Grass and Dirt

Are you kidding me?

That feeling of waking in the mid-morning in Marrakech, to the sounds of the streets where everyone is already bustling, the cool sensation of the air and the stone floors and walls; crisp, contrasting to the burning rising sun that scours the tops of buildings until it is high enough in the sky to rid the streets of their cool dark shadows.  The taste of cheap marmalade on fresh round bread, steaming mint tea in tiny glasses.  The smell of the air, something in it; everything in it, so strange.  The feeling of being welcomed into a new day inside the walls of the medina, into this warped disneyland of culture, spurned with the nagging scent of timeless, ageless, orange trees.

 Well, I slept the afternoon away and didn't do a whole lot after that... well I did get my botany notes in order and did a bit of reading.  Talked with Jocelyn, Owen and Alisha before they went out to Rod's birthday bash.  Greg came over around 11:30 and we watched Kiki's Delivery Service... great film, so cute.  The backgrounds and scenery were just beautiful.... and the little details, fantastic.

And now it is 5 am and I am awake, knowing full well I will wake up tomorrow morning feeling unrested and groggy.  I have to go grocery shopping.  I'm also going to stop by Acker's furniture and take a look at their mattresses, I'm really getting sick of this foam thing I've got going on.  It's just not making the cut anymore for me.  However I think after I take it down, I can flop it on the floor to make a nice little chill-spot for myself.  Hopefully I find a mattress tomorrow that isn't too expensive, and from a place that delivers!  Wouldn't that be grand.

Also I've been thinking increasingly about dropping Spanish... wouldn't that just be ridiculous, if I only had three classes??  what a shame I think.  ugh!

 I wish I could tell you what's on my mind.  I wish I had a good tale to tell of pain and misery and horrible events to explain the frustration and despair I feel -- but there is nothing.  I have nothing to show for this feeling -- it's all stuffed down my throat, out of sight.  Chewed up the evidence, swallowed the documents.  I am constantly screaming in my head but when I open my mouth all that comes out is a sigh.

Well it took like two whole days, but I finished page one, learned photoshop and got the scanner working in the process as well.  phew.

 ( Read more... )

Well I did it. I went out to celebrate Jocelyn's birthday but didn't drink. The night began with some epic playing of the drinking game "Kings"; in which we decided to forgo the actual rules and just decide that everytime a new number was picked, the person got to decide a rule for that card. Hilarious and photogenic results; there was trading of clothing, pouring shots from bottle into mouth, passing apples via mouths, and racing to eat sour watermelon candies. Lots of laughter, taboo jokes, and "[cream pie corrogated] cunt jack [up my ass]" said far too many times. I took a ton of pictures, its fabulous.

Anyway Nicole came over, soon followed by Rob and Nat, then we all headed out into the winter wonderland that is tonight to apartment 58. The place was semi-busy, the music not too impressive, but we danced anyways. I left the group before they moved on to Van Gogh's, came home and cleaned the kitchen and my room, folded my laundry, as I would do.

I have a kind of sore throat... hopefully I'm not getting sick, but it could just be from a lack of regular sleep.  I feel that my body is weak; I have a very poor immune system.  Also, the entire point of not drinking was to avoid these unhappy feelings that have been taking over as of late; which seems to have failed.  Although I guess the only thing to do is stay with them, let them swell up in my throat and pulse their painful waves through my body, and allow these tears to drain out of me.

The Christmas break is impending; I am so ready for it.  I am worn and tired by this semester and most of my energy was wasted in anxiety and foolish decisions.  I wonder sometimes how I can be so irresponsible against my better judgement.  There has been a lot of money-wasting, and a lot of drinking.  Not even a lot but too much for me right now, I am in a delicate state.  I need cocooning now; I need enfolding and hiding now.

This semester I have learned a lot, mostly in the field of art history.  It's given some credibility to my role as a university arts student, to be able to throw around terms and names that I can actually relate back to the cannon.  It's been interesting but also frustrating; the over-arching sense I get from learning about modern and contemporary art is it's futility and its cyclic nature.  It seems to mirror the patterns in my mundane life.  I used to think of art as something amazing and mind-expanding when I came across it in museums or galleries.  Now being able to classify and dissect pieces with more historical relevance makes them seem tired and expended.

