"Work and money; work and money-strange but true. Fifty years of this stuff ahead of me-it's a wonder I don't just hurl myself off the bridge in the centre of town right away. How did we let the world arrive at this state? I mean, this is it? And where, exactly, is the relief from this creepy cycle supposed to be? Has nobody thought of this? Am I mad?"

-Douglas Coupland

There's a goose in the park by my house. Not uncommon ordinarily, but at this time of year all the geese have flocked to Florida like old age pensioners... This one is left behind in the cold and rain. He/she has a limp. We've seen him there for weeks now. Just hobbling about in the park, nibbling at the grass. Why are you alone, goose? Why are you still here? What happened to your leg?

Today Marianne filled up her little red wagon with supplies and we walked down to the beach to visit this sad goose. She brought him bird seed, and built him a shelter, tucked under some trees. It wuz so sweet to see. Where I had just moped about for the poor bird, she actually did something about it. I just think about it. I get down at the bird's level, right up close, and I talk to him. "What happened to you?" But I never brought him food. I never thought to build him a shelter. Too much work. Kids are great for action in these things.

In the summer Marianne and David (bible names, surely) took a liking to the feild in front of my house. Hiding in the high grass, finding grasshoppers... The hall next door doesn't have much parking space, it wuz thought that they would wipe out that field and pave it over for more parking. When Marianne found out about this she sat down and wrote a letter to the woman who owns that land. She picked some buttercups from the field, put them in with the folded letter and put it on the woman's porch. So far so good. The field is still there, for now.

Affirmitave action? This is foriegn to me. The girl is forward. I just sit at my window muttering "It's a mad mad world and I don't wanna think about it." Marianne writes letters and builds shelters. Let's hope time doesn't wear her out. And let's pray my apathy never rubs off on her.

The goose event wuz sometime between 7am and noon today. I baked bread today. So tasty it's almost gone. And since the hours between 7am and noon are not meant to have a concious Chaara in them, I went back to sleep. 2pm-6pm. Dreamt bad things. Bad things that are too close to real things. I don't feel cool with this at all. "So Chaara, what are you up to these days?" Ohhh.... A loud, clear, male voice reading out the phrases written on dollar bills with black markers in "Shampoo Planet" and I squirm and moan and squirm and moan because I know just how fucking true it all is. And I don't do anything about it. Douglas Coupland's writing makes me need to go into a coma. Just shut down. There is no winning. Give up now.

"JAMAICAN LOVE ROCKET"
spraypainted on the side
of plywooded pick-up truck
I fell in love with the driver
for ten seconds
as he drove by
my house in the rain.

take me with you!

Well shit oh goodness. I must pay for groceries now. This is not cool on my bank account, which I never touch. And not out of greed or hording tendencies, I just never have to think about my money so I don't. And now... I have to eat. What a drag. This will certainly diminish my little Baja fund. Food, food, food.

I found a note on my mother's dresser today that said; "Make calls, re; room rent."
Okay now. What room would that be mother? Hmm? What room is it you are trying to rent out from under me? Could it be, say, MINE? Yep. That's the one.

I confront her on this. And she tells me some bullshit about enjoying my company, my intelligence, my sense of humour... "But you'd enjoy it more if I PAID you." "yes!"

This is so fucking depressing. You know, I wouldn't even care if it weren't for the fucking fact that I am doing nothing in my life that I love right now. Nothing I do is fun. Nothing I do gives me pleasure. If I had some semblance of a life, and therefore, some joy, the idea of paying for my own groceries wouldn't bother me a bit. But as it fucking stands it is making me want to kick some walls down.

I'm all taped together here. I am stuck together with scraps of paper and children's glue. I am very much wanting to just light the fire around me and burn out right fucking now. When does this life BEGIN? Why can I not just start this motherfucker? Tear it down. I give up. What am I anyway? What the hell am I doing? I need to get out of this oppressive town, and I do not want to come back. It rains too goddamned much here. You know that gas ovens are no longer used? This is such a disappointment. I'm sure gas ovens were very efficient. What the fuck do I need? What is stopping me? This so stupid.

