dedicated

to you, this self love week. 

i just wanna be gay. like really gay. wanna be your burnin butch dyke. wanna be your leather daddy, sugar. just wanna operate you like a drill. wanna take you with my pills. wanna fuck you on your kitchen table. wanna hammer you to a wall. wanna rock you like queen between my flannel sheets. just wanna be your girl in the streets. wanna see you drip wet like summer on sand. just wanna be your unchartered land. just wanna hold your hand. wanna power-suit your lipstick lesbian. wanna let you toss my head of hair behind you. wanna stick-shift remind you. wanna feel your sili-cock between my thunder thighs. wanna be your lord of the flies. 

wanna have you pin me against my fair trade fridge...or on top of the recycling bin...below the weight of your vegan-beefy bones. wanna hear your moans. just wanna buffy your apocalypse. wanna be the loose lips on your sinking ship. wanna be sub sub substitute teacher to your principal. wanna be on my knees, master. wanna go harder, faster. just wanna find me a queen to wine and dine and disco. wanna have them hear me in san francisco. just wanna rock out with my cock out to that thumpa-thumpa. just wanna be glitter on your body boy. wanna see you touch your body boy. wanna bend you over my knee and punish your begging bottom. just wanna knight rider your galloping steed. wanna make you bleed. wanna feel you so deep inside me there's no noise. wanna bring the noise, baby. just wanna be your juliet. wanna cleave to some little eggshell picket fences. wanna lose my senses. wanna let you tie me up and paint my nipples chartreuse. wanna play duck duck goose. just wanna soccer mom your dick and jane. wanna feel your pain. wanna pre-nup you in every orifice. wanna ready-rim you ambiguous. wanna pillage your money-spot religious. wanna have your hipster anti-o my hick salacious. wanna daisy drive {formerly you} ze fellatious. just wanna finger-phone-fuck you on-call. wanna have it all. cuz i can have it all.

dear readers

should you exist.

i must let you know that i change this blog colour on a need-basis. this nauseating pink is courtesy of the pink sparkly heart shaped shortbread cookies i purchased for cara and i at natas today.

re: a note, it has been a turbo-bitch day. i feel my friends (not cara, who lives with me on the island of the non-whole-hearted), perplexed with my moody behaviour as of late. sometimes i think they forget i depressed and that will keep coming back inconveniently. maybe one day it won't. when i have a pony named karl. 

but for the time being, its bumpy. the sparkly heart cookies didn't irk me the way valentine's normally does. almost cracked a smile, to be honest. i just don't know what to do with the heart cookies but devour the sparkly icing that my body's continence certainly doesn't know what to do with, squint really hard and hope it translates into something productive as a human citizen.

my posts lately seem sad, i think. or tragic. i don't necessarily feel sad. or tragic. maybe just separate from any sort of upward climb. nothing i do seems to really, add up to something the way we are made to feel actions should. i do things. i feel a feeling. and so it goes. 

no matter how much i seem to learn the rules, there are no rules. so i suppose i've stopped caring? about rules? about what healthy is supposed to mean? about what happy is supposed to mean?

my creative writing prof told me my writing on wednesday was sarcastic and witty. he thinks i should be a comedian. he, and the subsequent chiming in of my classmates, are not the first people to tell me this. 

i guess i could do that. the same prof told me once that he thought humour was a higher form of thinking. or expression. or something. sometimes there is no greater feeling for me than making people laugh. othertimes, the idea makes me feel more indifferent than anything else. its funny that way.

my aspirations at this point are few. as my birthday nears, i don't know if there is anything about 25 and who i am now that seems out of place. 

right now, i'm still at natas, and i really wanna go into the bathroom and pull really hard on my hair, grabbing clumps of it - now long enough for a pony tail - in my fists. and stare at my face in the mirror. sometimes my motor self needs the release of visceral actions rather than these composted words. 

a note

to anyone in a relationship that is monogamous:

please do not give me bedroom eyes. flirt with me. give me your number. follow me to the only. invite me to go dancing with you at the trash. hold my hand when we get there. wait for me to make a move. tell me you have a girlfriend in ottawa you are deeply in love with.

i do not allocate time in my schedule to get played. you're wasting decent buffy watching hours.

most sincerely, 

a die-hard loose lady of the evening.

when in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

i all alone beweep my outcast state 
and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
and look upon myself and curse my fate, 
wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
desiring this man's art and that man's scope, 
with what i most enjoy contented least; 
yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
haply i think on thee, and then my state, 
like to the lark at break of day arising 
from sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
for thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
that then i scorn to change my state with kings

i love you

just got back from montreal. i didn't have the money to go. but i never usually do. 

it felt good to travel alone again. i mean, i wasn't entirely alone. my pals and i rented a car together. but, they all had their own plans. and i had to justify the trip with some sort of article for the paper. 

