9.27.2004
Upcoming shows that I have tickets for or I'm about to get tickets--- like Thursday.
Go ahead. WEEP.
1. Q and not U, The Holy Shroud. (bought)
2. The Faint (bought)
3. P.J. Harvey---mmmhmmm.
4. Le Tigre.
5. Blonde Redhead
6. BEASTIE BOYS. (bought)
Right now I am in love with Toronto. There's more but these shows are killing my bank account. Except it doesn't matter. I've been dancing all day. And I'm buying my roommate a Beasties Boys ticket for her birthday. I'm such a nice friend.
Oh yeah and Gisele--the Ballet.
8:12 PM
When it falls out. You pick it up.
Because you have to.
I can see you. Holding your elbow.
You said to me. “I am always alone.”
1:38 PM
9.20.2004
I have finished an 800 page book in 4 days. My eyes feel sweaty and the door buzzed and I thought I'd touched something hot. So I yelped. The tall man behind me looked displeased, all his corners fell down and he schooled me about red lights and secret passes. Stupid girl.
And I thought, well, you won't giggle when you're caught in a rainstorm, will you?
9:52 PM
9.19.2004
Dear Halifax,
I saw a dead person.
He was wearing jeans and lying on his side. His leg, one of them, the one that faced the sky, was bent over the other one as though he had been doing exercises. Just before he died. He had skinny, longish blondish hair and a baseball cap.
Have you ever heard of dead weight? Of course you have. When the police officer stepped toward him, the first police officer, that is, I’m sure others came cause I heard them, the siren, behind us. He took a giant step, and used the tips of his fingers to grab the wallet. Just a boy.
“Oh, he’s just a boy,” I heard myself say. A teenager. Not a boy, but far off from an old man.
So poof. One day there’s toast and dirty fingernails and the next nothing. Gone. One day you just fall over like that. On the sidewalk. In front of shiny windows and sexy clothes.
He grabbed his wallet. When he did, the boy flopped and I caught myself not breathing. Is he going to get up now? Everything, the leg, the waist--- jerked a little, and resumed its place. And that was dead weight. I saw it.
“I hope he’s not dead,” I heard myself say.
I also saw the sleeping bag and the dog, a black dog, a beautiful dog, sitting calmly on the sleeping bag, with a leash around his neck. A good dog. And the friend, the back of the friend, he wore a black hoodie and baggy jeans and his hands, his arms, hung at the side and he was staring at the sidewalk. At his friend’s sneakers.
“Oh, he has a dog,” I heard myself say. And a friend.
But I didn’t say that.
3:39 PM
9.07.2004
I have this thud in my heart. I’m playing tension right now. This past weekend I couldn’t sleep. On Saturday afternoon I gathered some blankets from Bloomfield and laid on the porch. I put my head under the blankets. I didn’t even care about breathing. I didn’t want to get out. I went to Café Vienna for breakfast and I read the newspaper. I cried. So I put on my sunglasses.
I remember serving Sophie a beer. I said “Would you like a beer?” when she came over even though he fucked her on the carpet in our bedroom. I thought ‘who cares about fucking?’ But I do. I care about fucking. I wonder if she even knows. I’m sick of hiding how I feel and trying to be the cool one. I’m sick of falling for guys who smoke too much weed. I’m sick that I can’t shake my past.
“A man who cares about a woman will walk for 3 hours in his T-shirt in a snowstorm just to sit next to her.” J told me in 1997.
I made a snowstorm. I made one every time. Slush gooed up the sidewalk, hail pummeled his face, the kilometres gave him a bruise. I made it so big it buried the homes, it blacked out the windows, it killed the family cat.
Would he? I ask. And I waited and waited.
2:12 PM
9.05.2004
I seriously hate myself today.
1:21 PM
Dear Gerry. I'm sorry for kicking you in the nuts. Dear Mike Day, sorry for yelling at you on the phone. Dear Stacey. I don't know but I'm sure it was annoying.
