Friday, December 15, 2000 @ 11:45 p.m.
I am having a really, really busy, tiring, somewhat discouraging day. It's the Whitemud's fault. Taking 55 minutes for a 15-minute bus ride this morning pissed me off so badly, I couldn't possibly let anything else go right.
Jeff: it's not your fault. Someone who has known me for a long time tell him that I'm always depressive and morbid and hard to get along with.
I need some Tylenol.
"You chased a whole bottle of Tylenol with a whole bottle of vodka!"
can you dig it?
The other day, I was trying to decide on a font for some text I was printing-- I don't even remember what it was for-- and I noticed this: it's weird how any word, no matter how significant it may be to you personally (you own name, even) loses all meaning if you say, or read, it over and over again. The repitition, or removal of context, disconnects signified from signifier and thus it becomes another unanchored phoneme. We think of the word and the thing or idea it stands for as being two aspects of the same meaning, but they aren;t, by any means. The word "cat" has nothing to do with the animal: it's a symbol, a series of sounds our mouths make, and the connection is arbitrary. Is it too late to rewire ourselves for new meaning?
This sense of disconnected words, words without meaning: is this what the world was like as Gabriel Garcia Marquez describes it in the first paragraph of One Hundred Years of Solitude:
"The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in oder to indicate them it was necessary to point..."
Imagine if we had chosen other words for things! Nothing I am saying would mean anything. It would be nonsense.
Language is also a technology, a fluid one, but we fail to notice this because it is so inherent in our thinking.
"I feel as if he's alive still, and that he's always walking three steps ahead of me, like a king."
and she gives it away/and you are FASCINATED by her/and she does it again/consumed with brilliant DESIRE...
"Canadian writers get as excited about trains as French writers do about sex." -Silver Donald Cameron
"Fruit on the bottom, just like me!" -Meghan, on her yogurt
Oh shoes, why do you have to taste so good?
COLD ENOUGH FOR YA?
Today has been a very efficient day.
I bought Christmas gifts for some of my hardest people-you-have-to-buy-a-present for, and I crafted new insoles for my boots (my dog ate the old ones) out of a Kahlua box and a lot of electrical tape. So, all is well with the world. Now if only I had time to study for final exams... oh well, we all have our priorities.
Commander Galaxy is the commander of my heart.
me & eudora welty, baby
when I was little my parents read these books to me written by Richard Scarry (sp?). There was "Busy, Busy World," and other ones with these sort of schematic diagrams of the way things work. Diagrams of transit systems with a fox driving a bus and a cow on a skateboard and a cat in a little uniform was the conductor on the train, that sort of thing. Little drawings of how houses get constructed, how wood gets turned into paper... (Busy Busy World, with the story of Couscous the Algerian detective, was obviously my favourite, but the other books were good too.)
Now, the purpose of my digression: lately I have been thinking about whether I actually hate my job, or only think I do, and I have realized that I don't: in fact, I love it. As I further attempted to interiorize and figure out why, I realized it: it's because working for the Corporation is a very Richard-Scarry-esque activity. Other people my age cook hamburgers or sell Gap T-Shirts, and those are worthy activities, also: but mail. Mail is a big idea, a very human institution. The delivery of mail-- the arcane knowledge, the many necessary forms, the different postage rates, the movement of planes, trains, trucks, canvas bags, deep plastic bins-- is a level of complication, of systemization, that is truly indicative of a busy, busy world. I have become involved in an activity much larger than myself. I have become that dog driving the mail truck.
Now I read these books to Griffin and Ella and wonder if I am condemning them to a lifetime of $7-and-hour because they will be similarily fascinated by the feeling of being inside a Richard Scarry book.
one for sorrow
all your life
"Please don't disillusion me, I haven't had breakfast yet."
when you wish upon a star
i wish jess would start collecting something-- little glass figurines, or old buckets, or London metro system memorabilia, or duelling daggers, or sno-globes, or things that smell like monkeys-- so that we would know what to get her for Christmas. "Hey, I'll just get her another __________", we would jubilantly exclaim.
Now it's more like, "oh, fuck. What am I going to get Jess?" And I'm not jubilant about it either.
I still think she's magnificent, of course. Just-- difficult to shop for.
why pray for rain girl
I would really, really like to know why my shower-water smells like fish. Not just fish: but aquarium water, in which fish have been living, and old fish food, and it also has a strange texture. I know in the past I have been known to say ridiculous things, and this sacrifices my credibility somewhat, but I am completely serious. It grosses me out-- and also, I have a vested interest, because no one would want to have sex with a girl who smells like fish food.
who wants to go our for dinner and chimprov on my birthday? Is this a good idea? Who wants to buy me presents? mail me!
i've gone to look for america
Meatloaf doesn't really appeal to me when I eat it, but damn it smells good.
Steam is coming off the river. Your life is ending. Around you everything is just beginning, but your life is ending.
It's the last night of the world, and you have one more chance to do the things you've always wanted to do. Who do you call?
Small wishes granted
I'm the fairy of teeny tiny wishes. I allow you to have good eye-sight with the use of bargain bin glasses, and I provide you with many hours of fun while brushing your teeth with happy Colgate. That's my bag of tricks, and boy does it keep me popular with the old folks.
Angie.pitas.com is yours to post at. Because you're special-like.
i will now vent my rage at being stuck alone in the post office during the christmas rush on a saturday by giving out top-secret canada post employees-only tollfree numbers.
I wish I could still post to the angiepita
I can STEAL those stickers from my work! They all trust me, the fools! i am a retail queen! I don't have to work any holidays anymore, because I have "retail tenure"... it's scary how, when you stay in a low-responsiblity job long enough, it stops being a low-responsibility job.
New addition to my mixtape: "Three Times A Lady," by The Commodores. Viva la revolucíon!
it's snowing, again, and the world's pace is changing...
two days ago
three days ago
it's only, like, the prettiest website ever.
human beings are cars that run on sugar
I just took a bath and used not less than ten hair- and skincare products: shampoo, conditioner, reconstructor, leave-in conditioner, bath gel (it made the water bright green! it was cool, like swimming in a swamp, where it is a little daump), exfoliator, facial cleanser, shaving cream, moisturizer, and foot lotion. now, a deletia poll:
...or, does any of this do any good?