not sleeping

And again tonight. The problem, as I've said before, is this going to bed notion...

I had come home from work determined to take Marcus' advice — exercise and sleep — when it comes to moody broodiness. I started with the exercise, despite feeling bored already. Discipline. Easy and gently breaking a sweat, moving, reminding limbs of limbs and muscles of muscles. And then it started to bubble up, and I cried: rocking back and forth, holding my own shaking shoulders, feeling so small in my cozy pad — like small puppet on a large stage.

“It’s OK,” I said to myself, “It’s OK, this too is part of the world, the work. You can feel and it’s OK.” Tears splashing on my bare feet.

Then I put on my pyjamas. I knit. And made a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. I practiced guitar. I folded my laundry. I knit some more. I practiced some more. I called my friend. “We’re going out,” he said. “Call me when you’re on the move,” I replied. I folded laundry. I lay down. I answered the phone.

“How are you?”
“I’m sleepy.”
“Does this mean you’re not coming out?”
“Mmmm...”
“You have to!”

I put on pants. A bra. A sweater. I bundled up and headed out to see friends I had not seen in a long time. We drank beer. We laughed. Jules made me hot chocolate. We talked good talks and reconnected. I felt contained inside a social bubble, very different from the pounding solitude of my apartment.

Then I went home. So tired I couldn’t sleep. Again.

But it’s a trade-off, isn’t it? Ideally a person could be refreshed by sleep and friends and food and good times on a moderate schedule, ensuring that each base is hit at an even, efficient lope. But sometimes a person needs to trade sleep for friends, or friends for food, and trust that all bases will eventually be covered by this erratic, unpredictable runner of life.

And this morning, an email: “See? It was all ok. Nice to see you.”

“the fugitive distress of hedonism"

Back again to that article about Irving Layton.

Tonight I can't shake the feeling that I've made some sort of terrible mistake in the way I've approached my life. Figuring the past that a sense of direction, an occupation — or sense of meaning even — would present itself through the course of time. That the surfacing of what the direction or pathway of my future would be organic, inevitable and indisputable. But direction is something one chooses. To be really good at something a person has to devote themselves to a passion, an idea or a craft. Without this Choosing isn't a person (in this case: me) doomed to endlessly falling down along the path of least resistance? If one is going through doors as they open, the easy path is always the right path.

I'm thinking about this tonight because I don't feel like I'm good at anything. To be more precise, I'm good at many things, but I don't feel I excel at anything. Am I a Generalist? Within a certain field, certainly, but what of the possibility of having a Speciality?

And this is the rub, yes? That the Specialist is studied, educated and devoted. Disciplined.

Am I the only one who wonders this?

I fear waking up one morning, having walked through the doors that presented themselves to me, feeling unsatisfied, unfulfilled. Alone.

I have lost the courage to attack for the heart. To reach through the skin, the rib cage, into the full flesh of Desire. I feel like I haven't Dreamt in a long time.

David asked me if my friends were worried that I seem to choose men who are unavailable. I answered that I thought there was a part of me that was unavailable, that's where the Choosing comes from.

The Future.
The Future is mine and mine alone. I refuse to share it.
Trusting others with the future seems unreliable. Shaky

Perhaps it's time to start wigging the doorknob of The Future.
Perhaps it's time to open a door that is closed, just to see what might happen...

riding in the rain

is like being slapped in the face by thousands of tiny hands.

I almost hit a car when I was riding down Main Street. A sleek, dusk coloured BMW pulled away from the curb where it had been hidden by a parked van and directly into my path. I was going fast. I was going downhill. I braked as hard as I could, which isn't so hard when it's raining. My wheels locked and turned sideways. I was sliding sideways. I stopped braking. He braked, having seen me. I straightened my wheels, braked again.

And all I could think was: I don't want to scratch this fucker's car.

Then he finally gained enough speed to get the hell out of my way. And I kept going. He turned right. I shook my head. And that was that.

At first I thought: I almost died. But then I thought: no, I almost ran into that car, but I wouldn't have died. Not yet. I'm not ready to die yet. Not on an icily cold rainy night. Not when I'm riding to meet one of my best friends for dinner. Not when I'm going to speak candidly and openly about my life, my loves, my fears. Not when I'm going to listen to my friend, to offer solace and comfort and love. Not when we're going to eat delicious food and wait hours for dessert and play guitar for each other in my kitchen and say goodbye with hugs and kisses and promises of more soon. Not tonight. Tonight is not my night to die.

