More Har, Less Binger

I'm having crazy dreams.  I'm sleeping worse than usual.  I'm being haunted by songs.  I'm not sure what's going on.  I mean, things are always bonkers.  There's always adventure.  But something different is going on right now.  

In chronological order, I present to you the dreams of March, largely as recorded in my Facebook statuses, with a little added commentary:

"Drakkar Noir Dreams and Whitesnake Slowdance Flashbacks. Thank you, "Talking to Your Kids About Sex", for triggering some sort of grade 7 synapse meltdown..." This is pretty self-explanatory.  This was the first dream in a long time that involved smells and specific songs.  I'd been sifting through some boxes for a bit of a job, and stumbled across a parent's guide to answering teens' questions about their burgeoning sexuality.  Naturally, I flipped through it.  

"Q: Can a boy get an erection while he's dancing?

A: Yes, it happens quite often"

other excellent Q/As include:

"Q: Will it hurt if I stick my finger in my vagina?

A: It won't hurt if you do it gently, but you shouldn't put any other things in that might scratch or might even poke a hole in it.  Remember your vagina stretches slowly, so put your finger in carefully.  And always wash your hands first." (After?  Not so much, apparently.)

"Q: How can I stand up and pee like boys?

A: For Girls: You can pee standing up if you spread your legs wide, right over the toilet, but if you get the seat wet you'll have to clean it up! Why don't you practice in the shower to see if you can do it without making a mess?  It's really easier for women to sit down." (For the record, I've actually never peed in the shower [but apparently everybody does??], and this is not a compelling enough reason to start.)

There are also answers to these questions: "Why does Aunt Alice have more pubic hair than you do?", and "Dad, when I went to the gym with you and Uncle Bill the other day, I saw how big your penises were.  I'm scared mine will never get big enough."  Frankly, these questions raise more questions.  My head hurts.

MOVING ON.  

Two nights later, I had a dream that, in order to cheer up a man I'd once dated (though we weren't dating in the dream), I agreed to do whatever he wanted.  He covered my face in a red nylon Canadiens jacket.  I thought he was going to go get me a surprise.  And then he surprised me by peeing on the jacket.

NEXT.

"Escalators like an Escher drawing, warm chocolate cake, cold hands, the snap of crisp cotton, Rolleiflex with a leaking lens, caramel light, and the smell of burned coffee. (As tangible as dreams can ever hope to be.)"  This was a good one.  Just...deeply...sensual.  That's a word I'm not really at ease with, but that's absolutely what this one was.  Really, really nice.)  

And then, for 5 fucking mornings in a row, I woke up with Master of Puppets in my head.  I was unable to shake it until noon all of those days.

NEXT.

"dream #1: i went to an 'erotic big top circus' that included old lady trapeze artists in purple plastic diapers. dream #2: 'scary sexy' dream that involved baseball, the south, and the hardy boys tv show. BUT! i woke up with 'enter sandman' instead of 'master of puppets'. does this count as victory?"  (No.  It doesn't, really.  Master of Puppets is way better than Enter Sandman.  Neither is morning music, unless you're camping.)

So then I started trying to listen to other stuff before bed....you know...to curate my dreams, and ditch the Metallica.

HENCE:

"Fell asleep listening to Lucrate Milk, woke up singing the 'ice cream cones cereal' jingle. COINCIDENCE?"  (So, that didn't really work.)

NEXT:

"whoa. just remembered a dream i had last night: i was on a dating game show. i had to choose from three guys. all three were dressed in full clown makeup. this is where i mention that i am terrified of clowns. way to be subtle, subconscious. yeesh."  (No comment necessary.  Obviously.)

LAST NIGHT:

"Went to bed too early. Had crazy dreams that I went to (basically) hipster woodstock and invented doowop harmonies. Wrote so many good songs in my dream and woke up and lost them all. My sleep is now worse than my waking time. GREAT." (So now, I guess I have to keep a tape recorder AND a notepad in bed with me.  Between the cookbooks and the phone and the piles of clean laundry, I'm running out of room, even though it's a big bed.)

Okay.  This is a pretty clear snapshot of everything, right?  Sigh.  

Today's pre-noon quote of the day: "Listen, I'm a total maneater, but at least I can fill out paperwork."

And yes, if you're wondering: I taped that tv show.  I'll let you know when it airs.  But I can't talk about it.  Yet.