i attended a conference on police brutality, which i enjoyed immensely. it reminded my sometimes unjustifiably disenchanted heart that the struggle continues. the struggles bleed into each other. and this quiet... just means i can't see it anymore. the reasons for caring at all. for mobilizing. when i feel too privileged to wave a flag about anything. 

i got suspended from welfare again. i submitted my income form well on time, but they lost it it seems. and now my rent will bounce (again) and i will incur the cost. and i'll look like all the stereotypes of someone poor and dealing with mental health issues. and really, i don't need their help in that regard. 

but why do i do that? feel shame? get overcome with fear? slink past my landlord's house, situated too close for my liking.

because i believe it too. i believe that crazy and poor are things i need to distance myself from in order to assure myself i am ...who i want to be. but like my prof molly once said to me in her kitchen, as my heart bled all over her table while we sipped our gin: 'you're not a fuck up, jes. you're just struggling. life is struggle'

and ain't it true. 

nate sent me an email today entitled 'i love you'. all it said was:

"The person who loves their dream of community will destroy community even if their intentions are ever so honest. But the person who loves those around them will create community."

i guess thats what i'm starting to understand. the intelligence i am crafting with the academic mentors around me means very little in terms of any sort of utopic climax. the opportunity is always present to experience community. the politics are important but the love is the institutional memory. 

maybe that's what stephen was getting at with our discussion of Richard III today. the role of the men in the play and that of the women. the women were constantly mourning. and losing. and flailing. and enduring. sure it ended with the gorey death of a king. but that was for entertainment. the real conclusion was this hunger for power could slaughter and force submission to innocence and life but never exist without the tenderness of the womb. 

and its a great metaphor. we can harden ourselves. like richard, this self-loathing hunchback with bloodlust and a beautiful tongue. but we require love. and it kills us.

i'm not the one you want, babe

new semester.

new poetry books. new resolutions. new problems.

old solutions. old(er) age. old habits. 

old anthologies.

listening to a lot of dylan these days. producing some of the best writing i have in years. for arthur. for my academic self. for poetry. it feels good. but it also seems to drain me.

watched this great episode of grey's anatomy today. this opera singer has a cancerous tumour on his lung. he wants the doctors to spare his lung. he says he doesn't want to live without singing. he talks about the suppressing emotion in the real world. in a restaurant when his food is cooked too well done. how he says nothing.

because at night, on his stage, he can kill the waiter and dance on his grave.

he doesn't know how to be ordinary. he's mean. he's mean to his lover. the show posed the question of passion vs. love. your gift and talents - the essence of who you are and what you sing through. pitted against the person who sings through you. 

i've gone out the last couple nights in a row. its a queer socialite world. its a gay scene. it's fun and vicious and exhausting. and i will probably cave and go out tonight. 

but its hard to hide my disenchantment. and my sadness. i am mean. because my pursuit of love in this place is riddled with losses. not rejection of advances but rejection of romance. and words. beautiful words chosen from the branches and held out like berries. juices trickling through my fingers, which i can name anatomically. dripping down to my elbows like an invitation. written in an ancient language barely surfacing in allusive bobs of a body treading indifference in egg-beater legs.

sometimes i want to sleep forever. sometimes i get scared to leave my house. 

my bedroom is beyond the picture of destruction. this usually indicates that i am avoiding dealing with something. 

maybe i'm not allowed to be nice. or something. maybe the closer i claw towards my artistic articulations...maybe the quenching of my desert throat for more words. bigger worlds in intricate words. maybe it has a price. 

i tightened the knobs on the drawers at her party. i was drunk and got triggered by all of it and so i crouched down and took all the knobs off and put them back on tighter. as tight as i could. and i cried quietly as they all got naked and made out in the kitchen. i don't know why. it seems silly. sex can be a handshake. i said that once, i think.

maybe i'm losing it. 

for now, i'll just go lightly on the ground.

poo.

so, i have just entered the realm of spite.

i woke up really angry today. angry at myself mostly, but i needed a target. i needed her to know how i was hurt. and so i lashed out in text. 

and it felt good. but now it feels awful. we had never fought before. never said things like this. and now, they hang in the air like landmines incompletely detonated. 

my brother is sometimes a bit of a loose cannon. or misunderstood. because he's eccentric and eager and stuff. but he is also one of the wisest people i know, and had this to say when i told him about the fight:

'if you see a brother in sin, talk to him in gentleness, considering yourself, lest you be tempted.'

and he's right. who am i to cast the first stone? i can let my mental health and neurosis wrap around me like one giant self-involved bubble sometimes. 

people have told me that they are jealous of my creativity. and my eloquence. but its times like i wish i didnt know how to wield words so artfully. i cut her so deeply. because i know how. i went from never telling the truth to saying too much. 

she's already hurting. but i just wanted her to hear me so badly.