The Notebook Returns

Once upon a time, I used to write in a notebook everyday. It's been so long I thought I'd lost it, so instead I wrote, for the first time in months, on a folded piece of loose leaf.

Stream of Consciousness:

you're doing him a poetic injustice.

CRAICOW. is craic a lacking. but not lacking craic. or vodka. or Godka.

imagine the pipe cleansing power of 95 proof spirit de-ice your heart in a heartbeat. the drano of alcohol.

Sail away in a sailboat so put your sole up for sale for scale. pallour valour in the parlour with a spar candy bar. Handy at sports to court the shorty at McDaids on a Sunday. Sunday. Sunday. Brunch of bacon and toasties toasty warm by the fire aspire for higher learners and yearners for the spread of the sun over green. Fields and fields and fields of green and of grey we go looking for lost things in the post post war and post modern artistiques listening to terrible music with tearable hearts. we start. Tear us apart, love. Above there is no sign. There is no Mine. or Thine. or His. It's ours in hours it seems to take driven to be ridden of sadness and doubt shout shout shout! Shout it out loud! Let it go sailing flailing and ultimately failing to see the light of days dismays me and betrayed. I strayed from the past present and future lost my bearing in Berring sea to a polar bear with no molars.

Journal Excerpt, Jan 25/06 (Wankers, Victims and Bystanders)

The following is an edited excerpt from a 3-ringed binder I used to write in when I was 15:

Some would say that Dodge Ball is a mere PE pass time. Au contraire. In my experience, players of this perilous game fit into 1 of 3 categories:

WANKER - a skilled marksman and athlete with a will to win and a talent for competing.

VICTIM - unskilled, uncoordinated and forced, unwillingly, to play a gruesome game.

BYSTANDER - mid-way between to two extremes; bystanders are found cowering at the back of the playing field passing off stray balls to more adept teammates, occasionally making a contribution.

I ususally fit into the Bystander category. More of an observer, really. My strategy is to lie low, pass on ammo to Wankers and keep a close watch on the game at hand. That is why I rarely get "out". Actually I'm an (ir)regular survivor. Observation skills are key in Dodge Ball, whichever type you play. There's playground standard Doctor Dodge Ball, Monster Ball, which includes the use of basketball hoops, Hit & Sit on teams, etc. The variety we played in gym class today was called "Crossfire". Instead of dying or going to a jail when hit, Victims cross over enemy lines behind sets of cones running down each zone in lanes. The only way to get back to your own team's side is to find a ball and get someone out. Then you are freed and the person you outed is sentenced to the sidelines. It's especially challenging because not only do you have Wankers shooting at you from cross court, but also on two other sides. Dozens of times I witnessed Victims and Wankers get pwned unexpectedly from behind. Oh the slaughter.

I kept alive making shots when necessary and really just staying low. Ms. Stigings, the slave driver, was making us play our seventh straight match (even though my team had clearly dominated for several rounds). One of those bloody Wankers pegged my teammate, Evelyn in the face. The eye, in actual fact. I haven't known Evelyn long, but it was weird to see her cry, she being more than a little tomboyish. I knew it must have genuinely hurt her. Didn't tell the teacher - she never did find out that Ev went missing for 15 minutes. Too busy trying to make her chosen team win.

Suddenly, to me, it wasn't just a game. For a while, odd people disappeared into the change rooms to check on Evelyn. Stigs didn't notice that either. Even though teams were shorthanded. The brutes played on. Some time later (Ev still M.I.A.) a rogue ball rolled out into the hall and I ran to retrieve it. I picked it up and was about to return when I noticed the lines of girls carrying balls at our jail lanes waiting for the kill. For once our side was losing. Going out was suicide. I felt literally trapped. I wanted so much to drop the cursed ball and skip freely up and down the hallways. But I had to go back.

