Anam Cara and I remembering the ’90s, couldn’t help but post a song we happened to both be thinking of lately. “How ’bout those transparent dangling carrots.” Oh Alanis, only you – it made my lady think of a shower curtain or a rear-view mirror hanging thing…I always thought it was a reference to a vibrator. Again, Freud rolls over in his grave.
“The moment I jumped off of it, was the moment I touched down.” – can’t help but make me think of a departure certain school on a hill.
By the way – it was definitely the Trazodone. Not a wink of sleep last night, but a good 7 hours spent in the prone position. Some spent cuddling One of my favourite things…more than kittens or mittens. Did not wake up wanting to cry. Plus, I was right! The pharmacy gave me 10 fewer clonazepam than I was supposed to get last week. Oh pharmacists, your job is to count pills, and you cannot multiply “7 times 5″. So I was scared that I had consumed a ridiculous number of pills or someone close to me had stolen a bunch, because I thought I had been taking less than the prescribed 5/day.
I had donated a few to people who really needed them without the hassle of going to multiple walk in clinics and being made to feel like a criminal for needing a cheap pill to settle you down during a period of stress so high you’re having panic attacks rather than an antidepressant that “will start working in three to six weeks…<no information provided about when you are going to get off this drug>”. Again, what is more “habit-forming”?? – a benzodiazepine, which works on GABA receptors alone, established over fifty years ago to rid one of anxiety without being addictive as barbituates were taken, say, once a month? Or some Paxil – I recall a friend being given a prescription with six months worth of refills at a walk-in clinic when in grade eleven. S/he had been having trouble with schoolwork due to anxiety – the stuff made her batty, but she got off it when realizing this. I am proud of her in so many ways – she entered university with an entrance scholarship, and graduated with straight A’s, and a double major in psychology and I.D.E. (International Development Studies) – the first in her family to take any university classes at all. She did it all on her own – navigating the student loans system, working, managing to squeeze in necessary social time in on the weekends. I think of her often and love her, I hope she knows that. She looked so beautiful last time I saw her – I’m so happy that I saw her beautiful dimples and watched her smoke a cigarette like only she does before I left Winnipeg; cigarettes bring people together and result in conversation – I wonder how their coming obsolescence will contribute to alienation.
Here are the lyrics in full:
How about getting off of these antibiotics (we substitute “antidepressants”… )
How about stopping eating when I’m filled up
How about them transparent dangling carrots
How about that ever elusive kudo
Thank you India
Thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence
How about me not blaming you for everything
How about me enjoying the moment for once
How about how good it feels to finally forgive you
How about grieving it all one at a time
Thank you India
Thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence
The moment I let go of it was
The moment I got more than I could handle
The moment I jumped off of it was
The moment I touched down
How about no longer being masochistic
How about remembering your divinity
How about unabashedly bawling your eyes out
How about not equating death with stopping
Thank you India
Thank you providence
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you nothingness
Thank you clarity
Thank you thank you silence
yeah yeah
ahh ohhh
ahhh ho oh
ahhh ho ohhhhhh
yeaahhhh yeahh
…we’ll stop now How I miss the illusory stability of the nineties…
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
Today, on facebook (evil, evilbook) I was called a “crazy psycho-bitch conspiracy theorist”, by a “friend” of a “friend” whom I have never met or spoken with before, for posting a very interesting bit of information that I read the other day in a medical journal: that glycine, an ingredient of the “H1N1″ vaccine (constituting 20-some percent of the vaccine’s contents, I think it was 23%, but I would have to look it up to make sure), has scientifically been linked to autism. And that was just the start of it.
When the “Swine Flu/H1N1″ panic was at its peak last fall, I was similarly attacked, that time simply for sharing my personal viewpoint that it is incredibly important to develop natural immunities to viruses and bacteria that are floating around, also mentioning the original, 1976 60 Minutes piece on the original “Swine Flu” outbreak on an American military base, and the subsequent “classified” vaccination of soldiers that lead to permanent paralysis and at least 300 deaths. I realize that the vaccine for this same “flu”that is given out today is not chemically identical to the previous one, but I meant it as a reminder to my friends to think twice before lining up to be injected with a mystery substance that was developed in a few weeks.
However, that time, it at least spurred some interesting debate among friends, all of whom were at least aware of online databases where you can access medical journals, even though most of them were quoting N.I.M.H. propaganda, they were at least willing to discuss their viewpoints, not taking my comments as a “personal insult”, even though some disagreed quite adamantly. I was called a “conspiracy theorist”, but not a “crazy psycho bitch”.
The reaction I got this time was far more disillusioning – my comment on a friend, parent, and self-proclaimed mad-activist’s page, about the importance of letting children build up natural immunities, mentioning the fact that when our generation was toddler-aged we only received a fraction of the vaccines that are “highly recommended” today and we’re doing just fine, did not go over well. Not only was I accused of being a “crazy psycho bitch conspiracy theorist” by this person I’ve never met, but my own “friend” – who I met at a psychiatric ward, and who has shared stories with me about how antidepressants (made by the same companies who produce these vaccines…perhaps she didn’t think of this?) have caused her permanent brain damage, and induced extreme, absolutely uncharacteristic, rage at one point – accused me of having told her that she was a “bad parent”, after I lightheartedly reminded the pair that all science is merely theory – that this is the very foundation of “science” – THEORY.
Much to my dismay, she started throwing insults my way too, despite my profuse apologies that I was absolutely not implying anything about her parenting skills, but just sharing some critical food for thought. I apologized again and again – five or six times, but she refused to let the matter go.
