the big show is inside my head

'she couldn't relax, with his hand on the small of her back..'

2008-07-04T05:26:52Z

lately, (always) i have been feeling, left out. part of my problem is that, i want to be a part of everything, and i have this phobia of inviting myself places, also of crowds of out-going people. i feel at fault for not being able to make people like me, or for not being likable. or, not even that, just, i get so self-involved i forget other people have insecurities too and blame them for my short-comings. and i get jealous easily when i see pictures of my friends having fun without me at events i knew nothing about. i think, a lot of the time, people forget to include me because i forget to make/feel self-conscious about making my presence known. i don't know why, lately, i have been feeling extra vulnerable. maybe new friendships, and the effort involved in them. not that old friendships don't involve effort, just on a different level. maybe old friendships changing, and not knowing exactly into what yet.

a short story by isabel allende

2008-07-02T05:36:29Z

Two Words

She went by the name of Belisa Crepusculario, not because she had been baptized with that name or given it by her mother, but because she herself had searched until she found the poetry of "beauty" and "twilight" and clocked herself in it. She made her living selling words. She journeyed through the country from the high cold mountains to the burning coasts, stopping at fairs and in markets where she set up four poles covered by a canvas awning under which she took refuge from the sun and rain to minister to her customers. She did not have to peddle her merchandise because from having wandered far and near, everyone knew who she was. Some people waited for her from one year to the next, and when she appeared in the village with her bundle beneath her arm, they would form a line in front of her stall. Her prices were fair. For five centavos she delivered verses from memory, for seven she improved the quality of dreams, for nine she wrote love letters, for twelve she invented insults for irreconcilable enemies. She also sold stories, not fantasies but long, true stories she recited at one telling, never skipping a word. This is how she carried news from one town to the another. People paid her to add a line or two: our son was born, so-and-so died, our children got married, the crops burned in the field. Wherever she went a small crowd gathered around to listen as she began to speak, they learned about each others' doings, about distant relatives, about what was going on in the civil war. To anyone who paid her fifty centavos in trade, she gave the gift of a secret word to drive away melancholy. It was not the same word for everyone, naturally, because that would have been collective deceit. Each person received his or her own word, with the assurance that no one else would use it that way in this universe or Beyond.

Belisa Crepusculario had been born into a family so poor they did not even have names to give their children. She came into the world and grew up in an inhospitable land where some years the rains became avalanches of water that bore everything away before them and others when not a drop fell from the sky and the sun swelled to fill the horizon and the world became a desert. Until she was twelve, Belisa had no occupation or virtue other than having withstood hunger and the exhaustion of centuries. During one interminable drought, it fell to her to bury four younger brothers and sisters, when she realized that her turn was next, she decided to set out across the plains in the direction of the sea, in hopes that she might trick death along the way. The land was eroded, split with deep cracks, strewn with rocks, fossils of trees and thorny bushes, and skeletons of animals bleached by the sun. From time to time she ran into families who, like her, were heading south, following the mirage of water. Some had begun their march carrying their belongings on their back or in small carts, but they could barely move their own bones, and after a while they had to abandon their possessions. They dragged themselves along painfully, their skin turned to lizard hide and their eyes burned by the reverberating glare. Belisa greeted them with a wave as she passed, but she did not stop, because she had no strength to waste in acts of compassion. Many people fell by the wayside, but she was so stubborn that she survived to cross through that hell and at long last reach the first trickles of water, fine, almost invisible threads that fed spindly vegetation and farther down widened into small streams and marshes.

Belisa Crepusculario saved her life and in the process accidentally discovered writing. In a village near the coast, the wind blew a page of newspaper at her feet. She picked up the brittle yellow paper and stood a long while looking at it, unable to determine its purpose, until curiosity overcame her shyness. She walked over to a man who was washing his horse in the muddy pool where she had quenched her thirst.

"What is this?" she asked.
"The sports page of the newspaper," the man replied, concealing his surprise at her ignorance.
The answer astounded the girl, but she did not want to seem rude, so she merely inquired about the significance of the fly tracks scattered across the page.
"Those are words, child. Here it says that Fulgencio Barba knocked out El Negro Tizano in the third round."

That was the day Belisa Crepusculario found out that words make their way in the world without a master, and that anyone with a little cleverness can appropriate them and do business with them. She made a quick assessment of her situation and concluded that aside from becoming a prostitute or working as a servant in the kitchens of the rich there were few occupations she was qualified for. It seemed to her that selling words would be an honorable alternative. From that moment on, she worked at that profession, and was never tempted by any other. At the beginning, she offered her merchandise unaware that words can be written outside of newspapers. When she learned otherwise, she calculated the infinite possibilities of her trade and with her savings paid a priest twenty pesos to teach her to read and write, with her three remaining coins she baught a dictionary. She poured over it from A to Z and then threw it into the sea, because it was not her intention to defraud her customers with packaged words.

