I guess I’m an underwater thing
i go i go inside her shell
i see it so and you’re doing oh so well these days
you do it again and i say it’s coming back again
something like the saturdays such was it
can you bring me those jeans
keep it back daddy’s done preaching in to himself
keep it just between us
it’s liquid
liquid
liquid
In the song “Datura”, Tori Amos lists some of the plants that grow in her own magick garden. Alarryyk has ordered Datura seeds to add to our own Datura plant to our magick garden. Datura is classified as a “deliriant”, much stronger than Black Henbane. Anthropologists like Carlos Castaneda have said that one must develop a relationship with a Datura plant – one must see if the plant is “fond of them, or not” – as consuming Datura that doesn’t like you may take you on a trip to places you do not want to go. Apparently it is a 12 hour trip that involves three hour-long conversations with people who do not actually exist, and smoking “phantom cigarettes”. We are not planning on consuming what was called “Jimson Weed” in the 1960s anytime soon, but the beautiful, potent plant deserves a place in the garden.
Here is Tori’s song, and the lyrics – with pictures of the plants in her magick garden!:
“Datura”
Hey…Get out of my garden!
Passsion vine
Texas sage
Indigo spires salvia
Conferderate jasmine
Royal cape plumbago
Arica palm
Pygmy date palm
Snow-on-the-mountain
Pink Powderpuff
Datura
Crinum lily
St. Christopher’s lily
Silver dollar eucalytus
White african iris
Katie’s cham ruella
Variegated shell finger
Florida coontie
Datura
Ming fern
Sword fern
Dianella
Walking iris
Chocolate cherries allamanda
Awabuki viburnum
Is there room in my heart
For you to follow your heart
And not need more blood
From the tip of your star
Is there room in my hear
For you to follow your heart
And not need more blood
From the tip of your start
Walking iris
Chocolate cherries allamanda
Awabuki viburnun
Natal plum
Black magic ti
Mexican bush sage
Gumbo limbo
Golden shrimp
Belize shrimp
Senna
Weeping sabicu
Golden shower tree
Golden trumpet tree
Bird of paradise
Come in
Variegated shell ginger
Datura
Lonicera
Red velvet costus
Xanadu philodendron
Snow queen hibiscus
Frangipani
Frangipani
Bleeding heart
Persian shield
Cat’s whiskers
Royal palm
Sweet alyssum
Petting bamboo
Orange jasmine
Clitoria blue pea
Downy jasmine
Datura
Frangipani
Frangipani
Piece by Piece is also the name of Tori’s autobiography, a book that changed my perspective on everyday life last summer…I highly recommend it – the music is a piece of the woman, but she has many other pieces as well.
We’ve got your own remote viewing
Every cell has been taught to think Perhaps the answer to the question
Lies in the question
Perhaps you should read my thoughts
Line them up like soldiers
Police yourself Police youself
Police me!
Loaded, full of winter you are
Storming Blackberry girl
Will you strike before he’s
Loaded, full of winter you are storming
Blackberry girl will you strike
Before he’s loaded
Full of winter you are
Policeyourself
Police yourself
Police me!
Can they monitor how you think?
They’ve got their own remote viewing To get off he cries “slutty goth” But I’mabrightlycoloredperson!
Loaded, full of winter you are
Storming Blackberry girl
Will you strike before he’s
Loaded, full of winter you are storming
Blackberry girl will you strike
Before he’s loaded
Full of winter you are Perhaps the answer to the question
Lies in the question
Perhaps you should read my thoughts
Line them up like soldiers
I admit, I’m a “Toriphile”. I have traveled to attend Tori Amos concerts twice, and each time she tours I obsessively look at the list of songs she played and try to imagine hearing those songs live. When Alaryyk bought me a Tori Amos for Easy Piano book, I bought a keyboard, and the instrument I played for nine years, but hadn’t touched for ten, became part of my life again.
So, I suppose I’m biased, but I feel like Tori is very relevant to this blog. She has been called crazy in the media, and totally embraces this “diagnosis” made by music reviewers – she is a modern witch, a radical feminist with a perfect nuclear family, she’s struggled with miscarriages, rape, an ectopic pregnancy – almost everything female bodies can be pushed to endure. She believes in the philosophy of Carl Jung, and views her life through the lens of the mythology of the goddesses, the archetypes, the rejection of the Christian values imparted by a father that was a preacher man but whom she is still incredibly close to, and that of the wisdom passed on to her by her Cherokee grandparents on her mother’s side, along with other experiences she’s had with American Shaman.