Cock(roach) Boss

Today began with promise.  I woke up early and clear-headed, ready to go answer phones for WFMU's pledge drive, something I had been looking forward to for a week or so.  I showered and headed out the door with tons of time to spare.  Look at me! Volunteering! Clean and punctual and optimistic and good-sore from exercise!  It was warm in the sun, and the wind whipped my hair into ten kinds of great crazy.

I boarded the PATH train and headed for New Jersey.  I listened to music really loudly and smiled at my reflection, far on the other side of the car.  The Pathvision monitor offered up two way too easy scrambled word puzzles. I rolled my eyes, "m-u-n-d-a-n-e and o-r-d-i-n-a-r-y".  Pffft.  

As the train approached Hoboken, I opened my purse to reapply lip gloss.  Normally, the contents of my purse are: 4 or 5 different kinds of lip product, a tangle of receipts, a few sets of keys, 2 hair elastics, and a few loose almonds.  But I've been trying to pare down.  So today, my purse contained just a handful of receipts, a jar of harissa (don't ask), and a giant cockroach.  A giant, "Girl on Fear Factor Eats This Thing to Pay For Big(ger) Fake Boobs" kind of cockroach.  My first thought was, "Oh God.  That is some Naked Lunch type shit, Jim." 

I quickly zipped my purse back up.  I blinked my eyes about 15 times.  I thought about Naked Lunch some more, and The Metamorphosis, which had actually come up in conversation yesterday.  I wondered if the cockroach would offer me any wisdom.  The Pathvision told me that my horoscope involved being careful about what I spend my money on.  Kanye West's Power came on my iPod.  I stopped looking for messages and meaning.  I had a giant bug in my fucking purse.  End of fucking story.

I opened my purse again.  It was still there, and unmistakably alive.  Its antennae were easily an inch long, and as I stared at the thing, they rotated around in twitchy circles.  I zipped my purse up again.

I fumbled for my camera, knowing that nobody would ever believe this story.  When I opened my purse again, the cockroach was gone.  I got off the train at the next stop without thinking.  I walked in a whipping wind, trying to find an abandoned corner where I could quickly empty out my bag.  

But it was rush hour, and I was in a very cute and tidy corner of New Jersey.  

And so I had to walk awhile before I found a quiet enough stretch to do what I had to do.  Which is how I found myself on Carlo's Bakery Way.  Yes, that Carlo's Bakery.  Which is how I found myself emptying my purse in front of the home of THE CAKE BOSS, wondering what he would say if he stumbled across me on all fours, feet away from his place of business.  "Heh! Yeah! I'm just gonna do my thing with a roach cake!" It was fruitless in the end.  The roach had completely disappeared.  At least to my naked eye.

Oh, but also?  WFMU isn't in Hoboken, and I was cutting it close on time.  I'd jumped off the train before making the transfer that would actually get me to Jersey City.  It's not far, but still.  Sigh.  I zipped up my purse, I jumped in a cab, and hustled over to the radio station.  With a cockroach the size of a big toe in my purse.  I answered some calls, I met some lovely people, I ate a donut.  I kept my purse closed.

When I got back to Manhattan, I emptied it the bag out again.  I could have just stomped all over it to ensure that I killed the bug, but...I didn't want it to die, even though it was a cockroach.  Hopefully, he's out there giving someone else a pretty ridiculous story to tell.  

Blow Your Jellybeans Out Your Ashram

I’m sore all the time.  I’ve fallen apart since wrecking my ankle at the end of November.  The winter was not kind to me.  I was not kind to myself.  I went to yoga yesterday with C.  I was a little nervous for several reasons:

1)    Despite a few months of private lessons and a period of regular practice last year, I’ve fallen off the yoga wagon and into the prickly ditch of inflexible stiffness and cynicism. 
2)    It was Kundalini yoga.  Which, I was warned, involved chanting.
3)    An hour before class, I ate a small bag of sugar-free Jelly Belly jellybeans.  80 or so beans, 160 calories.  Whatever.  Then I read the label.  64% of my daily fibre in one sitting, and a written warning that said jellybeans might cause stomach “discomfort”. The label advised to start with an 8-bean-or-less sampling.  EIGHT BEANS OR LESS. 

I was nervous, I was wearing leggings, and there was chanting in my future, but I went anyway.  Compared to the yoga I’d been used to, it was physically pretty unstrenuous.  Mentally, it was a different story.  