***

One August morning several years later, Belisa Crepusculario was sitting in her tent in the middle of the plaza, surrounded by the uproar of market day, selling legal arguements to an old man who had been trying for sixteen years to get his pension. Suddenly she heard yelling and thudding hoof beats. She looked up from where she was writing and saw, first, a cloud of dust, and then a band of horsemen come galloping into the plaza. They were the Colonel's men, sent under orders of El Mulato, a giant known throughout the land for the speed of his knife and his loyalty to his chief. Both the Colonel and the El Mulato had spent their lives fighting in the civil war, and their names were ineradicably linked to devestation and calamity. The rebels swept into town like a stampeding herd, wrapped in noise, bathed in sweat, and leaving a hurricane of fear in their trail. Chickens took wing, dogs ran for their lives, women and children scurried out of sight, until the only living soul left in the market was Belisa Crepusculario. She had never seen El Mulato and was surprised to see him walking towards her.

"I'm looking for you," he shouted, pointing his coiled whip at her, even before the words were out, two men rushed her -- knocking over the canopy and shattering her inkwell -- bound her hand and foot, and threw her like a sea bag across the rump of El Mulato's mount. Then they thundered off towards the hills.

Hours later, just as Belisa Crepusculario was near death, her heart ground to sand by the pounding of the horse, they stopped, and four strong hands set her down. She tried to stand on her feet and hold her head high, but her strength failed her and she slumped to the ground, sinking into a confused dream. She awakened several hours later to the murmur of night in the camp, but before she had time to sort out the sounds, she opened her eyes and found herself staring into the impatient glare of El Mulato, kneeling beside her.

"Well, woman, at last you've come to," he said. To speed her to her senses, he tipped his canteen and offered her a sip of liquor laced with gunpowder.

She demanded to know the reason for such rough treatment, and El Mulato explained that the Colonel needed her services. He allowed her to splash water on her face, and then led her to the far end of the camp where the most feared man in all the land was lazing in a hammock strung between two trees. She could not see his face, because he lay in the deceptive shadow of the leaves and the incredible shadow of all his years as a bandit, but she imagined from the way his gigantic aide addressed him with such humility that he must have a very menacing expression. She was surprised by the Colonel's voice, as soft and well-modulated as a professor's.

"Are you the woman who sells words?" he asked.
"At your service," she stammered, peering into the dark and trying to see him better.

The Colonel stood up, and turned straight toward her. She saw dark skin and eyes of a ferocious puma, and she knew immediately that she was standing before the loneliest man in the world.

"I want to be President," he announced.

The Colonel was weary of riding across that godforsaken land, waging usless wars and suffering defeats that no subterfuge could transform into victories. For years he had been sleeping in the open air, bitten by mosquitoes, eating iguanas and snake soup, but those minor inconveniences were not why he wanted to change his destiny. What truly troubled him was the terror he saw in people's eyes. He longed to ride into a town beneath a triumphal arch with bright flags and flowers everywhere, he wanted to be cheered, and to be given newly laid eggs and freshly baked bread. Men fled at the sight of him, children trembled, and women miscarried from fright, he had had enough, and so he decided to become President. El Mulato had suggested that they ride to the capitol, gallop up to the Palace, and take over the government, the way they had taken over so many other things without anyone's permission. The Colonel, however, did not want to be just another tyrant, there had been enough of those before him and, besides, if he did that, he would never win people's hearts. It was his aspiration to win the popular vote in the December elections.

"To do that, I have to talk like a candidate. Can you sell me the words for a speech?" the Colonel asked Belisa Crepusculario.

She had accepted many assignments, but none like this. She did not dare refuse, fearing that the El Mulato would shoot her between the eyes, or worse still, that the Colonel would burst into tears. There was more to in than that, however, she felt a throbbing warmth beneath her skin, a powerful desire to touch that man, to fondle him, to clasp him in her arms.

All night and a good part of the following day, Belisa Crepusculario searched her repertory for words adequate for a presedential speech, closely watched by El Mulato, who could not take his eyes from her firm wanderer's legs and virginal breasts. She discarded harsh, cold words, words that were too flowery, words that offered improbable promises, untruthful and confusing words, untill all she had left were words sure to touch the minds of men and women's intuition. Calling upon the knowledge she had purchased from the priest for twenty pesos, she wrote the speech on a sheet of paper and then signaled El Mulato to untie the rope that bound her ankles to a tree. He led her once more to the Colonel, and again she felt the throbbing anxiety that had seized her when she first saw him. She handed him the paper and waited while he looked at it, holding it gingerly between thumbs and fingertips.

"What the shit does this say," he asked finally.
"Don't you know how to read?"
"War's what I know," he replied.

She read the speech aloud. She read it three times, so her client could engrave it on his memory. When she finished, she saw emotion in the faces of the soldiers who had gathered round to listen, and saw that the Colonel's eyes glittered with enthusiasm, convinced that with those words the presidential chair would be his.

"If after they've heard it three times, the boys are still standing there with their mouths hanging open, it must mean the thing's damn good, Colonel" was El Mulato's approval.