“Oh my god, scars, really? I take parenting very seriously…” I don’t remember the rest of this quotation verbatim, but she stated that I am not allowed to mention anything that has to do with her role as a Mother, or the vaccination of children. I told her again, my comment had absolutely nothing to do with anyone’s “parenting skills” – it was a comment on Big Pharma, medical sociology/the politics of health, and over-vaccination.
As she continued to throw insults at me, I finally stopped apologizing, and said, “Fine – you know what? I’m upset too, about the way you and your friend are treating me for doing nothing but providing some information I read recently that I found interesting, and that I thought you might find interesting, being a critic of the pharmaceutical industry and all. Let me hear some arguments from the pro-vaccination-against-anything-and-everything viewpoint. I am quoting “scientific research”, and I enjoy participating in debate with my friends, who often end up changing my own views, so please, let’s hear some precious ‘scientific evidence’ from your side of this issue!“ I also reminded her that I am a medical sociologist – that this is my career and my passion, and I never throw around personal bias – all of my opinions are well-researched, and often based on having been witness to horrible things, as happens to be true in this example.
She refused to do so, continuing to insult me – not debate me, but make claims that I have deep character flaws – and as three messages in a row from her arrived in my inbox in the span of about 60 seconds, I logged out, changing my “status” to:
I AM ***NEVER*** GOING TO SHUT MY SUBVERSIVE, CRITICAL, WOMAN-MOUTH, AND IF YOU WANT ME TO, PERHAPS YOU SHOULD RECONSIDER YOUR SUPPOSEDLY *RADICAL* POLITICAL VIEWS, IN ADDITION TO REMOVING ME FROM YOUR “FRIENDS” LIST. CHEERS!!!!
I would love to hear some educated views from folks on the pro-vaccination side of this debate, but apparently, this topic is over and above debate – “crazies” like me (and where was that I met you again? perhaps you would like to comment on your buddy’s use of stigmatic, sanist terminology, directed at your close friend?) deserve to be called names and dismissed, not on the basis of damning, contrary evidence, but because criticizing the uber-vaccination of children is off limits – this is somehow legitimate, while debate is not.
There’s a name for conditions under which people stop being willing to participate in open conversation and debate about any topic: fascism.
Being unable to state one’s opinions without being called names, and being “shot down” or “shut up” without rhyme or reason is reminiscent of Stalinist Russia, the Tiennamen Square Massacre, George W. Bush’s firing of any scientists who produced reports on global warming that did not suit his fancy, and the public murders by the state of truthful journalists and scholars in Iran, to name a few examples.
Yet it is one thing when a powerful, institution of government is responsible for the repression of opinions that they “don’t like”. It is another thing – a far, far scarier thing – when individual citizens, and “friends”, start to monitor what people say to them, and gang up on the gal or guy that begs to differ with one of their “mainstream opinions”, those opinions, of course, being fed to them by the “mainstream media”, which is now controlled by corporations, who control the government. It is even more disturbing when the people doing this bullying and silencing think that their socio-political values are “radical”.
I can already hear a comment from the peanut gallery – I’m not a parent. Sorry, that means nothing. I have many friends who are parents, and some of their children have become incredibly ill after taking certain vaccines. My five year-old cousin was the only child in Manitoba that contracted H1N1, after a family trip to Mexico, and it was no worse than any other flu – but when she went back to school, she found herself an outcast, and her peers refused to speak to her anymore. Aside from that, can a white person not think that all races should be treated as equal? Can a straight person not march in a gay pride parade? Can a man not be a feminist?
I would still love to hear some arguments, based on evidence of course, about the wonders that the H1N1 vaccine did for society, and the absolute lack of harm that it caused to the people who injected themselves or their children with it – although since the vaccinations were only doled out half a year ago, no longitudinal studies exist on the potential long-term effects of the shot.
Except from those based on the “Swine Flu” vaccines that were administered in 1976, that is.
Do most men think that Tori Amos is “a crazy bitch that they wouldn’t want in their bed”? I would certainly welcome her into mine… “NinjaDude” (check out the comments) – you are an ignorant pustule – Tori Amos’s concerts are of the “sitting down” variety, and it sure as hell is a privilege to somehow have acquired front row seats. If you want to jump around like a drunken idiot, go to an outdoor festival or a stadium Limp Bizkit show or something, not a piano concert!
But, I suppose it’s absolutely insane to criticize paying customers!
Well, Tori doesn’t perform a service, she performs an art, and I love her even more after seeing this clip!
TV surprised me and there was an excellent documentary/short animated film called “That Crazy Game Called Life”, a National Film Board of Canada (NFB) production, on this afternoon. Unfortunately, whereas the NFB used to provide all of their films in full on their website, they evidently can no longer afford to do so. You can read about it here though! And here’s a great still from it…
For now let’s check this one out…it’s primetime TV time. Gross. I didn’t realize people still watched “American Idol”. I’ll watch it too…
Grrrr…the embed code is not working and I am sick and lazy You can watch it here on blip.tv. Very lazy, I know!
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One of my favourite things…more than kittens or mittens. Did not wake up wanting to cry. Plus, I was right! The pharmacy gave me 10 fewer clonazepam than I was supposed to get last week. Oh pharmacists, your job is to count pills, and you cannot multiply “7 times 5″. So I was scared that I had consumed a ridiculous number of pills or someone close to me had stolen a bunch, because I thought I had been taking less than the prescribed 5/day.
)
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.