Over the break I really need to relax.  I've love to stay in my pyjamas, sleep and read, though I know I will get bored and depressed of that life too quickly.  Hopefully I can stock up on books.  This semester I managed to get a bit of reading in, it was a bonus to take a philosophy cass and to be ASSIGNED fiction(!)  Otherwise, I've been reading some poetry.  Pablo Neruda's "The Hands of Day" caught me -- he's a Chilean poet with much to say about human life, the poems in this book are so pure and lovely.  The Spanish is good for me to read as well.  I also randomly found "Sanskrit of the Body" by WB Keckler.  He's a somewhat accomplished American writer, the book was published in 2003.  He has these paragraphs of prose that are so similar to the kind I tend to write, it's very inspiring.  He has a way of putting unexpected but perfect words together, its beautiful.

I've recently read Timothy Findley's "Spadework" -- which was basically a story of love strained and fixed again in Stratford, Ontario, amongst theatre-types.  There was something that felt a bit constrained about the characters, like they were a little too ideal in some cases.  But it was a good story, always important to support Canadian authors, right?

Also! Steinbeck's "Cannery Row" -- of course I LOVED it, he's my favourite author.  This book, more than any of his others that I have read so far has a really great sense of humor and lightness about it; its all in good fun.  He creates this town scene through anecdotes of various townspeople; and slowly their connections to each other and their place in the community is unravelled through the tales.  The format is excellent for something to be read in short snippets, as I ended up doing.

Right now a naptime is imminent.  I love to be in my secluded bed, pillow over my face, far far away from the world of unwashed dishes and untrained dogs.

When I was younger I had a hard time swallowing pills.  Tylenol, vitamins, whatever it was, I just couldn't knock it back with a glass of water.   My mom told me a little trick that her mother used to use; chew up a soda cracker in your mouth and pop the pill in just before you swallow the mushed up stuff.  It worked perfectly; my esophagus was fooled into letting the foreign object down my throat with the aid of the cracker.

"I haven't eaten since Thursday," I thought to myself with some pride.  (These were the days that I collected the days between meals like baseball cards.)  I wandered softly into the kitchen, drawn by habit to peek into the fridge, peruse the bread basket and open up the pantry.  My hand was suddenly holding a single soda cracker.  "Dinner," I thought with a grin.  I put the thing to my lips and took a tiny bite.  The bland taste lit up in my mouth, the salt was tantalizing.  I wondered vaguely why I had never noticed before the pure deliciousness of the soda cracker.

There I was before the bathroom mirror; the all-seeing eye, mixing a half a cup of epsom salts into a warm glass of water with a spoon.  The metallic smell made my bulging swollen stomach gurgle with expectancy.  While the last crystals were still swirling in the glass I drank it in a quick gulp, a stream of salty water running down my chin.  The moment the glass left my hand I popped a soda cracker into my mouth and chewed eagerly to disguise the taste; the epsom and the salt from the cracker blended together oddly, I still shuddered with disgust at the taste.

I dreamt I was in the restaurant. The people dining all faded into the background, existing as silent motionless blurs of activity.  I walked to the patio from the kitchen and he came towards me, gliding past, and for that moment we faced each other his eyes shone cerulean into mine.  Eyes that were so open and so clear and so brilliant.  I trusted him instantly.

Now I am sitting at my desk in the dark after a long lonely day, wasting my time away, listening to slow songs and feeling a love deep in my body; funny how this feeling for me is more about doubt and longing than anything else; how paralyzed I am with a desperate hope and an anxious dream.

Who knows if love was just a lack of sleep, a deficiency of serotonin or B12?

I can't quite be a planned and deliberate person.  There is always far too much going on to somehow filter and refine and package in a beautiful product.  I think this is my failure in artwork, in writing, in relationships.  I don't have the patience.  I feel as if it's all or nothing, all the junk and the excess -- when given an oppurtunity to edit, I take the stomach liver -- lungs for that matter -- with the redundant appendix.

I can't handle criticism, especially my own.  I can't accept the fact that something can be flawed but still beautiful, a working copy.  I know in my mind that I will never find a perfect fit with anything, be it a painting or a pair of pants, but in my heart I still cling to my idealist fantasties.

What needs to change, my approach to my situation, or the situations I approach?  Do unicorns exist???

Hell with it -- gonna drive to the park and pick up some young boys.

Life just recently seems like the waiting period before the day I hang myself.  I can't explain why I am thinking of suicide so often; it's just the first thing that pops into my head.... I have a difficult time dealing with the reality of my life in general; the mediocrity, the beautiful dreams that will never come to fruition, the loneliness that will never cease.  I don't mean for this to sound so angsty but I can't explain it any other way.