"All right, woman. How much do I owe you?" the leader asked.
"One peso, Colonel."
"That's not much," he said, opening the pouch he wore at his belt, heavy with proceeds from his last foray.
"The peso entitles you to a bonus. I'm going to give you two secret words," said Belisa Crepusculario.
"What for?"

She explained that for every fifteen centavos a client paid, she gave him the gift of a word for his exclusive use. The Colonel shrugged. He had no interest at all in her offer, but he did not want to be impolite to someone who had served him so well. She walked slowly to the leather stool where he was sitting, and bent down to give him her gift. The man smelled the scent of a mountain cat issuing from the woman, a firey heat radiating from her hips, he heard the terrible whisper of her hair, and the breath of sweetmint murnured into his ear the two secret words that were his alone.

"They are yours, Colonel," she said as she stepped back. "You may use them as you please."

El Mulato accompanied Belisa to the roadside, his eyes as entreating as a stray dog's, but when he reached out to touch her, he was stopped by an avalanche of words he had never heard before, believing them to be an irrevocable curse, the flame of his desire was extinguished.

***

During the months of September, October, and November the Colonel delivered his speech so many times that had it not been crafted from glowing and durable words it would have turned to ash as he spoke. He traveled up and down and across the country, riding into cities with a triumphal air, stopping in even the most forgotten villages where only the dump heaps betrayed a human presence, to convince his fellow citizens to vote for him. While he spoke from a platform erected in the middle of the plaza, El Mulato and his men handed out sweets and painted his name on all the walls in gold frost. No one paid the least attention to those advertising ploys, they were dazzeled by the clarity of the Colonel's proposals and the poetic lucidity of his arguments, infected by his powerful wish to right the wrongs of history, happy for the fisrt time in their lives. When the Candidate had finished his speech, his soldiers would fire their pistols into the air and set off firecrakers, and when they finally rode off, they left behind a wake of hope that lingered for days on the air, like the splendid memory of a comet's tail. Soon the Colonel was the favorite. No one had ever witnessed such a phenomenon: a man who surfaced from the civil war, covered with scars and speaking like a professor, a man whose fame spread to every corner of the land and captured the nation's heart. The press focused their attention on him. Newspapermen came from far away to interview him and repeat his phrases, and the number of his followers and enemies continued to grow.

"We're doing great, Colonel," said El Mulato, after twelve successful weeks of campaingning.

But the Colonel did not hear. He was repeating his secret words, as he did more and more obsessively. He said them when he was mellow with nostalgia, he murmured them in his sleep, he carried them with him on horseback, he thought them before delivering his famous speech, and he caught himself savoring them in his leisure time. And every time he thought of those two words, he thought of Belisa Crepusculario, and his senses were inflamed with the memory of her feral sent, her firey heat, the whisper of her hair, and her sweetmint breath in his ear, until he began to go around like a sleepwalker, and his men realized that he might die before he ever sat in the presidential chair.

"What's got hold of you, Colonal," El Mulato asked so often that finally one day his chief broke down and told him the source of his befuddlement: those two words that were buried like two daggers in his gut.

"Tell me what they are and maybe they'll lose their magic," his faithful aide suggested.
"I can't tell them, they're for me alone," the Colonel replied.

Saddened by watching his chief decline like a man with a death sentance on his head, El Mulato slung his rifle over his shoulder and set out to find Belisa Crepusculario. He followed her trail all that vast country, until he found her in a village in the far south, sitting under her tent reciting her rosery of news. He planted himself, spraddle-legged, before her, weapon in hand.

"You! You're coming with me," he ordered.

She had been waiting. She picked up her inkwell, folded the canvas of her small stall, arranged her shawl around her shoulders, and without a word took her place behind El Mulato's saddle. They did not exchange so much as a word in all the trip, El Mulato's desire for her had turned into rage, and only his fear of her tounge prevented him from cutting her to shreds with his whip. Nor was he inclined to tell her that the Colonel was in a fog, and that a spell whispered into his ear had done what years of battle had not been able to do. Three days later they arrived at the encamoment, and immediately, in view of all the troops, El Mulato led his prisoner before the Candidate.

"I brought this witch back here so you can give her back her words, Colonel," El Mulato said, pointing the barrel of his rifle at the woman's head. "And then she can give you back your manhood."

The Colonel and Belisa Crepusculario stared at each other, measuring one another from a distance. The men knew then that their leader would never undo the witchcraft of those accursed words, because the whole world could see the voracious-puma eyes soften as the woman walked to him and took his hand in hers.

a short story

2008-06-25T18:29:48Z

Sometimes it’s just best to keep special things to yourself.
That includes kissing and not telling.
A short story by Richard Van Camp