1:17 PM
Upcoming shows that I have tickets for or I'm about to get tickets--- like Thursday.
Go ahead. WEEP.
1. Q and not U, The Holy Shroud. (bought)
2. The Faint (bought)
3. P.J. Harvey---mmmhmmm.
4. Le Tigre.
5. Blonde Redhead
6. BEASTIE BOYS. (bought)
Right now I am in love with Toronto. There's more but these shows are killing my bank account. Except it doesn't matter. I've been dancing all day. And I'm buying my roommate a Beasties Boys ticket for her birthday. I'm such a nice friend.
Oh yeah and Gisele--the Ballet.
8:12 PM
When it falls out. You pick it up.
Because you have to.
I can see you. Holding your elbow.
You said to me. “I am always alone.”
1:38 PM
9.20.2004
I have finished an 800 page book in 4 days. My eyes feel sweaty and the door buzzed and I thought I'd touched something hot. So I yelped. The tall man behind me looked displeased, all his corners fell down and he schooled me about red lights and secret passes. Stupid girl.
And I thought, well, you won't giggle when you're caught in a rainstorm, will you?
9:52 PM
9.19.2004
Dear Halifax,
I saw a dead person.
He was wearing jeans and lying on his side. His leg, one of them, the one that faced the sky, was bent over the other one as though he had been doing exercises. Just before he died. He had skinny, longish blondish hair and a baseball cap.
Have you ever heard of dead weight? Of course you have. When the police officer stepped toward him, the first police officer, that is, I’m sure others came cause I heard them, the siren, behind us. He took a giant step, and used the tips of his fingers to grab the wallet. Just a boy.
“Oh, he’s just a boy,” I heard myself say. A teenager. Not a boy, but far off from an old man.
So poof. One day there’s toast and dirty fingernails and the next nothing. Gone. One day you just fall over like that. On the sidewalk. In front of shiny windows and sexy clothes.
He grabbed his wallet. When he did, the boy flopped and I caught myself not breathing. Is he going to get up now? Everything, the leg, the waist--- jerked a little, and resumed its place. And that was dead weight. I saw it.
“I hope he’s not dead,” I heard myself say.
I also saw the sleeping bag and the dog, a black dog, a beautiful dog, sitting calmly on the sleeping bag, with a leash around his neck. A good dog. And the friend, the back of the friend, he wore a black hoodie and baggy jeans and his hands, his arms, hung at the side and he was staring at the sidewalk. At his friend’s sneakers.
“Oh, he has a dog,” I heard myself say. And a friend.
But I didn’t say that.
3:39 PM
9.07.2004
I have this thud in my heart. I’m playing tension right now. This past weekend I couldn’t sleep. On Saturday afternoon I gathered some blankets from Bloomfield and laid on the porch. I put my head under the blankets. I didn’t even care about breathing. I didn’t want to get out. I went to Café Vienna for breakfast and I read the newspaper. I cried. So I put on my sunglasses.
I remember serving Sophie a beer. I said “Would you like a beer?” when she came over even though he fucked her on the carpet in our bedroom. I thought ‘who cares about fucking?’ But I do. I care about fucking. I wonder if she even knows. I’m sick of hiding how I feel and trying to be the cool one. I’m sick of falling for guys who smoke too much weed. I’m sick that I can’t shake my past.
“A man who cares about a woman will walk for 3 hours in his T-shirt in a snowstorm just to sit next to her.” J told me in 1997.
I made a snowstorm. I made one every time. Slush gooed up the sidewalk, hail pummeled his face, the kilometres gave him a bruise. I made it so big it buried the homes, it blacked out the windows, it killed the family cat.
Would he? I ask. And I waited and waited.
2:12 PM
9.05.2004
I seriously hate myself today.
1:21 PM
Dear Gerry. I'm sorry for kicking you in the nuts. Dear Mike Day, sorry for yelling at you on the phone. Dear Stacey. I don't know but I'm sure it was annoying.
1:17 PM