I re-entered. Moments later I was suddenly the only girl left alive on my team. It was incredible. Ms. Stigings yelled, "Get Emily!". I would have liked to write about how hundreds of balls were thrown and I performed matrix-esque moves and dodged them all. But I can't. I hate being singled out. At first people were like, who's she? Then a few Wankers clued in and aimed a couple at me. I dodged the first attempt amazingly, but was sadly hit by a second trying to jump over it. And so ended the classmate vs. classmate war.

By this time, Evelyn came back with a puffy, red eye. A surprise visit from Mrs. Saunder's grade 9 class took our minds off of it for the mean time. My teacher quickly explained the rules to the nines. Gr. 10s eagerly awaited another kill. Those poor, unsuspecting fools. On the go every single ten charged to the center line in slow motion. Not one younger girl moved. A war cry emanated from the seasoned veterans. In seconds, every ball was on our side and the nines were being taken out the by handful. Those savage hyenas picking off first the weak or sick, until the fighters stood alone and died tragically in a mass murder. I will never forget that moment, nor the person I became for under a minute of massacre.

Evelyn was in much better spirits after our repeated wins over the grade 9s, but I'll finish by telling of something she said to me in the hall outside the gym - so far I was the only person who realized she'd been hurt. "It's always the same people," she said, "and it will never change." In some ways the statement is spot on. Those popular, athletic Wankers get away with anything from breaking rules to cheating to making mistakes. I see it all the time. Most of the players are too absorbed to notice, but I see. Of course it was the most popular girl in class that aimed high but never felt the consequences.

You can choose to interpret Dodge Ball however you like; a simple way to get exercise and kicks, or a barbaric, death-match for hell-bent winners with a desire to annihilate. No Big Deal. What does a friendly game of Dodge Ball count for in the end? Or are we destined to forever remain Wankers, Victims and Bystanders? Is the whole thing really a metaphor for life itself? Probably not. But I choose to believe it anyway - it makes PE seem less of a complete waste of time.

You Drill Me

How does a 8.45am dentist appointment sound??

____drill in expletive____.

I'm sitting here with a literally frozen and enlarged left cheek, lip and tongue. I look like a nuff nuff. On the walk home I sported sunglasses in an attempt to hide from potential silent judgement.

But let's rewind, shall we...

Alarm buzzes. Teeth are brushed with extra vigilance to effectively remove any lingering coffee breath. Gums, flossed for the first time in several months. There was no time to pysch myself up for this appointment, it being scheduled so early in the morning. However, I was under the impression I was to be receiving a crown for my one broken tooth. Wrong. 2 fillings, 2 needles, 2 rubber dams. Not only was I the squirming recipient of 2 freezing needles that caused more than a slight discomfort, but the 2 little pills in question were inserted 1 front and center, the other on the lower left jaw. This has resulted in the entire left side of the mouth region on my face to be numb.

As I lay prone with the blood rushing to my head, visions of squirting liquids, googley-eyed Dr.s, appliances stuck in my face and the billowing dust particles from what could only be the drilled hole in my tooth appeared before my eyes. Through the very encapsulating dark glasses designed to protect my blinkers from glaring operating lights, I was unfortunately still able to view the Country Music Channel in HD on mute. Like adding insult to a pre-existing injury being drill-repaired with chunks of metal.

I have to say though, the assistant was truly concerned with my well-being. She was perpetually asking if I was 'all right' and if I was 'doing OK'. All someone subjected to such a position as I could manage in response was a shrug. Or a strained nod at times. Trying to speak was only to set myself up for failure, which I felt bad for, but hey. In contrast, the dentist himself had only this to say (to me at least): "I need you to open a little wider...little wider...open as wide as you can...". In addition to that, I am also informed of his lunch plans as well as after-work intentions if ever I wanted to casually bump into him at leisure.

