hmmmm....

not sure where to go from here...

it's day 9...

on day 14 i'll be worried...

it's official....

I think I've reached my fill...I fucking hate people.


Fuck that! Fuck making it better. It's not getting better! I don't know how to make it better and I swear to God you don't either!(when a man loves a woman, 1994).

The Moulin Rouge

Ten years ago I watched a movie that had such a profound impact on my life. I became obsessed (as I so often do) with Moulin Rouge. I saw it 6 times in theatres and could recite it word for word. To this date, I own 5 copies of it on both DVD and VHS; I have both soundtracks (2 copies of the first) and the cardboard ad from the theatre.  As the years went by, I couldn't let go of the enchanted red windmill.  Somewhere around 2006/7 I got it tattooed on my back. It's my most spectacular tattoo; 3.5 hours of pure, nerve splitting pain.  Years later, and I still stare at it every time I step out of the shower.  Over the years, it's also come to mean something completely different to me.

It used to symbolize my true and undying love for art and Bohemia.  I used to live a penniless existence, lighting incense at 3 am writing bad poetry.  I had a red light in my room, and I would wear my black custom made fedora that a friend gave me and I would pretend I was a writer.  I'd spend my evenings in the theatre, community theatre, so you know I was all about the art... ;) I had multiple affairs with the moon. I miss those days when everyday was an adventure.

Now, it represents everything I abandoned; everything I so callously walked away from. When I graduated university I gave it an honest go; but ultimately, creativity and art didn't pay the rent and I was on a one way street to nowhere. I walked away. My friends called me a sell out. A traitor. It stung at the time, but I learned to make peace with it. I didn't have it in me to continue a penniless existence. I needed a steady income. Since then, there's been such a huge disconnect between me and the one thing that makes me truly happy. Though I hate musicals, when I see one (especially live), something ignites within me; it feels like wasted destiny.  I'm the one who should be up on stage signing and dazzling the crowd. Whenever I think about it (and I try not to) it stings so bad... it almost takes my breath away. And despite what everyone says, time isn't on my side and it's quickly running out. In my next life I want to be a vintage microphone, 50s style.

Sometimes I feel like my life is an old movie, where there's a young hotshot who knows everything, and there's a dying old lady living in a decrepit house at the end of the street. She's a loner, a shut in.  The kids in the neighborhood say she's a witch; she's got spiders living in her hair and she talks to her dead cats. The young hotshot is intrigued and finds out that in the 1930's she was queen of the burlesque in Paris, France. She's suffered heartache and tragedy and had retired  at the height her her fame and glory. He decided to make a documentary.  He tried communicating with the old recluse, but she pushes him away; the way she pushes everyone.  They finally connect through some cheesy scene where he shows her kindness and a piece of her ice heart melts. He tried to convince her there's so much out there. He tried to dazzle her with her knowledge; she regales  him with stories of the Moulin Rouge in it's heyday. She used to know everyone. But now, her memory is like a faded picture, and she can barely remember the colours. She sees herself reflected in the gleam of the hotshot's eye; her eyes once burned with such passion. But the world is such a drastically different place now, she can't possibly make her way back. And she never does.  The end credits roll and there's a final note: the woman died alone and anonymous. No one showed up at her funeral; even the hotshot gave up on her.

dot dot dot.

experimenting with words 3

Come in.

Uh oh. This was never a good sign.

Close the door.  I sat down at the chair across from hers; my hand throbbed from a cut.  I was carelessly putting away files in a black metal cabinet and had sliced my skin open.  It stung like fire.

I need to tell you something.  You have to keep it to yourself.

No, I don’t want to know. I’m not listening. Please.

Blah blah blah. There was excitement in her voice; like she was on the cusp of happiness.

Wow. That’s great! I tried to mimic  her cheerfulness. Inside there was an explosion.

Oh god, no! This is awful. I don’t want to hear anymore.

The look on my face betrayed me. Her face sobered.  Well, it’s really a good thing.  She regarded me. Tried to gauge my reaction.  I could see she was thinking how to phrase her next word.

Don’t tell me how. I don’t want to know. Stop talking! Oh god, I need air.

You need to know this. I need to tell you this. Her voice was so soft and inviting. I wanted to curl up inside it. Lock way the awful truth she was spewing. Her monologue felt like an attack.

I don’t care.  I just want to get out of here.

She continued talking but I had already tuned out; I tried feigning interest, hoped my face would unfreeze and I could at least pretend to hear what she was saying.  Civilizations were crashing inside my head. I had seen the end of the universe.  

The wait is killing me. I just want it to be over. This limbo is awful. I tried to reason it in my head, but it was like trying to catch a thunderstorm in a plastic bag: useless. The rest of my day culminated in a small hill of uselessness. Those thoughts swirled in my head and I was almost dizzy.  That night my dreams were pierced by a haunting feeling; the end was here. I had a set date. Today was the day it all went to shit; everything will crumble from now on.  It was torment.

And after the end? Then what? Who would rebuild this broken mess?

I felt desperation spread through my like a disease; filling my every pore with pure hate.  My heart filled with sick bats and they fluttered aimlessly making it hard to breathe.

Dec. 3/10

Sleep pierced with nightmare.  Flashing images of things that didn’t make sense.  Tossing and turning post dream seemed futile.  She skulked to the living room and like lava spilled herself onto the couch.  Nina Simone sang somewhere far away about her lover’s black hair.  The tv was like a dead elephant in the room; a giant mass of dying matter.  The thought of turning it on disgusted her.  She was numb and raging at once.  Conflicting emotions were like opposing forces waging a war inside her head.   She was tired of the hypocrisy that surrounded her; the endless parade of self pity and tears.  The monumental display of shallowness.  The awful pretense of friendship.  Behind every smile were a thousand daggers.  She had no blood left; her body was like Swiss cheese: soft and full of holes. 

What fresh hell is this? She asked herself silently each morning.  What atrocities did the day bring? At night, unsolved matters haunted her.  Was caffeine a solution? A century ago, it was.  Would eating away at herself make her feel better? If she ballooned to a staggering 500LBs, would that make it ok again? If she cocooned herself in an incubator of fat and flesh she could hide from the world.  Her skin would grow hard and tough, like a wall, and then nothing would bother her. Nothing would matter. Nothing did matter. Every day was a new struggle. Fake people who tossed around the word “hun” like it was a Frisbee to casual by-standers.  On stage we were all the best of friends; we smile and laugh and hug and share secrets.  If she spoke the truth the world would end. The walls would come crashing down and there would be no place to hide. If she admitted to weakness, everything she held so close would break free; everyone would see who she really was. The mask would fall off and she would stand out: a freak.  When Nina Simone sang about strange fruit, she could feel the pain in her voice; she could feel blood dripping down her legs and creating an ugly mess on the carpet. There was suddenly a warm breeze and a faint smell of southern magnolias.  

Nothing she did was right. There was only twisted method to her madness. No one could follow her; she didn’t speak the same language as the rest of them.  And then the pieces that helped keep her together started falling away; the not so important ones fell away first, rotten patches of flesh floating in the ocean; then larger pieces: road kill across the highway.  And finally, the most crucial piece of all: the one that kept it all together.  The one that voiced reason, offered logic in an M.C Esher picture. Drifting away to a place that was unreachable. And when it was over, it would be final; like a death where no one died.  There would be a gap; a huge gaping hole in her brain.

But how does this story end? Would there be a call at 3 in the morning? A paper announcement? Silence?

Dot. Dot. Dot...