02.03.05..1:57 pm
I�m wearing an ink-stained skirt, have my hair pulled back with a hair tie I found on the floor at Moonbow Jakes� (cheap fair-trade coffee and grilled cheese, yum) in New Cross and have been eating eggless doughnuts all morning.Yesterday I wore a blazer over a small stripey sweater with a remade cowl-necked t-shirt with billiard balls on it and then stuck my legwarmers on my arms because my wrists were bare. When M told me Tuesday morning that he�d eaten all the leftover pizza I stomped my foot and swore I�d be cross about it for days. When M lathered his hands and washed my breasts I nearly collapsed with grief for having been so upset about some silly bits of cold pizza. Last night I spent half an hour wording four sentences regarding possible topics for an essay to one of my professors and then made James read it before sending it off, just to make sure. I proceeded to wander the library aimlessly in a fruitless search for anything that might remotely have to do with what I might want to talk about in the essay I�d just emailed about, and yo-yoed between the check-out desk and the second floor before finally deciding to put Mao II away and leave the premises with a carefully concealed copy of Raymond Chandler�s The Lady in the Lake. This is a decision that kept me awake last night until half past 1am. I�m still not sure and think I�ll exchange them tonight. On Sunday I cried myself to sleep because I looked at M and suddenly had the clearest picture of how our genetic make-up might combine and then realised that that thought wasn�t causing panic but genuine gentle curiosity and a warm fuzzy glow around my womb. I�ve been tired all over the place and unable to formulate the pressing motivation that spawned while writing the last essay into something productive or manageable. I�m pretty sure I've lost all ability to coordinate wearable textiles, but fuck it I've decided I look AWESOME. This dualism has me convinced I desperately need more sea foam green clothing. (In my defence the ink-stained garb I currently have on is sea foam green and beautiful, though I could concede that it MIGHT be more the cut of the skirt and the way it sits so swingingly and jaunty on my ass than the colour itself.) I�ve somehow managed to enter this menstrual spill without a single Black Day. There�s a whole Grand Canyon and Hoover Dam of difference between the past week and this week last month, and I don�t even want to speculate how I�ll react next month. Part of me is so relieved and overjoyed to not hate everything that I�m CERTAIN this is the way it�ll stay, part of me is terrified that whatever part of me it was that overheard the threats to go back on birth control and calmed the fuck down will swing right back towards that black tar void of mutinous anger. But there have been no Thunderous Moods, no Cadaverous Wishes, no eXtreme Apathy. That excruciating weight of bitterness and distrust has dissipated, or shifted, or attached itself to the rainbow-making part of my brain and is now hopping about my insides like a bunny. For the past four days I�ve been giggly and indecisive and fidgety and mess of art projects. I�ve been eating Rolo�s like they�re going out of style and finding inspiration in the gels that cover light bulbs, in the rubber things that keep my glasses from slipping down my nose, in Easy-Off Microwave Wipes. I�ve been writing songs in my head and getting frustrated only because I�ve no way of recording them. I�ve been bursting over with story idea�s (which I NEVER do, art projects maybe, but fiction rarely). I�ve been interested in other people�s lives. I�ve been remembering. Not reminiscing, but remembering people and things. How an ex-boyfriend once walked from Toronto all the way to Collingwood to see his cousin which made him so much more interesting than anyone I knew. The intense pleasure of playing �Bang You�re Dead� with my best friend and I, complete Charlie�s Angels poses and hiding behind pillars. The unanticipated power I felt the first time I blew into my trombone when I was ten, and then barely keeping mute my excitement I was at being able to play my scales with no mistakes. The crisp silent blue of winter when I was eight, the whole city shut down and I was stuck in a wretched lilac snow suit that let sleet seep into my boots and besides was SO LAST YEAR. That year I had a bad habit of sucking on my hair and I have the most vivid recollection of a sharp crack and then the delicious sight of a curling splinter gripped in my woollen fist, my friend Beth and I soon a whole artillery of reddy-brown shards. The cluster of follicular icicles resulted in what would today be a very trendy Sienna Miller-style long shaggy mane, but at the time my mum went ballistic and threatened to chopped off all my hair, my tongue and my fingers if I ever attempted such a stunt again. I managed to hold out another nine years before I let Zanna go amok with a pair of scissors and went from hair to nearly my waist to something that vaguely resembled Twiggy�s cropped page-boy. That was our first real bonding moment, even though we�d known each other since we were twelve and she�s been one of my very bestest friends ever since. I have no idea what happened to Beth. Moved to Australia I think.I think my first ever memory revolves around the sensation of my fingers clasping my Dad�s forehead and his hair was pressed into my palms as we went flying down the hill in Sherwood Park in Toronto with me shrieking in delight and he shouting Robert Lewis Stevenson poems at the top of his lungs, I must have been two at the time because it was before my sister was born. All these things, pouring like an indomitable flood, filled my mind all weekend and make me thankful for being. BECAUSE THAT SORT OF SOP IS NOT THE WAY THIS CHICK ENDS THINGS (OR BECAUSE THERE ISN�T ENOUGH SURREAL IN THE WORLD)To add to the list of the best phrases ever spoken: A suicidal man and a speeding bus: the perfect recipe for a cocktail of death. ****ms meeps, light as a sun-filled room
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