By chance it was my dentist's birthday today. I don't know if it was a strange sort of self-birthday gift, but instead of filling in my bottom jaw tooth with the silver stuff as my plan would only cover, he blessed me with an aesthetically pleasing white composite (no doubt initialled) for no extra charge. To me it's all the same. In fact, I even prefer the silver caps - it makes me seem hard, and if I collect enough I may earn a grill as opposed to dentures.

As I'm approaching critical mass under my parents' dental coverage, I even took the initiative to book a future appointment for a cleaning before my impending 20th. The receptionist was pleased to inform me a second time that Dr. was kind enough to bestow upon me a fancy white filling for the price of a so-last-century silver one. She implied that I should be more thankful, as if Big D was a god, raining down his vast, shining healing powers, transforming my leper tooth into Le Brad Pitt de dents, sparing my fragile life in the process. I thought briefly about saying, "You're a Doctor, deal with it.". Then it crossed my mind, "But you're the receptionist.".

I'm not digging the deal with the white fillings anyway - the only possible situation I could fathom where a silver filling would be less desirable is if I was flapping my jaws quite loudly and that exact moment the clouds parted and a single ray of sunlight beamed down, reflected off my tooth and shone directly into the eyes of the person I was conversing with, permanently rendering him/her blind.

In conclusion, what I propose is this: Though a set of perfectly intact, white, dental work-free chompers is what people are after these days, my teeth have character. They've refused and rejected orthodontic appliances, been broken on bits of raw pasta in Montenegro, collected various shaped and coloured fillings, and bled dozens of times due to overly aggressive flossing nights before check-ups. In my opinion, I've got a cohesive gallery of commissioned professional artworks signed by the artist himself. I may have a crown or two and a set of falsies by 70, but my teeth live! They get out. They get around. More than I can say for myself.

10.0!

Today I went to the gym.

it's exhausting only to write that, yet refreshing. Over the past few months I have systematically poisoned the once healthy vessel that was my body. It's been a cruel, calculating and relentless wreaking of havoc at the one thing that used to symbolize my struggle for personal achievement over personal failure. I've been failing for so long...

So I wrote myself a little gym work-out and filled up a little water bottle. I began with a stretch on the ... I want to say, incumbent bike machine. if that's incorrect, all I mean is the upright bike. Then came my core sets. I actually exceeded my physical expectations with surprising self-discipline and work ethic. To say so, I was very proud of myself, even just to achieve something that simple and relatively non-time-consuming.

The thought of rejoining the local synchronized swimming club, fit enough for fitness with my new found bodily conditioning motivation, excites me to no end. Even when I can feel the sore, blackened circles beneath my eyes and my tired, tired body collapsed in bed, all I am able to think of is choreography for a non-existent routine. I'm thinking suit fabrics and headpiece colours and cadence figures and partner-highlights... MY BRAIN WILL NOT SWITCH OFF. Beauty, grace, power, agility, extension, precision, emotion...

I really do love the sport.

What my sub-conscious, pre-sleep brain is trying to tell me, is that I have found a gold nugget of inspiration. I challenge anyone to view this video and feel uninspired, in fact. even a teensy, itty-bitty bottom dust particle piece of inspiration.

Hello Ma Baby!

How awesome is ragtime piano??

It makes me smile anyway.

These are my favourites...

That Vampy's a Trampy.

Tonight, to unwind from the daily struggles of a house-hermit, I took time for a very very hot bath. I chose for my bath the least esthetically pleasing bath bomb from the many assorted bathwater infusion pieces situated on top of a little basket in the corner of our bathroom. Mistake. The bath terror-bomb in question was in the shape of a jolly red Santa, intact with a white bushy beard. I knew I was in trouble the second the cloudy pink fizz residue began to clear and I was left with, instead, sickeningly hot red water. That really looked just like blood. Oh Santa...

Post

"...and there's Luke not giving a Good God Damn!"