I successfully got my G class lisence, I think I forgot to mention.  However, the driver's side window on my car is stuck, again.

The garden is tall and still growing, I don't think I'm going to dry anything this summer so I've let it all grow wild.... it's amazing how this climate, cold and desolate as it is in winter, can allow things to thrive with such abandon in the growing season.  I heard a man is working on a vineyard on this island, which should be interesting.  The most northern vineyard in Ontario.  Anyways the raspberry branches are drooping with the thick and succulent berries, the peas and beans are growing fat as well.  The yard looks brilliant; since my dad has gone the lawn has run it's own course and is dotted with purple yellow and white flowering weeds.  Everyday things have grown.  I would like to sit down and watch the dill for a few hours, to see if I can observe it growing in real time.

I went out to Route 50 Saturday night and came home with a kitten, who I'm naming Said Naji.  I don't know if I will be able to keep him for very long, though I'd like to.  He's great company; his interests include paperclips, pooping in houseplants, and chewing on human hair.  It's nice to have someone around in this big empty house besides the nice woman on the radio.

I bought a sketchbook last weekend with the most silky smooth pages, it's grand, I love the way water slips around on it and leaves the most vague impressions of colour.

I've been listening to a lot of Grizzly Bear and wondering why you would want to disappear.
 

Tonight at the restaurant, one of my first tables was an older couple who sat by the window in the party room.  The man was hard of hearing and slightly ornery as I took his order, had a slight misunderstanding of the menu which was easily cleared.  As I took their menus and made to leave the table, the woman looked me in the eye and said, "Would you consider yourself a sharp and intelligent young lady?" 

I stared, confused, and responded, "I would like to think so, yes."

"Are you going to university?"

"Yes.."

"Where?"

"Guelph."

"I see.  You just seem like a very sharp and intelligent person.  And I don't just mean smart, I mean aware."

"Well, thank you."  I made to leave the table again but she continued, staring me right in the eyes.  Spine-tingling.

"Yes, you seem very present.  Do you practise presence?"

"I don't consiously no, but..."

"So you do it unconsiously?"

"Yes, I think so."  I could feel myself trapped in her gaze and I felt she was staring into my mind, I tried to look away but felt drawn to her eyes.  I felt uncomfortable.

"Do you ever feel as if people don't notice you are physically there?  They may bump into you or something?"

"Yes, but I always thought that was due to my height, people don't often see me coming,"  I wanted to change conversation but my weak attempt at a joke was ignored.

"Well yes, but you seem very aware, very sharp."  

"Yes, thank you... well I have to give this order to the kitchen now.  Thanks." I quickly turned before she could get another word in.


The whole interaction to me; I can't get it out of my head.  She was one of those people who's gaze I felt I knew.  Jawad was like this.  Many people at Beneficio were like this.  Julia.  Her friend Lynn.  The guy from BC I met in the Espresso Bar a few weeks ago.  I feel like they can just stare in and dissect my mind, read my thoughts.  Do I connect with these people?  Or is this some kind of psychic power I am sensing?  Why does it make me so uncomfortable?  My first instinct in this conversation was to shy from it, I felt a little violated.  

And what did this woman mean when she said I was aware?  I would like to think this is true, but of course; it is a trait I admire and I can't judge myself objectively.  I wish I could ask her these things now, thinking back,

The trip was fabulous.  I spent a lot of time in the backseat of the car of course, thinking, reading, listening to the radio like people used to do in their parlours, hanging on to every word and note.

Anyways my dad and I left wednesday afternoon, spent the night in Sudbury after both getting extremely cheap and efficient haircuts. Ate and talked with Bob and Betsy, who are always a pleasure.  I had a brilliant sleep as I always do in a strange new bed.  Left early in the morning to pick up my sister in Killarney, she gave us a tour of her camp and the beach.  We ate fish and chips by the shore and wandered in the quaint tourist town, marvelled at the boats and such.  That night we arrived in Markham.  My sister and I did some shopping before retiring to Aunt Joanne's house for a low key evening.  Woke up early to a fabulous breakfast and hit the road again, to Guelph.  More shopping, lunch at Carden Street.