But I wish I had scratched that fucker's car.

preference

I prefer black ink to blue in my pen

I prefer cream to milk in my coffee

Tweed to corduroy
Corduroy to denim

I prefer my bike to the bus
(unless it's raining like it is now)

I prefer sleeping to waking

Dreaming to planning

I prefer beginnings to endings

I prefer

tall men to short
blue eyes to brown
nice hands to a nice cock

singing to talking
talking to silence
silence to anything else

I prefer

pants to skirts
long socks
cotton underwear
time alone
doing nothing
drinking coffee and listening to young people on the radio.

I prefer you

munich

*warning: contains spoilers*

Kevin and I went to see MUNICH. My god. What a horribly violent, circular argument about vengeance and home; loyalty and insanity; friendship and survival. One thing that stands out for me is when, while explaining the Italian translation of 1001 Arabian Nights, the poet says, “You think of it as poetry, I think of it as narrative linked to survival.” And it was. The survival of our dear protagonist, linked to the fatal narrative of those killed in Munich, to the continuing narrative of the Jews and Israel, to the burgeoning narrative of his own family. And he barely survives. We tell ourselves these stories to keep going, to rationalize our actions. Find the right story, the right reasoning, and everything is alright. Right? Is that what story is for? To rouse the troupes. To assuage guilt?

I pose the possibility of other uses for narrative, for story. To make beginnings, to push the boat off in the right direction, to remember with fondness those moments and people who have changed the course of our lives, to make our friends laugh.

I resent the last shot of the film. The protagonist has abandoned Israel in favour of the US. He cannot sleep. He is haunted and hunted. He questions what he has done. And as he refuses (and is refused) for the last time, he's left standing in an abandoned playground. Run down and overgrown with weeds, no children play there anymoe. And in the background, the Hudson River, Manhattan, the Twin Towers. And with that shot, Spielberg links all that has happened in the movie to what will happen in New York. The buildings stand ominous, promising a continuation and escalation of the violence. That the existence of the State of Israel continues to impact our lives, even if we think it doesn't, if only through the media. That people will go to great lengths for Home.

Death becomes Him

I read this today on the CBC website:

Irving Layton died Wednesday at the age of 93 from Alzheimer’s in a geriatric home, an entirely unsuitable way for Irving Layton to die. He really should have gone off in the middle of a violent and elaborate sexual act, or interrupting a particularly solemn moment in a religious ceremony. Such a long, lingering cruel emptiness of a death flouts the symbolic vitality that filled the rest of his life to the brim, and which spilled over into his written works, some of the most passionate lyrics in English Canadian letters.

I resent how the writer is dissatisfied by the manner of Mr. Layton's death. That somehow, the poet (or at least, the circumstances of his death) has let down all of English Canada by the mundane conclusion of life's final act.

Perhaps because I'm experiencing (vicariously) the drama of a family attempting to cope with the living wage of Alzheimer's -- which is anything but staid, banal or boring. But also because it begs to to question: must we, who spend so much time assessing, steering and shaping the course of our lives also be thinking about doing the same with our deaths. Cannot death be the ultimate relaxation, the point at which we relinquish control and allow the natural what will be to be?

In point of fact, that is what death is. Unless the Ultimate Control Freak plans the Ultimate Death and chooses suicide, none of us are in control of our deaths. This is not how it 'should' be , or how it 'could' be, this is how it is.

And so I beg the writer of the online memorial to Irving Layton: please, allow the man to rest in peace.

Now I'll go read the rest of the article.

An Open Letter to Liz Phair

Dear Liz,

I'm a big fan. A big fan. Especially of Whip-Smart and Whitechocolatespacegg. I love the jangly guitar and your smart smart lyrics.

Now I have to say, from this place of fan-dom, that I just heard a single from your recently released album and, well, it sounds like an Avril Lavigne song. Liz! What's going on?

You had it, didn't you see it? Couldn't you feel it? That thing that all artists strive for, that thing that makes us unique, that sets us apart from the others: it was yours. But it was like the more songs you wrote the further away you got from it. Or maybe it's more of an issue that your son is growing older and needs things like braces and expensive sneakers and books for school and a fund for college. Don't get me wrong. I understand these pressures. I understand that music is the thing you know, the skill you have, so why not use that to make some cash to pay the bills. And being the Queen of the Indie Scene is definitly NOT going to make those things happen.

I just don't think that what you're doing right now is the way, either.

So I hope you forgive me for not buying any of your more current albums. I want to remember you the way I love you most.

With the greatest respect,
adrienne