I'm sick of job hunting, applying and waiting in my house for interview calls to hit my receiver. Apparently there is something wrong with my resume that is causing Respective Employers to not bother bringing me round for a tête-à-tête chat so I can prove my worth/suck the fuck up. Or maybe I actually have no skills, experience or reputable education to be employable. I'm just sick of it. Always and somewhat stereotypically, the actress who waits tables at a dead end restaurant job is saving up to move to Hollywood, or just until the next break comes along. If her "dead end, shitty waitress job" is all she could land in her mean time, how am I supposed to justify in my life, that I am unable to even secure the oh-so-evasive interview for a coffee shop barista position at the mall?? Maybe it is because I haven't worked through 4 years of acting school. Is that the prerequisite for busing tables these days? I want to flashback to the 70s, when they accepted anybody who could type 60 words/minute on a typewriter for business administration employment. I could have gone so far.

It's oceans theme on the Frame 230HD. And now, Sunbursts.

Woodpigeon and The Antlers

WOW. I love music. I wish it was possible to be enriched by every single note available in the world. But seeing as that's ridiculous, I'll just try my best not to be a music snob.

http://www.myspace.com/woodpigeon

http://www.myspace.com/theantlers

by the way, the antlers are in town May 4, any takers?

It better be as fun as unprotected sex.

Recently, due to extenuating circumstances which involved heartbreaking volcanic ash, drain-pourable boutique beer and hotel bed failure, I paid $36.50 plus tax for Plan B Emergency Contraception Pills. Despite the hiked up price and a standoffish pharmacist who avoided eye contact as he explained that I may experience abnormal bleeding out from my ‘cuntle region’, I put aside any possible doubts that I’d been a nitwit for swiping over $38 for a 7% decrease in probability of pregnancy, and ate it. The box, neatly labelled “Plan B” and coloured with a pleasing blue palette, was roughly big enough for 7 iPhones to fit inside, snuggled like sardines. So, you will appreciate my confusion as I shook it open in the Granville Tim Horton’s and two measly, Tylenol-sized pills fell out with their instructions. At first I thought I’d been had by the creepy pharmacist. I half-expected a note reading “EMILY TRENCHARD, YOU’VE BEEN PLAN B’D!!!!” to flutter out along with an extending boxing glove, spring loaded to punch my embryonic baby in the face. No dice. I did exactly what I was told for once. Even down to the “take both pills at once” part. They went down so at once I even put them in my mouth together. That was on Sunday. Other than a few random abdominal cramps, nothing out of the ordinary is worth reporting from that bodily region since. In fact this method of contraception does work, or we shall find out in…17 days, and if any of my 5 readers were sincerely taken by my supposed ‘pregnancy scare’, I promise to post a response to this as soon as I know…

Positive, or Negative?

Actually, that was a Ty Haller reference, for any Cap Quality readers of this blog. I don’t think I pulled it off. Or that I have any Cap Quality readers.

The Wombats "Little Miss Pipedream"

I might be wrong, but I think this is a live version.

in a land not so very far away

Once upon a time...

There was a happy little girl in a happy little town, when suddenly, she became very very sad. Everything around her was sad. The once happy little town sagged under the weight of her sadness. It began to snow. Buildings, cars, cookie-cutter housing blocks...nothing escaped the blanket of white. The snow softly and gently crushed any dreams that were ever dreamed by anyone anywhere in town. The little girl's tears froze to her cheeks. She tried to cry out, but it was muffled. All was silent. Until...just as the little girl was giving up her last shred of hope, a ray of silver light parted the clouds above. It shone on her face and melted the frozen tears. More and more strands of light broke through the sky and warmed the white little town. The snow thawed. Rivers of melted ice raced down the streets and washed away the sadness. The happy little town once again became the happy little town of everyone's dreams. She basked in the sunlight and it let it fill up the empty void inside her hollowed out by the sadness. Unfortunately, it was too late. No amount of happiness, light or dreams would ever be enough to fulfill the little girl, so she became an alcoholic and spent the rest of her days in an ironic happy half-life marked by misuse of harmful substances and distrust for society. It was here that she realized it had been sad all along.