Eventually I turned up at 14 Dublin to find everyone smoking on the porch in fabulous summer fashion, we hung around while the boys played tunes, then went to the mall in search of bartending supplies and liquor.  (Let it be known I love friends with cars that play MSTRKRT loud and proud).  Jocelyn and I chatted and played with little Frank, met up with Alisha, Peter, Steph.  Adrienne came over later, Josh showed up too and some other randoms, we went out to VInyl of course and it was suddenly like old times, like I'd never left Guelph.  (I'm almost tired of the town already.)  I went out of the bar on my own in search of trouble and found it at the Albion, I went up to check out some Russian tunes I heard from the street, then crawled out an open window and danced on the rooftops.  I had my thrills and dancing, eventually retiring home to collapse on the floor beside Alisha.  

I woke ridiculously early, feeling rough, chatted with Alisha and waited for the cavalry, when they arrived we headed southward again to Niagra on the lake, it had been too long.  Got all ready in the hotel, drive to the vineyard, bussed to the service, and back to the vineyard in the rain; the reception was planned for outside and was a little sloppy due to weather but it all worked out in the end.  Reunited with my little cousins and met all kinds of drunk pseudo-relatives and generally brilliant people on that porch and in that tent.  Dinner was incredible, of course, given the culinary skills and training of the groom and his associates.  (The wine deserves a mention too, but I focused more on the cocktails.)  Nina and I drank like fishes after dinner and danced to all the typical songs... but if I recall, they did play sandstorm??  I should have made requests, thinking back.  I met some gorgeous men in various stages of intoxication, (one particularly with the most beautiful lips), and took a lot of pictures.  It was grand.  Good old dad drove me home as the night began to wane down and I slept where I fell on the bed.  After a visit to Aunt Marilyn's house and morning chat we headed out of the city, and I began to feel the effects of drinking.  

The drive home was 10 hours of uncomfortable sitting, but by the time I got home I felt renewed.  The garden seemed to have double in size and the peas were beginning to ripen, I snacked on them and raspberries and all kinds of food I'd been wanting to eat all day.  Sleep, dream, awaken; here I am back in Mindemoya and I have to work at 4, tomorrow I attempt my G driver's test tomorrow.  I MUST pass; I can't fail it for the 3rd time.  I need to marry a man who loves to drive!

I am the the worn-out muffler, the wrinkled face.
These brake pads need changing.
Take the garbage out.
Turn around, lay down.

Well it's over.  I worked four 12 hour days in a row.  I enjoy working a lot, it keeps me out of trouble, and constantly working gets me in a groove that makes the job somewhat seamless.  There is always something to do in a restaurant (or coffee shop, apparently), and I just keep moving.  Nevertheless, I am tired and feel a little empty; I haven't had time to read or do much else but eat and sleep between shifts.  It looks like my plans to pick up the guitar this summer are somewhat shot.  Plus I keep getting al these ideas for art, but no time or space to put them into action.  Going back to school will really be a break.

On Saturday night I went out to the bar, I actually took my bike there and back.  Lots of people were there, it was general nonsense with funny glasses and everyone taking shots from these cheap 'Canada Day' shot glass necklaces.  I was really wrecked; lets just say Sunday was a challenge.  I think I understand how miners live; just a little.

Last night I got home and lounged in front of the TV with some chips and frozen yogurt until bed time, and woke up at 11:30 (!!) from a nostalgic, emotional and disturbing dream.

Today I'm preparing myself for a long couple of days coming; I work at the Espresso bar and at Garden's Gate tomorrow to Sunday.   I'm catching up on laundry, reading, relaxing, I may crack open my Spanish textbook, even.  Actually I think I need espresso first.

Right now I'm listening to this Fado CD that was found at the Espresso bar, someone had left it.  Who had left a Fado CD, in Midnemoya, I can't possibly imagine.  Probably some upright old woman.  Anyways, I'm enjoying it... there is something about non-English music that really fascinates me.  When I listen to English vocals, I am more likely to piece together the words I hear into my own perception of the meaning and intention of the song. When the vocals are nother language, I hear the voice as just another instrument, and pay more attention to tone and inflection, hearing the rise and fall of the singing ebb and flow with the rest of the instruments and the groove of the song.  It's also more interesting, since I do not expect what sounds will follow what, the words of an unknown language are unpredictable and seem like some creative abstract of sound.

I finished Paul Bowles "The Sheltering Sky" last night; what an ending, I truly couldn't put it down.  It was a brilliant book, fraught with inisghtful clarity into the characters' thoughts, while at the same time keeping up the pace of the plot.  Some of the lines in that book just made me shake my head, he really is a beautifully clear writer.  The style of writing that appeals to me most is something that walks the line between descriptive ornamentation and the minimalist approach.  I like beautiful phrasing that gets to the point.  I think Bowles has this.  I've already begun a short ways into "The Spider's House" and I can't wait to keep reading.  I love good books.