This one guy told me of a time in his life when
he would go out with his flute to play in
the forest and a little porcupine would come
out on a branch of a tree and would only
watch him with one eye as the man played
his heart out. I think this was in northern
Ontario. This man told me he played for this
little guy every day, and each day the porcupine
would come out on the same branch.
It was a little game for them, hey.Well, one
day this man was showing off and took a
bunch of kids and the kids were very loud
and rowdy and so the porcupine came
out but was very scared. He looked at the
man only once with both eyes and what
the man saw was so sad, as if the man broke
something special.
The porcupine never came back.
The man felt such loss.
And that got me thinking that if you
have something special that sometimes it’s
best to just keep it for yourself. Like if
you fool around with someone, that’s a good
secret, hey? What you shared together was
magic, special, fun. That’s a good one. Your
secret is held in two hearts. This will give
you strength for the tough times ahead and
when you see each other it’s okay if you
can’t stop smiling. That’s a good life, when
you have few of those. Not too many,
though. I think if you fool around with too
many honeys then you’ll have weak kidneys.
I think I heard that once.Weren’t there
some priests somewhere that thought if you
don’t ever fool around once that when
they dig you up one hundred years from now
that in between your rib bones there will
be a pearl? It lets everyone know you were the
patron saint of something.Well, I think that’s
a hard road, myself. Aren’t we here to have
a good time and help each other through the
night? I think so.
Someone told me that Indians can only
keep a secret for five years tops and then
everyone spills the beans.Well, maybe that is
true for all the races in our atmosphere:
a five year moratorium on the goods, hey.
My friend “Freddy” told me one night
that he was painting a drum and one of
his co-workers called him.
“Hi, Freddy,” Stella said.
It was late. He glanced at the clock. It was
after 11.
“Hi,” he said. His son was asleep and it was
a work day tomorrow. “Is everything okay?”
“Um, yeah,” she said. “What are you doing?”
“Oh,” he said. “Having tea, painting a
new drum.”
“Oh,” she said. “I was wondering if you
could come over and help me out.”
“Help you out?” he said. “Everything okay?”
“Well…,” she said.
“Is Sam giving you a hard time? Want me to
come over there and tune him up?”
(Stella had been having problems with her
ex, eh. The whole town knew about that.)
“Oh..no…no…Sam’s outta town.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is your
power out?”
“No…I was just wondering if you could
come over and help me out?”
“Help you out,” he repeated, putting his
paintbrush down. “With?”
“Well,” she said. “You know…”
And that’s when it hit him: she was asking
for help in the Love Me Tender Department.
“OH!” he said. “Oh. Oh! Oh….”
“Well?” she asked with a smile that he could
hear over the line.
“Oh, ah...whoah…Whew!”
“……”
“……!”
“…..?”
“…..!!”
“So?”
“So?” Freddy stood up. “So, ah, well,
ah…my boy’s asleep.”
“So what? He can sleep on my couch.”
“Oh well, ah, it’s a school day tomorrow.
I think they’re taking pictures or something?”
“That’s next month,” she said flatly.
“Oh, well, ah…this is a bit sudden, isn’t it?”
Freddy asked. “I mean, well…”
“Sudden?” she asked. “For who?”
“Well, come on,” Freddy said with his low
secret voice. “We work together.”
“So?” she said. “Just come over and help
me out.”
Freddy shook his head. He’d worked with
Stella for over a year and, yes, they enjoyed
each other’s company. Yes, they shared a few
good laughs, but he was so surprised.
“So?” she asked.
“I can’t,” he said. “Really…” he tried hard to
think of what to say. “This is very flattering,
but I don’t think of you this way.” This wasn’t
necessarily so. Stella had been hitting the
gym pretty hard and was letting her hair grow
out, so he’d had his cross over thoughts these
past few months…
“Oh come on,” she said. “It’ll be our secret.
No one has to know.”
“Ah,” Freddy started pacing. “Ah. Ummm.
Ah…”
“Please?”
“Oh that’s so sweet,” Freddy said. “But I
have to say no. My son’s sleeping.”
“I could come over there,” she said.
“Ho la,” he said. “You’re a brute, eh?”
“I can be,” she giggled.
“No,” he said with his whiny voice. “My son
could wake up.”
“I’ll be quiet if you will,” she giggled.
Freddy blushed. “Holy!”
“Come on,” Stella said. “I could come over
there and help you….”
At this, he started laughing and she started
laughing, too. “Come on,” she urged. “You’ve
been on your own for how long now?”
“Oh,” he thought about it. “Eight
months now?”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Don’t you need a little help?”
Freddy’s face flushed with embarrassment.
He secretly called Stella “The Hickey Monster”
as Sam’s neck was always covered in “monkey
bites” or “passion bruises” when they were
still married. And Freddy was no fashionista,
but he knew that he was all out of turtlenecks.
“Well, ah…” What could he say to that?
“Well, I…” What could he say? “I, ah, am
taking some time to take care of me…”
“And I could help,” she said. “I could help
you take care of you very nicely...”
“I’m sure you could,” he grinned.
It had been eight months all right. Eight
months of learning to bake cookies for
his son’s fundraising events. Eight months of
meetings with teachers and the optometrist
to get glasses for his boy. Eight months of
learning to cook supper and prepare sandwiches
for his son’s lunch every day. Eight months of
waiting for his wife, to see if she’d ever return.
“Stella,” he said. “I want to thank you for
calling me. It’s been a tough go.”
“I can tell,” she said.
“I’m really honoured that you called. Can I
think about this?”
“You may,” she said and she said it sweetly.
Sometimes a woman can be tough on a man
in a moment like this, but she could tell she’d
disarmed him in a good way.
“I really need some time to think,” he said.
“I’ve been so focused on being a single dad
and taking care of my boy that I’ve just gotten
in touch with me.”
“I’m really proud of you,” she said. “You’re
a great dad.”
“Thanks,” he said. Because of his son’s
swimming lessons, Freddy had gotten over his
own fear of the water. Because he was a
single parent, he was now learning new recipes
from his aunties. He could now cook a mean
stir-fry and prepare salmon and halibut just the
way his boy liked it.
“You’re a real catch,” she said. “I wanted to
make my intentions clear.”
“Well, they’re greatly appreciated,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“So?” she said. “Will you call me sometime
when you know what you want?”
“I will,” he smiled. “I will. I really want to
thank you for the call.”
“Okay, good night. It’s nice to hear
your voice.”
“Yours, too,” he said.
And she hung up softly.
And that was when Freddy decided that
he wasn’t waiting for his wife anymore. That
was the night he decided that it was time to
move on, that any woman who would leave
her family behind without any explanation
was a woman he could no longer trust for
himself or for their boy, and that was the night
Freddy went from being a passive good
hearted guy to an active participant in his life,
a real mover and shaker.
So, did they ever get together? That’s a
secret.We just have to mind our own beeswax
on that one.
But let’s get back to the spirit of this story:
the medicine of secrets.
My buddy Trevor told me once that a long
time ago the Crees used to go into the forest
with a spear. And what they had to do was
they’d sneak up on a bear and tap him on the
bum with it. Not the sharp side, but the flat
side, I guess, and the bear would scoot away in
fear. Then you would come out of the forest
and never tell anyone about it. But that’s what
made you a man. If you could do that then
you were a man. But the key was to never tell
anyone, not even your wife. You keep it
inside and you know it yourself, that you did
that, hey.
So, my question to you all is do you have
any secrets that you haven’t ever told anyone?
Good. Keep them inside you. If not, you
better run out and start gathering some so they
can keep you warm inside when you’re in
your golden years. The bad secrets should be
talked about, I think, but the sacred ones,
the special ones, the good time ones, I think you
should keep them inside. Not all, but some.
Because they are medicine. They’ll get you
through the hard times. Plus, no one wants to
fool around with you if they think you’ll tell
all your buddies and coworkers, hey!
And what ever happened to kissing but
not telling? Now that’s a dying art (right up
there with flirting, the four-hour make out
session and French kissing, in my opinion).
Me? I don’t think I have too many
secrets. Every five years I spill the beans to
somebody about something, I’m sure, but
I live a good life: I’m not out to hurt or take.
The only secrets I have are my PIN numbers
and the love songs that I sing into the wind
for someone I haven’t even met yet, but I
know I shall meet one day...
Mahsi cho! Thank you very much!