The end.

Or is it...

Wolf Parade "I'll Believe In Anything" (Bird Peterson Remix)

how about this rad remix I discovered by accident! I think I was probably responsible for at least 20 of the views so far...

Man Triumphs Over Insomnia.

Dear Friends,

"Mists of Time" is about finished, which means it's that hour for "Castles" on the Still Frame Photo Channel in HD. After "Castles" there's a viewers' submission hour. Thrilling. What a job that would be - a photographer for the Still Frame Photo Channel in HD. I've been waiting for "Castles" since 1.30. The idea of living in a castle has always filled me with whimsical escapist dreams. It's absolutely got me transfixed. A neat garden walk and my own round turret reaching up towards the sky. That's all I wanted when I went to Europe.

They've just shown the castle at Dubrovnik as viewed from the walled old town. Hey I've been there.

Only sops like me watch this shit.

Lately I've only wanted to escape. From what exactly, has, funnily, escaped me. So what I've concluded is that the 'what' is myself. Because as much as I hate to admit that my parents are right, escaping to somewhere that isn't here won't help me escape from my problems if my problems are me. Alls I know is that it would be a hell of a lot more fucking fun than this, somewhere else. And my problems may be easier to have at.

Hey I've been to Bratislava, too.

Escapism aside, the only other thing of interest I've experienced to report is that last night, instead of tuning in to FRAMEHD 230, I dressed up in wool and went for a night walk. Other than cold, it was odd. I never strayed out of the neighbourhood where I live, but all of the houses I'm used to viewing in daylight looked rigor-mortis-y and dead with their darkened windows. It was as if I could peer into the houses' souls through their window-eyes. (Hey I've been to Trakai in Lithuania, too). Approximately 10% of them had a night owl in there watching TV or surfing the interwebs at 2am.

It was once said to me that "a man's house (or home I can't remember the exact quote), is his castle". Does that mean when we grow up and buy houses with the intention of making homes, our whimsical escapist dreams will automatically be realised, fully equipped with pool rooms and master-turrets for bedrooms? Or is that just me being a dickhead.

It looks as if I'll need a more impressive camera and a professional version of Photoshop to chance a spot on Viewers' Submission Photos in HD.

"Let's pretend we don't exist. Let's pretend we're in Antarctica."

"...hallowed be thy name."

Imagine this, if you will:

A home-made hipster, art-chic bitch with a self-haircut, loafers and cigarette in hand. One Emily Carr grad who would dry shave her bush for experimental film, and who would threaten to prank future tenants by, “hiding used, and bloody tampons around the apartment”.

Do you have a clear image in your mind?

Thankfully, there were no biohazard booby-traps left for me in my room, but other than several hundred cigarette butts in a ceramic tray outside and a corded off rope set which she later returned to snap up, this previous renter’s ‘homey touch’ was dusted away quite quickly by us.

Except:
About 30 CD albums sitting on an Ikea-esque wire rack in the living room.
During my last night at that apartment, I spent 3 hours ripping almost all of them onto my hard drive. I write “almost all of them” because said Artist took off with some of the best discs (in my opinion) and discarded their cases. Calculating.
Anyway, I never really got round to chancing a listen to those hipster hymns until now. And I am not disappointed. What I hold here in my hot little iTunes library are the definitive secrets to life as a With-It Young Artist In Vancouver. As of yet, I have not had the sudden urge to tie my hair up in an extra-high bun on the top of my head, or read Vice Magazine. Yet.

I realise this post is turning into an alarmingly drawn-out jab at Vancouver Hipsters, if they even exist. I get that everyone is just ‘trying to be’. Love and above, I’m just ‘trying to be’ a person. I have nothing personal against the alternative groove the so-dubbed ‘hipsters’ in the downtown are playing at, I would only like to express fully, my inability to ever be that cool. How do they do it?