This tune off her latest album, Abnormally Attracted to Sin, embodies the pure joy she exudes, and the mad pride she carries herself with – her refusal to let the fact that she naturally can jump from different planes of reality to this one be seen in a negative light, but instead as a bright light resonating from within, and the Universe, giving her the power to create are incredibly empowering. If I had to “idolize” someone, it would be her
There was a gambler and a cleaner and a puppeteer
only the puppet could explain just what he was
All on a bus we were hopin’ to pass the time
plug my piece in boys then we can drink the wine
drink the wine drink the wine-
music, good friends, I’m not dyin’ today
I Amy be 6 feet under full of wonder
I’m not dyin’ today
Dyin’ today
I’m not dying mister
today
Neil is thrilled he can claim he’s a mammalian
“but the bad news,” he said “Girl you’re a dandelion.”
Dandelion. Hey I need to think about that.
Yeah, I thought about that and I said, “What the Hell?”
He said, “Nope, you are Earth bound, blow them seeds away
maybe one will make a sound.”
Make a sound, Make a sound-
music, good fiends,
I’m not Dyin’ Today
may be 6 feet under full of thunder
I’m not Dyin’ Today
dyin’ today
I’m not dying mister
today
So they got us go goin’ and comin’
Cause they make us pay
if we go or stay
is he prayin’
that I’ll pop my clogs?
if they can’t prove I’m crazy
by noon I’ll be pushin’ up them daises
Tomorrow, with their Donut ox they’ll say “Its sad she’s Brown Bread.”
Hey, I got my weapons-
music, good friend,
I’m not dyin’ today
I may be 6 feet under
way down yonder
I’m not dyin’ today
dyin’
I’m not dying, sister, take your paws off
my ankle straps and my mister
Dyin’ Fryin’, rather have a lie-in
I am not blowin’ that Gabriell’s Trumpet
I got my own band to play today
I have begun scanning through the comments page, and will soon get back to you and resume blogging as usual as of April 24th.
Scanning the comments I came to the very pleasant realization that…
our blog has reached the next level, as we have received our first…
HATE LETTER.
Yes, I named this post after one of my favourite Ani DiFranco songs – I will post the lyrics at the end of this post, as they are so relevant to this blog and so dear to me – it is a song about survival, self-identity, and vindication. First, however, I would like to make one thing clear:
Dear John (and anyone to whom this may apply),
If you despise every word I and Alaryyk write, why are you reading our words on a – daily basis? This seems a little odd. If I were to stumble upon a blog, and found the authors’ work to be unreadable, “riddled with spelling errors” (??? I work quite rigourosly to avoid any; perhaps if you think there are spelling errors, you are not aware that in Canada, where we live, we write in British English – meaning that words like “honour” and “neighbour” still have the original inclusion of a “u” after the “o”. Other differences exist as well, such as using “ll”s or “l”s, but I don’t have the time for a grammar lesson right now), inane, and just horribly stupid, indicative that said authors are uneducated and uninformed, I would…
Navigate to a different page!
I would not choose to follow that blog, and read it obsessively, preparing myself to spend another ??? minutes typing out a pretentious, formal letter, belittling the blog’s authors, and, “beg them to stop!!!”.
Perhaps I am especially perturbed by the way that you use your time. I wish I had another hundred lifetimes on this planet so that I could choose one hundred different career paths, read thousands more books, paint more, play more music, learn how to make my own clothes, learn how to speak ten languages… John, these are not times during which we can waste time “trolling” the Internet looking for our next victim of unsavoury words. I don’t think there ever have been or ever will be times during which someone can afford to devote, what, hours of time reading material written by people who he not only completely disagrees with, but who he seems to feel strong hatred (a word I don’t use lightly) for. This would be like me waking up an hour early each morning to read The Washington Post, cover to cover.
If I started waking up an hour earlier, the things I could do! The many, many more words of authors I love I could read! How much more I could learn!