Did I mention that there was chanting?  

There was also dancing on all fours, and 5 minutes of jumping/cross-kicking legs in front while criss-crossing arms above the head.  "I NEED TO FLAG DOWN THE RESCUE PLANE TO GET ME OFF THIS DESERT ISLAND, BUT I ALSO REALLY HAVE TO PEE!".  I slipped in and out of focus, from calm to thinking about dirty things to writing and work and back to being calm again.  And probably back to dirty things again. Who are we kidding?

As we were winding down, the instructor started playing a particularly crappy piece of music.  "Ugh," I thought.  "This blows."  She advised us that we would be listening to the piece of music for 11 minutes, and that it was meant to summon miracles. "Har har," I thought.  "I will need a miracle to get through 11 minutes of this goofy nonsense."  

I sat, cross-legged.  My right hand gently cradled my left hand.  My left thumb rested on top of my right thumb.  I settled the knot of fingers and palms over my heart.  "This meditation is to eliminate fear of the future," the instructor said.  "This meditation is to eliminate the fear of the future that you have largely created yourself.  This meditation is to release you into the promise of a future without fear."

A smile that can only be described as beatific crawled across my face.  I probably looked insane--eyes closed, giant grin, flushed cheeks, wild hair--but i felt radiant and beautiful.  It was kind of awesome.  Sometimes, you're in the right place at the right time, no matter how off your game you feel.

Come and find me.  I'm not afraid.  I'm not afraid of you or jellybeans or anything.  I dare you, life.

Yeoman's Omens

We had a good run. I'm not superstitious, but I think The Shirt once had special powers. It was ancient and thin and felt like silk. Almost like lingerie. Almost.

I was wearing the shirt here: http://goldheartedsociopath.blogspot.com/2010/12/i-have-never-relied-on-kindness-of.html and here: http://goldheartedsociopath.blogspot.com/2010/10/personal-floatation-devices.html  and a bunch of other times that were real turnaround moments for me.

We had a good run, but I should have known that The Shirt's days were numbered. I pulled it on for the bus ride to New York a week ago, and noticed that the ribbed collar was about to separate from the body of The Shirt. I paused, but wore it anyway. I responsibly packed a lunch, and emptied the fridge's produce into my purse so it wouldn't go to waste. At the border, the guard lectured me while confiscating my orange, and waved the English cucumber in my face before handing it back to me, saying, "I don't want it. It's Canadian." Yes. I had a cucumber in my purse. What? I didn't want it to go to waste. Plus, cucumber is a refreshing snack. I almost got sent back to Toronto because I only had a one way ticket, and no proof of employment. The child behind me only stopped his incessant coughing in order to begin noisily vomiting. I nearly wrecked my ankle (again) squeezing through a turnstile with my huge bag. I got in and immediately looked for something else to wear. And that's when I discovered that I'd managed to pack only two other t-shirts.

I had no choice. I bought other shirts. One showed early promise, but is at least temporarily suspended after suspected involvement in Friday's TERRIBLE DAY. The second drew mixed results: a cute guy stopped me to pet the dog, and then bought me a hot dog. However, as I waited on line, a small British child asked if she could 'stroke' the dog, and then the dog growled at her, earning me a lovely stink eye from her parents. The third shirt, I managed to stain within 3 hours of putting on. Thanks again, boob shelf. I have one other option, but I'm not feeling it yet.

But really, these things, these shirts, these signs I'm searching for, they're just distractions. They're reasons not to blame myself for fucking up. Reasons not to blame others for letting me down. Reasons to continue moving forward. Reasons to deflect from the uncertainty and vague anxiety I have about the rest of this year. Gratitude lives in a bag of everything bagels from Brooklyn, and walking a dog in the warm sunshine with your favourite Pixies song on infinite repeat. Comfort comes in small gestures, the hugs I allow myself to receive, the compliments I accept, the love I give, and a new pair of low-cut chucks. It's easy to sit around and wait for the other shoe to drop, but I've worked pretty hard to force myself out of that pattern of thinking. I'm just going to put the first shoe back on, dammit. We're all naked under our stupid lucky shirts, anyway.

333 Sunset Maugham

Lately, I've been playing a game (with myself) called "Sunday Shuffle". Last Sunday, I had a good shuffle stretch that included a Dudley Moore/Peter Cook sketch, AC DC, Reigning Sound and Dayglo Abortions. I generally like this game.