No matter how many Value Village outfits I rock with socks, no matter how many underground, undiscovered, un-sell-out albums I own, no matter how much I suffer for my art, no matter the degree to which I make fun of others for not being cutting-edge-scene-knowledgeable, I will just never be like them. Even though I try. I try so hard.

So now, all I’m left with are these songs, as there are little to no hipsters in the Nanaimo area to even shake an unlaced Doc Marten at. It is as if I’m the petite dreamer gazing up at the glowing night sky searching for my favourite constellations, wistfully wishing that it was me up there, the astronaut in a space suit cleverly modified to accommodate my top-o’-the-head bun and jagged bangs. The Alternative one with a vintage still film camera taking slightly out of focus, yet striking photographs of the first cigarette being enjoyed on the moon.

I hope it’s a Lucky Strike Red.

“Impossibly long percussion solo with background ambient recordings from a no-doubt,European train station.”

might/may

You know that simple anxiety in the air when the sky is white and objects on the horizon are wan like they're obscured by a layer of wax paper. Nature settings seem unnaturally bright. There is nothing but the silence of heavy fluttering snow.

Well it might be snowing. The sky was white for a while and unidentifiable precipitation was falling from above. It was pertinently put once that the key word would always be quite, "might". Because I was chillily tucked up by the window with a frozen nose, hugely influenced by the hundred ways of cold in this apartment, my perception of meteorologic possibilities was pointedly reduced to that of a bitter, groundhog-hating presumption.

Somehow, transfixed inbetwixt hating the great whiteness outside, cursing flighty burrowing animals, and fucking the hydro bill in the dick, there was a teensy bit of me inside that hoped for snow. Perhaps that was what prompted me to even entertain the idea of a "might". For of course it wasn't snowing. it was, and still is, raining.

But- what triggers a hint of a smile on my lips, is that there is always a might. Might, meaning a 0-50% probability. If zero is the low end, why might we not someday see World Peace? The chance of that happening is slim, but still might be realised. Even if the percentile of the pie graph is 1%. We might do some cool things. I pretty much might be writing bullshit as we speak.

So, I put forth that "might" is not just the less probable version of "may". It's a hopeful word that should inspire us that we still have a chance. Unfortunately, I guess there's that chance that the chance we dream about desperately hasn't a chance. That it ranks zero. That it has zero probability of becoming reality. I guess that is reality. In that I choose to live dangerously, I'm ready to take that chance, wear it as a slightly hipster-esque, self-made button badge.

There are too many unpleasant things in life that will consume me if I don't.

So in my defence Mr Duthie, I know perfectly well that when I say "it might be snowing", it is not physically snowing. But that zero percent chance is hopeful. Is Zero so different from a fifty-fifty toss up that what I see outside, without actually venturing outside to check for myself, is in fact the white stuff?

I think it might snow tonight.

"GET OUTSIDE...unless...you're underdressed."

"She's Leaving (for) Home"

Dear my friends:

I'm sorry, but I really did try.

When the combination of Butter Chicken and the bottom dust of a half-hearted spliff cause you to lose your theoretical stomach in a way that can only be described as "premature evacuation", and the spent remains of $10 000 that was never yours to begin with lies face down on the bedroom floor amongst filthy laundry in need of laundering and several unresolved sticky spots...maybe it's time to go home.

I gave it my best shot, and missed the mark. And if we've learned anything from modern media, it's that when rocking the rock bottom, it's traditional and quite socially acceptable to run home crying to ma and pa. Nothing beats a fully-stocked refridgerator and clean sheets.

I AM NOT WEAK. I will repeat. It's okay to be down. It's all right to be not super right.

After 13 hours of jPod season 1, and yet another bag of take-away Indian I have come to this conclusion. The only obstacle is packing. Procrastinators hate packing down to their very bottom dust. and GO.

"So let's drop the pills and we'll say hello."