I was reading about Bowles on wikipedia and some other sites, looking at pictures of him, interviews, assorted biographies... he really is a character that lived a life I admire and aspire to... travel, language, the arts, culture.  And yet there seems to be a poise about him, a no-nonsense approach to his romanticism.  Apparently he's translated some Moroccan literature, I would like to get my hands on some.  I really thirst for reading something from the Moroccan perspective.

This morning I watched "Thumbsucker" a movie about an akward 18 year old and his struggle to find "normalcy" in his life.  Near the beginning of the movie, he is hypnotised by his orthadontist to stop his habit of thumbsucking, and then begins searching in his life for something to fill the gap left by this old habit.  He acts out in school, pushes away his only friend, then goes on ADHD drugs and joins the debate team, eventually rising to arrogant stardom.  The movie concludes with an affirmation of his parent's relationship and their humanity, as well as a philosophical conclusion that humankind is plagued by an irrelevant desire for "fixing" oneself -- when we really don't have problems to begin with.  Sooooo there is nothing wrong with thumbsucking, apparently.

It was really a good movie, some good acting, really engaging plot and characters.  It made me think really; what are my "problems" -- and are they really problems?  It's so hard to think of yourself and your own personality and behaviour.  How can I observe and draw conclusions about myself accurately, when I have my own biases about who I used to be, who I want to be, and what I don't like about myself?  I know I've met other people who don't seem to be aware of certain traits they have... what do I do that I don't know about??  Yikes.

Today this man came into the Espresso Bar, wearing a brown vest over a dark purple shirt, with greying long thick curly hair, and a large triangular silver pendant with a blue stone dangling from his neck.  I ended up talking with him for a little while, he is an astrologer, a jewler, traveller and general mystic.  He showed me some of his pendants and essential oils that were for sale, and we talked about Morocco and Turkey.  I have met so many people like him.  They truly fascinate, and sometimes scare me.  I want to be a part of their world but I am just a little too grounded for it -- (on the other hand, I feel like I am a little too "floaty" for the grounded part of the population I meet).  He reminded me of Beneficio.  I was left with a really strong impression after he left, and it wasn't entirely good.

Lately I have really begun to become concious of tourists on the Island, and their feelings about the place.  Quite a few people I have seen, similar to this man I met today, have thought of the island as a magical place.  I think it's attracting more and more of these types of people, quite contrary to the lifestyles and attitudes of the people who have been born and raised here.  It's just weird -- if I was an anthropologist, I'd study this interaction.

Back onto the previously bracketed comment -- the feeling I have of being too floaty for the grounded ones, and too grounded for the floaty ones -- in university, compared to my parents and most acquintances I have, I feel too free-spirited, lacking in focus, idealistic, hedonistic, artistic, unconventional.  But compared to the people that live the truly free lifestyle, the gypsies and nomads of this modern day -- I feel too structured, materialistic, logical, organized, and intellectual.  I'm stuck in this weird middle.  I don't want my life to be a compromise -- I want to live fully.  Does everyone feel like they don't belong?

So worked today 6:30 to 2, it was actually really busy during lunch for once; was moving and grooving.  After work I watched a weird weird movie called Fur.... with Nicole Kidman,  did not turn out at all like I had expected, set in about the 40s or 50s, she's a docile mother with a supressed wild streak who falls in love with a man covered head to toe in hair that he routinely cuts, dyes, and sells in the form of wigs.... she makes friends with all these "freaks", takes some photos.... and yeah.  Gets a pretty cool cape made out of super long human hair at the end of the movie.  Solid.

I ran today, took Meeko out for a bit of a jaunt before she started biting me again.  I love her so much but her teeth are like needles.  Also I watched a little section of the Tyra Banks show and there was a woman being interviewed who gave up her home for a tiny house on wheels, really getting rid of a lot ofher possessions and scaling down her lifestyle, after a trip to Guatemala.  It really made me think... I always feel like I have too many "things" -- I want to be able to get rid of a lot of my old stuff.  The problem is, the majority of useless clutter I have is old drawings, poems, notes from friends, paintings.... can I really part with this stuff?  What things from my childhood and adolescence, if any, do I want to preserve?  What makes the best keepsakes?  What about books?

Tomorrow I've got a massive long day; going to try to go to bed pretty soon to gear up for it.  Espresso is going to be so essential tomorrow.  Oh god I can see the shittiness already.