I might even be able to get started on my campaign against involuntary electroshock therapy in British Columbia! Wow!
Please, if you despise our writing, don’t read it! Please, spend your time working devoted to a cause that is important to you – that is, unless the only thing you believe in is discrimination – instead of reading things that fill you with anger. Our world needs a little less of that anda little more attention these days.
If you feel it is a little out there, and you are a little scared, but want to find out more about who we are and what we have to say, and to explore the topic of “madness”, almost always the first one slipped under the rug if it comes up in face to face conversation, even among close friends, I urge you to read on, if for no other purpose than that you’ll learn a few new things.
To all others – If you enjoy this blog, as all readers but you, John, seem to, your readership means the world to us, and we hope to keep you satisfied always and turn this into a much bigger project over the summer
Best Wishes, really. Over and out!
scars
Ani DiFranco: “Letter to a John”
don't ask me why i'm crying
i'm not going to tell you what's wrong
i'm just gonna sit on your lap
for five dollars a song
i want you to pay me for my beauty
i think it's only right
'cause i have been paying for it
all of my life
i'm gonna take the money i make
i'm gonna take the money i make
i'm gonna take the money i make
and i'm gonna go away...
we barely have time to react in this world
let alone rehearse
and i don't think i'm better than you
but i don't think that i'm worse
women learn to be women
and men learn to be men
and i don't blame it all on you
but i don't want to be your friend
i'm gonna take the money i make
i'm gonna take the money i make
i'm gonna take the money i make
and i'm gonna go away...
i was eleven years old
he was as old as my dad
and he took something from me
i didn't even know that i had
so don't tell me about decency
don't tell me about pride
just give me something for my trouble
'cause this time, it's not a free ride
i'm gonna take the money i make
i'm gonna take the money i make
i'm gonna take the money i make
and i'm gonna go away...
don't ask me why i'm crying
i'm not going to tell you what's wrong
i'm just gonna sit on your lap
for ten dollars a songs
i want you to pay me for my beauty
i think it's only right
'cause i have been paying for it
all of my life
now i just wanna take
and i'm just gonna take
i'm gonna take
and i'm gonna go away
(We're certainly not "going away" from this blog or our research anytime soon, but
we've gone far away from other things, including wastefulness and bullying )
Down New York airconditioned drains
The click click clack of the heavy black trains
A million engines in neutral
The tick tock tick of a ticking timebomb
Fifty feet of concrete underground
One little leak becomes a lake
Says the tiny voice in my earpiece
So I give in to the rhythm
The click click clack
I’m too wasted to fight back
Tick tack goes the pendulum on the old grandfather clock
I can see you
But I can never reach you
And it rained all night and then all day
The drops were the size of your hands and face
The worms come out to see what’s up
We pull the cars up from the river
My Favourite Ethnobotanical (pharms from the EARTH) Site!
Awesome Exotic Plants and Seeds from my Friends in Arizona – You Can Ask Me for Growing Tips, too!
BLOGFROG
The free, organic way to promote your blog
Custom Search
Spare Some Change? (The Fastest Way To Rid This Site Of Ads…)
If each person to read an article on this site donated 10¢, my domain fees would be covered and I would have a fridge full of groceries.
EVERY PENNY HELPS!!!
>.
. I am blown away by the way she literally makes the “sound” of boiling blood during the instrumental introduction using the lowest keys of the piano.
The irony continues, as “Only Women Bleed” (the title of one of Tori Amos’s first releases):
, but when you try to suppress the negative energy that fills your disposition, it spills out onto the people you are working with, and for (diners, students, etc.)
). Every time I hear sirens I wonder if Alarryyk has accomplished his deepest desire – to have my “psychological state” assessed and be taken away to a hospital. I realize these are ridiculous worries, and that the sound of sitens in East Vancouver has always been relentless, and will continue to be. They used to be signals of a social commentary (East Van being quite the scapegoat, has been, is, will be…
Luckily, not the most important ones! I still feel like crap for letting this go, even though I’ve gotten back to it and once again the strength of plants to spring back up amazes me. I had to use my “phone a friend” when loud noises on the roof and in the hallway scared me – squirrels, and our building has never been quiet.