PJ Harvey's "Joe" playing. Good anthem here for this. This is not a good fucking release at all, sitting here typing. How fucking passive. I need to fuck some shit up. Fight crime. Be crime. This is so quiet. I feel fucking middle aged. I am a wasted life here.

"Big black monsoon, take me with you!" -pj Every few months I rip down this facade and completely break down. I'll get the pills. And trudge on. It appeases those around me. But I am never satisfied. And unlike others in similar scenes, I know exactly what I need. I know exactly what would make me happy and whole and sane. And I can't take it. I can't handle it. I avoid it with every bit of will in me. And I don't fucking know why. I want my life, as it is meant to be, to start. I need it to start. I don't want to be around to watch myself fade away before I've even done anything.

"It's my life to ruin, my own way."
-morrissey

"I ask because I'm a cunt... "

Got an e-mail today from this idiot I met in Kelowna. (checked my mail at work, not here. I'm still disconnected) You know, kindness may have dictated that I not call him an idiot, but that may have led to my seeing him again in my life, and since I don't want that to happen it's in my best interest that I be honest. (A small gesture of self-assurance in the face of my present pathetic passenger lifestyle.) In any case, this e-mail wuz so pathetic, I felt like I should be suing him, for punitive damages.

"Scar Tissue", that fucking great chili peppers song, just came on my winamp and, tied in with recalling that stupid e-mail from that stupid guy, it made me remember sitting in 'city park' in Kelowna with that guy, and these sexy Euro punks were sitting around with guitars across from us. They started playing "scar tissue" and, naturally, I got up and danced like a madwoman. Beautiful. That wuz the second time I had danced to that very song in that very park. (time before; it wuz on a vender's radio, I dropped my pack and turned up their radio and danced and sang, so happy... ) The difference being, I wuz alone that time. So I didn't have this moron pitbull of a wanna-be boyfriend to get all sketchy at me for doing it. Ugh.

This guy wuz such a joke. I'm not sure what made him so crazy for me in the first place (twat and tits? That's enough I guess) everything that makes me who and what I am he would try to stifle and shut up. Any time I laughed out loud, a big joyous throw-your-head back laugh, he would do this look-around-to-see-if-anyone-noticed thing and scowl at me with this 'sshhhh' look of desperate embarrassment.

"What?" I'd say.

"Uh... I just like quiet."

Right. Okay. Or you just like quiet women. You're with the wrong chick, pal.

I only knew the guy for maybe three days, but I fucking felt married to him. It wuz so exhausting.
And what is really hideous and scary is that even as he wuz pissing me off so goddamned much, I still hung around with him. What's with that? It wuz comfortable. Familiar.

Shit, I am far more inclined toward bourgeois behaviour than I care to admit. When 'politeness' drives you to waste your time with dorks, it's time to abandon the ettiquette you were force-fed as a girl. Bleah. Blea!@E%@$%

"... good manners [are] a tactic designed to camoflouge the insidious motives of the bourgeoisie."
-Tom Robbins It's a lot easier to stay with something that is comfortable and bland than with something that freaks you right the fuck out. But the end result of the latter is so much more thrilling than the former. (I hope I didn't mix that up. I always fuck up that 'latter and former' stuff... You knew what I meant.)

There are those types of people, like my temporary boring fucking oaf husband in Kelowna, I tend to waste a lot of my time with them. And there are the people who blow my mind and I love. I don't spend time with them. I'm afraid I'll implode.

This is a huge contribution to my whiny self-pity.

PJ's "Plants and Rags" now... Mmmm....

"...ease myself into a body bag
I dreamt a man,
he fed me fine foods,
he gave me shiny things..."

"I'm just working for the man. I'm just doing what I can." Hey, I feel much better now. Having purged a few nasty mean feelings...