when you scan the radio i hope this song will guide you home...

2008-06-20T23:34:50Z

i have such a broken family. i was talking with ward, a regular at work, and, for some reason, i decided to tell him about james. (for those of you don't know, james is my older brother, who i haven't seen/talked to in four years..) i told him about how the last time we saw him he wasn't the brother i knew and had grown increasingly dependent on/aware of his wife's cues in social situations. we started talking about it because i told him how we used to think him and michelle were part of a cult. he said it was very rare for couples to join cults together and it sounded to him like james was/is being abused. and the more i read online about it the more sense it makes. i used to make excuses for her, because we had had a few good conversations, candid ones in fact, about things that had happened in her childhood and how she had had to grow up a lot faster than most of her peers. but, as broken as someone is, as much shit as they've been through, or whatever, that gives them no excuse to manipulate/abuse the people around them. that may be a reason for it, but it's no excuse. i really really really wish that i could just talk with him, the james i used to know. especially after what happened with stu. especially after all the emotions of melanies wedding. especially when i'm trying to figure out, well, my life. he was really good at advice. so, i guess a lot of my reasons are purely selfish ones, but he wouldn't mind. i used to see him all the time. the shape of his shoulders on the guy walking in front of me, his jawline on the next guy in line, the way he would have trouble putting his mouth around certain words in the way my class-mate asks a question, his jafar fingers, when he finally grew into his glasses and his smile, the toothpaste green of his first car. he would tell me the name of a girl he just met so i would remember because he wouldn't. i haven't missed him this much in a while.

this song gives me hope:

Landed

We'd hit the bottom
I thought it was my fault
And in a way I guess it was
I'm just now finding out
What it was all about

We'd moved to the west coast
Away from everyone
She never told me that you called
Back when I was still
I was still in love

'Till I opened my eyes and walked out the door
And the clouds came tumbling down
And it's bye-bye goodbye I tried
And I twisted it wrong just to make it right
I had to leave myself behind
And I've been flying high all night

So come pick me up
I've landed...