Yesterday, I decided I wasn't going to talk to or see anyone for at least 24 hours. At 4 pm today (hour 21), I hit shuffle and went for a walk. Lost in thought, I didn't pay much attention to what was playing, but...

I was at the (mostly organic) fruit market. While waiting in line, a child of about 7 was flailing about, and accidentally punched me in the thigh. He was crying hysterically because I was between him and the display of granola/energy bars. That's when "What's Your Problem" by the Circle Jerks came on. It was pretty surreal. And hilarious. I started to giggle (SILENTLY), and crouched to face level with the kid. I grinned (SILENTLY) right in his face. And he stopped crying. And smiled back. End of meltdown.

That's when I realized that this kid was about as old as I would have been when my mother was my age. Today (wait, now yesterday) would have been her birthday.

She would have likely been confused by my purchases (wild mushrooms, baby greens, hot pepper, fresh garlic), but happy that I was cooking. She might have been disappointed by my professional life, but she would have been pleased that it hasn't crushed me (yet). She would hopefully have understood that while I am not in love, I love and am loved, and that is most important of all.

My life has been dramatically different from hers, largely because her death served as a catalyst for me. I learned about the brevity of existence at an early age, and I have lived accordingly. A life full of experiences is not the same as a life fully lived.

My friend S. said tonight, "Was there any point to this, or was it just for your own amusement?". Those things are one and the same for me. Amusement and comfort are the name of the game. I'm sticking with the plan.

Hare Pie

For 8 days in mid-January 2008, the town of Baker Lake, Nunavut was snowed in as the result of its longest blizzard since the 1940s. Baker Lake is considered to be the blizzard capital of Canada. It averages 75 snowy days per year, and my first year in the community, school was cancelled due to blizzard 55 times. So, while snow is not uncommon, it’s unusual for planes to be unable to land for more than a couple days at a time. By the third day of the blizzard, the national CBC was reporting that several towns in Nunavut had begun to run out of food. I knew this only from watching it on the television, because I was—of course--snowed in.

The night the blizzard started, I had gone to friends’ trailer to watch a movie. It was snowing lightly as I left my place. Less than 3 hours later, when I went to leave, I discovered a 5ft high and 4ft deep Arctic concrete snowdrift blocking the doorway. I was trapped.

This wasn’t such a big deal, initially. The two inhabitants of the trailer were a pilot and ground crew employee, and basically my only friends in town. We spent a couple of days eating through the food in the freezer and watching movies; a little giddy about the brief vacation from work we’d been given.

It’s at this point that I should mention that a few short weeks before, I’d been sleeping with the pilot. We'd always had a brother/sister dynamic, but it was Christmastime, we were lonely, and after a night of drinking bootleg Courvoisier while counting dozens of shooting stars under northern lights so low it felt like you could touch them, we fell into bed together. The morning after, we did it again. In the sober light of day, it was suddenly a little awkward. A few hours later, we had to dress up like Santa Claus and the Sugarplum Fairy. We had to hand out 550 presents to local children in 90 minutes. By time that was all over, things had gotten really awkward. But I guess why there's that saying...“fuck santa once, shame on me...". Anyway, that’s another story. We secretly clung to each other for comfort until parting company at the Winnipeg Airport Sheraton on Christmas Eve a few weeks later. It had been fine since returning from break, but as the days passed in captivity, things grew a little tense between us.

By the fourth day, we were basically out of food. I made banana bread for breakfast, and then we used the peels to lure arctic hares to the living room window. While we waited for them, we watched a cannibal movie, because of course that's what you do when you're running out of food and trapped with a couple other people in a confined space. Eventually, two rabbits took the bait, and the pilot shot them with a pellet gun. While he cleaned them, I got the ladder. I leaned it up against the drift in the doorway, and squeezed out through the 2ft space near the top. I walked, completely snowblind, 20 metres to the house next door to borrow flour. I phoned back to the trailer when it was time to return, and the ground crew employee yelled so I could follow his voice back.

We watched a second cannibal movie while the rabbit braised. The pilot and I gave each other the stink eye from across the room.

I made puff pastry from scratch, assembled two hare pies, and we watched the day’s third cannibal movie (I KNOW!) while they baked.