The daily dramas
She made from nothing
So nothing ever made it right

She liked to push me
And talk me back down
'Till i believed I was the crazy one
And in a way
I guess I was

'Till I opened my eyes and walked out the door
And the clouds came tumbling down
And it's bye-bye goodbye I tried
Treading the sea of a troubled mind
I had to leave myself behind
Singin' bye-bye goodbye I tried

If you wrote me off
I'd understand it
'Cause I've been on
Some other planet
So come pick me up
I've landed...

And you will be so
Happy to know
I've come along
It's over

And I opened my eyes and walked out the door
And the clouds came tumbling down
And it's bye-bye goodbye I tried
Down comes the reign of the telephone czar
It's okay to call
And I will answer for myself
Come pick me up...
Come pick me up...
I've landed.

-Ben Folds

'i used to think that if i cared about anything i would have to care about everything' - ever after

2008-06-11T03:23:26Z

caring is hard. it hurts, a whole fucking lot.

i've been taking a condensed class at ucfv (university college of the fraser valley), now known as ufv (university of the fraser valley). it's a two hundred level media and communications course. media and audiences. it has been amazing. my professor is wonderful. everything she says is interesting and a lot of the time insightful. this class makes my heart hurt with what it is opening my mind up to. and it is making me completely frustrated with the state of things/the world/peoples misconceptions/pre-suppositions/willingness to swallow ideas/concepts/propaganda about things they don't understand or aren't willing to try and learn about. it is challenging me in a lot of ways and making me think about and re-evaluate myself and the world around me and all of that. it has been hard and wonderfully stimulating.
my textbook has made me cry more than once with the things/theories it has introduced me to. more than anything, the frustration is juxtaposed with validation. i don't even know where to start. and this is only one class! i do know that now, more than ever, i am becoming a feminist (even though i hate that term, because it is sexist in its very form - i would rather be called an equalist, because there is more issues at hand than just gender equality, though that is a big thing i want to delve deeper into and learn as much as possible about).

my hands don't even know how to help and try and explain this building passion inside of me for all women who have felt the way i have in their frustration of being singled out because of the sexual reproductive organs they happened to be born with. i know that men and women generally have things they are stereotypically more suited for/better at, but i am not talking about individual skills here. i am talking about just being seen as the same level of being, the same level of human. in one of the books i looked into, the author talked about how a man's perspective is seen as regular and a woman's is seen as 'other'. even in this, in the very language we communicate to each other with, there are subversive roles associated with gender.

i want to tell you that i am NOT trying to bash men in any way, shape, or form. i love men, i really like them a lot. i have two brothers whom i adore. i am just tired of being judged/dismissed because of something i was born into. and i am tired of being made to feel shame for it.

'we are most ashamed of the things we cannot help' - till we have faces

the thing that makes me most upset is that i know, I KNOW, there are girls out there RIGHT NOW, feeling the same shame, the same frustrations i have felt/feel. and it devastates me, knowing that this pain is not specific to me; i can barely stand it.

and this is just me talking about women. there are entire people groups made to feel this way, entire classes.

shaky sigh

carkass @ 2008-05-26T18:25:00

2008-05-27T01:43:34Z

so i've been noticing, as a lot of you probably have,
more and more bands lately, having really tight harmonies,
and i am really loving it. examples: grizzly bear, fleet
foxes, mgmt, midlake etc. very melodic and almost 70's-ish,
maybe not mgmt so much.

community, or lack there of

2008-05-20T20:37:19Z

OK, now let's have some fun. Let's talk about sex. Let's talk about women. Freud said he didn't know what women wanted. I know what women want. They want a whole lot of people to talk to. What do they want to talk about? They want to talk about everything.

What do men want? They want a lot of pals, and they wish people wouldn't get so mad at them.

Why are so many people getting divorced today? It's because most of us don't have extended families anymore. It used to be that when a man and a woman got married, the bride got a lot more people to talk to about everything. The man got a lot more pals to tell dumb jokes to.

A few Americans, but very few, still have extended families. The Navahos. The Kennedys.

But most of us, if we get married nowadays, are just one more person for the other person. The groom gets one more pal, but it's a woman. The woman gets one more person to talk to about everything, but it's a man.

When a couple has an argument, they may think it's about money or power or sex, or how to raise the kids, or whatever. What they're really saying to each other, though, without realizing it, is this:

"You are not enough people!"

I met a man in Nigeria one time, an Ibo who had six hundred relatives he knew quite well. His wife had just had a baby, the best possible news in any extended family.

They were going to take it to meet all it's relatives, Ibos of all ages and sizes and shapes. It would even meet other babies, cousins not much older than it was. Everybody who was big enough and steady enough was going to get to hold it, cuddle it, gurgle to it, and say how pretty it was, or handsome.

Wouldn't you have loved to be that baby?

pgs. 14-16 in God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

carkass @ 2008-05-20T12:50:00

2008-05-20T19:58:14Z

'About belief or lack of belief in the afterlife: Some of you may know
that I am neither Christian nor Jewish nor Buddhist, nor a conventionally
religious person of any sort.
'I am a humanist, which means, in part, that i have tried to behave decently
without any expectation of rewards or punishment after I'm dead.'

From God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

carkass @ 2008-05-20T01:50:00

2008-05-20T08:50:36Z

of moons and giants,

!!

2008-05-20T08:44:23Z

carkass @ 2008-05-20T01:40:00

2008-05-20T08:40:46Z

promotion for local summer reading club. i love it!

2008-05-19T17:46:02Z

Catch the Reading Bug by Alison Campbell

When you’re bored and you’re restless
And you don’t know what to do
There’s nothing on the TV,
The computer’s useless, too;
When they ask you what you want,
And all you can do is shrug,
The best thing for you to do
Is catch the reading bug!

just a thought, and a video to go with it

2008-05-07T18:02:14Z

Look for me another day.
I feel that I could change,
I feel that I could change.
There's a sudden joy that's like
a fish, a moving light;
I thought I saw it
rowing on the lakes of Canada

Oh laughing man, what have you won?
Don't tell me what cannot be done.
My little mouth, my winter lungs,
don't tell me what can't be done.

Walking in the circle of a flashlight
someone starts to sing, to join in.
Talk of loneliness in quiet voices.
I am shy but you can reach me.
Rowing on the lakes of Canada,
rowing on the lakes of Canada.

Oh laughing man, what have you won?
Don't tell me what cannot be done.
My little mouth, my winter lungs,
don't tell me what can't be done.

Look for me another time
Give me another day
I feel that I could change

Rowing on the lakes of Canada

in this song sufjan says 'oh laughing man, what have you won?'
and i was wondering if it's a referance to j.d. salingers story
the laughing man. just a thought. what do you think?

(side note: this is also my favorite story in nine stories.)

carkass @ 2008-05-04T17:41:00

2008-05-05T00:41:27Z

Grow

a tadpole doesn't know
it's gonna grow bigger
it just swims
and figures limbs
are for frogs

people don't know
the power they hold
they just sing hymns
and figure saving
is for god

-Andrea Gibson

Excerpt from Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

2008-04-28T00:47:36Z

Another true thing that Billy saw while he was unconscious in Vermont was the work that he and the others had to do in Dresden during the month before the city was destroyed. They washed windows and swept floors and cleaned lavatories and put jars into boxes and sealed cardboard boxes in a factory that made malt syrup. The syrup was enriched with vitamins and minerals. The syrup was for pregnant women.

The syrup tasted like thin honey laced with hickory smoke, and everybody who worked in the factory secretly spooned it all day long. They weren't pregnant, but they needed vitamins and minerals, too. Billy didn't spoon syrup on his first day at work, but lots of other Americans did.

Billy spooned it on his second day. There were spoons hidden all over the factory, on rafters, in drawers, behind radiators, and so on. They had been hidden in haste by persons who had been spooning syrup, who had heard somebody else coming. Spooning was a crime.

On his second day, Billy was cleaning behind a radiator, and he found a spoon. To his back was a vat of syrup that was cooling. The only other person who could see Billy and his spoon was poor old Edgar Derby, who was washing a window outside. The spoon was a tablespoon. Billy thrust it into the vat, turned it around and around, making a gooey lollipop. He thrust it into his mouth.

A moment went by, and then every cell in Billy's body shook him with ravenous gratitude and applause.

There were diffident raps on the factory window. Derby was out there, having seen all. He wanted some syrup, too.

So Billy made a lollipop for him. He opened the window. He stuck the lollipop into poor old Derby's gaping mouth. A moment passed, and then Derby burst into tears. Billy closed the window and hid the sticky spoon. Somebody was coming.

there's too many people i used to know

2008-04-21T20:02:05Z

i went to church on sunday for the first time in a while. it was strangely comforting. there were a lot of people there that i knew and liked. who i knew accepted me no matter what state my 'spiritual life' is in. there is still bitterness there but i think it's starting to fade. i think i'm starting to be able to let go of the things i need to let go of.

'Why must things last forever, why that unfair expectation?
Moments/feelings can not remain, while you continue to live out
your life. They must end in order to make room for what comes next.'

-Beth

carkass @ 2008-04-20T00:01:00

2008-04-20T07:14:01Z

it's 3 degrees outside right now (37f).
this sucks. it's supposed to be spring
and it's snowed at least twice this week.

it's snowing

2008-03-29T16:59:35Z

there is a darkness inside me with fuzzy edges and a solidity that weighs down my heart. it has taken away that layer of hesitation in sharing my insecurities with the people around me. i have been seeking out heavier things. one thing that has kept me from falling completely into it is that i live with my mum. there is a stability there that i haven't had in a long time. this has given me something to brace my foot against. it has helped me to feel like my limbs won't dis-joint and disappear in the growing haze around me, like my heart can bear this weight a little longer if it needs to.

when the broken hearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer, let it be

2008-03-17T23:44:03Z

Were it possible for us to see further than our knowledge reaches, and yet a little way beyond the outworks of our divining, perhaps we would endure our sadnesses with greater confidence than our joys. For they are the moments when something new has entered us, something unknown; our feelings grow mute in shy perplexity, everything in us withdraws, a stillness comes, and the new, which no one knows, stands in the midst of it and is silent.