Bedtime came. The pilot and I retired to his room, a tiny, wood-paneled, orange-accented box with two single beds. We laid in silence for ten minutes, and then he came over to my bed. And then we did what sad, lonely people do in the Arctic when shack wacky in a tundra-tied tuna can. And then he went back to his bed. I rolled over to face the wall, and started to cry. A little bit at first. I heard him sigh. And then I cried harder. Ugly cry hard. He shushed me. And then he asked me to stop. And so of course, I couldn’t. In the previous 7 months, I’d left an 8 year relationship, moved to the Arctic, and was barely surviving 50 day runs of 18 hour days by living on off-brand energy drink and beef jerky. I was a little "delicate". And that’s when he shot me in the ass with the pellet gun he’d killed our dinner with. He shot me in the ass to get me to stop crying. I stopped crying, alright. And then I got up, took the gun and got back into my tiny bed. And then I shot him in the leg. And THEN I slept pretty soundly.

You know that moment? That moment when you know you’ve probably slept with someone for the last time? I’m often guilty of being in denial about those moments, but later am inevitably forced to admit that I KNEW. Anyway, the moment he shot me in the ass with a pellet gun at close range, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to sleep with the pilot again.

The next morning, though the 110km/hr winds continued to blow, the snow had largely stopped falling, and a loader was carving the snow away from the entry door of the trailer. The pilot drove me home to the Iglu Hotel, where I was living. As I got out of the truck, I felt relief. I also felt a wave of the premature nostalgia that often befalls me. Reminiscing on moments that are still happening, and so on. And I was so lonely in those days that I already felt utterly alone before I was even out of the truck. So as I stepped out, I felt a little sad. I paused, holding the door open, and tried to imagine maybe sleeping with him again. That’s when, lost in thought, I lost my grip on the door in the 110km/hr winds, and the door crushed my nose. The pilot LAUGHED at me, and then basically drove off. You know that moment when you’re SURE you’ve slept with someone for the last time? That’s when I was SURE I was never going to sleep with the pilot again.

In the years since then, the pilot and I easily mended fences. He's a dear friend. Two nights ago, I accepted a contract working for him for the summer. So, yes. I will be returning to Nunavut for a spell, which should help bankroll some cool things I plan on doing in New York. I'm actually kind of excited. But if the pilot pulls a gun on me again, I will fuck him up. Mark my words.

oh. so that's where i left my petard. huh.

good lord, it's february.

i have spent much of today alone, in my usual home uniform (ancient concert t-shirt, jeans, chucks), with my hands folded in my lap. quietly. quietly. thinking. quietly.

i have spent a lot of time alone in the last three and a half years. i have spent a lot of time sleeping on couches. i lived out of suitcases until a week ago. i sleep best in my clothes. i listen to music more than i listen to conversation. i cook better than i eat. i write more than i read. i think better than i speak. but dude, i feel the shit out of everyone and everything.

what's next is now. today was supposed to be the day that the universe revealed itself, but by now, i should know better than to rely on the universe. and so, universe unyielding, i made some decisions. by decisions, i really mean that i have been listening to music like a ouija board, and i think i know now what is next. and by next, according to iTunes, next is Pablo Cassals and Dead Kennedys and Biz Markie. maybe i shouldn't let iTunes make all the decisions around here. hmm.

i spend a lot of time thinking about how to quantify abstractions. how to show happiness. how to eat satisfaction. how to wear self. how to call bullshit.

a friend wanted to hug me tonight. it was difficult. i don't like hugging. rather, i don't like being hugged. once i'm in, i'm in. but i don't like being hugged. i am clothed, always.

here's what i know: i am the same as i was at 5. here's what i know: i'm shy. here's what i know: if i stop moving, i sink. here's what i know: i am a shark.

here's what i know: it's going to be okay.

when i was 12, i won the district 26 spelling bee. on the spot, i fudged the spelling of the word "scythe", and i won (sorry, CJW). i won a horrible week at a horrible summer camp, where i had to stuff my own horrible mattress out of horrible hay to the dismay of my horrible allergies, and spread horrible margarine on horrible white bread toast. it sucked, but winning is sometimes important (to me). i feel like i've won, on some level. the prize might be shit, but i'm willing to accept it.

dear prize: don't be shit.

sincerely,

me

p.s. (this blog gets 1400 hits a month. who the hell are you people? comments? please?)