I believe that almost all our sadnesses are moments of tension that we find paralyzing because we no longer hear our surprised feelings linger. Because we are alone with the alien thing that has entered into our self; because everything intimate and accustomed is for an instant taken away; because we stand in the middle of a transition where we cannot remain standing.

Letters to a Young Poet - Rainer Maria Rilke

There has been a lot of shit going down in the last couple of weeks. A profound change is going on inside and around me and I don't know yet if it is for the better. I don't think it is for the worse, I just don't know if it's for the better. It has stripped me of the stregth that I didn't even know was there to filter what truth I tell to whom. Things just fall out of my mouth now. And my heart is outside of my chest, but I feel harder in a lot more ways. I am more patiant then i thought possible with costumers on some days, but there is always this sadness at the back of my neck. I'm not apologetic for anything that doesn't need it. I cry because my heart doesn't feel comfortable outside of me, even if it is still attached. My mouth is hot with all the things I want to say, all the things I want understood/to understand.

When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree,
there will be an answer, let it be.
For though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see,
there will be an answer. let it be.

Let it be, let it be, .....

And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light, that shines on me,
shine until tomorrow, let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music, mother Mary comes to me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

~John Lennon & Paul McCartney

please dismantle with the utmost care

2008-03-09T05:48:00Z

my heart has a huge crack in it.

there is snow falling inside of it but it just ends
up melting instead of creating anything substantial.

one part of it is hanging on by so little;
i want to let it go so it stops hurting me.

my stomach is inside-out,
my heart is outside my chest,
my liver is in limbo,
& my eyes keep drying out.

i'm shutting down,
i'm closing up,
i'm backing away.

i'm tired of being so warm.
the snow looks so comforting.

i know i've posted this at least twice in the past, but today warrents it.

2008-02-22T00:02:35Z

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting

fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked

thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy

beauty .how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true

to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover

thou answerest

them only with

spring)

ee cummings

ten heath police

2008-01-24T19:13:30Z

when i found out i started crying. and i surprised myself more than anyone. i guess i just never thought i had to worry about him. and i also kind of grew up with him. i mean, he's only a year older than me, 10 things i hate about you came out my first year of college, and the more movies i saw him in the more i saw him growing as an actor. i mean, he was amazing in brokeback mountain, and in ned kelly, and in his much overlooked minor roll in monster's ball. i guess i was just looking forward to seeing him in a lot more movies over the years. he was starting to become an actor i sought out. this is the most a celebrity's death has ever affected me. i am so sad for his little family. i know that him and michelle williams had broken up but still.

'it's better to be hated for who you are than loved for what you're not' -kurt cobain

2008-01-10T01:07:11Z

i don't think i believe in god anymore. or, at least, i don't believe in a lot of the things i used to. i didn't ever really realize this until i was talking to my friend josh the other day and he told me about how god told him to talk about prayer with his roommate. and it surprised me that he thought/knew it was god. i used to hear/listen to that voice. i don't anymore. and if i do feel compelled to do something i call it my gut. i get embarrassed when i talk about instances in my past that i believed were brought about by god, or me doing what i thought he wanted me to do. my mum says grace every night at dinner, and i bow my head and say 'amen', but it's out of habit and respect for my mum. when i think about believing in anything as much as i used to want to believe in god, it makes my heart hurt with anxiety, and it makes me feel off-balance and exposed. it makes me want to crawl into somewhere dark and warm and safe.

books i read in 2007

2008-01-02T03:35:47Z

demian - herman hesse
lucky - alice sebold
hey nostradamus! - douglas coupland
peter and wendy - j.m. barrie
veronika decides to die - paulo cohelo
fatal distraction - sonja ahlers
einsteins's dreams - alen lightman
the zahir - paulo cohelo
lamb: the gospel according to biff, christ's childhood pal - christopher moore
the goldan compass - philip pullman
chuck klosterman IV - chuck klosterman
the subtle knife - philip pullman
the amber spyglass - philip pullman
the lesser blessed - richard van camp
sex, drugs, & coco puffs - chuck klosterman

carkass @ 2007-12-17T11:20:00

2007-12-17T19:21:28Z

'It got cold out, but the days didn't know what to do. It would rain and snow in the same day, only to melt and glitter the next. Some of the dogs in town lay down to pant like lions on the melting snow only to later freeze solid to the ground. They whimpered and whined as thier owners tried to pull them free.
You could tell fall was pushing hard and you knew winter was eager too, but just at the last second -- the one that determines if it's great sex or an animal act -- fall would pull out in a Thumper sort of way and it would all go straight to hell. Winter would be cold towards fall for a bit, but they'd eventually embrace and it would start all over. The days were a tease really, and we all went to bed frustrated.'

The Lesser Blessed by Richard Van Camp, pg. 92