I really mean this.

Lets not use such strong language, shall we? We won't say words like "existential" or "crises". We will use other words that suggest a subtler feeling. Instead of "existential" we will say "funny" and we will consider replacing "crises" with "matter".

I'm having a funny matter. Do you know what a funny matter is? I'll explain.

A funny matter may consist of, but is not limited to, a special feeling of neurosis. The kind that swims in circles in a downward fashion until you reach a ridiculous low, sitting somewhere starting a hole in the back of a chair wondering if all cab drivers have esp and if your life's work is valid enough to be referred to as your "life's work" or should you be putting more time and effort in to your work and if you do that, does it really make a difference in the end and what is the end and does it justify the means and if cab drivers are indeed psychic than did you say anything dark or evil when you were sitting there or were you just humming your own song in your head like a whelp?

You come to just in time to find yourself rolling pennies in your mothers apartment thinking about the logistics of depositing all these hundreds of rolls in the bank and you realize that the only reason you're even rolling these coins is to distract your mind from the way your family makes you feel at christmas time, all fond and vulnerable and annoyed like when your best friend tells a joke you made up at lunch and gets a huge laugh for it and as you roll and as you ruminate and fall deeper and deeper into a depression padded with food and darkness and forced smiles and small talk and subtle annoyances and temperature shifts and germaphobia you realize...

...we all feel this way once in awhile and it's ok.

The Stall

Pissing in the ancient, 24 hour single stall of the women's washroom at the lakeview restaurant. 2am. Tired and mullish. I didn't lock the stall because the metal latch looked bent and i didn't figure on anyone bursting in. Voices loud outside the door. A young woman preocupied with fun opened the door to the restroom proper.
I fumbled with the lock absent mindedly with one hand while i rested my chin in the other hand, nearly done pissing.
"Fuck it", I thought when the lock wouldn't slide closed. I put my hand against the door to prevent her from barging in. I grabbed a fistful of toilet paper and began to wipe when i felt her shove against the door. It opened a crack. I pushed it closed. This goddamn woman pushed back even harder and caught a rewarding (and unfortunately prolonged) glimpse of my ass, mid wipe. She closed the door as I said, "what the fuck?!?!".
Humilitation was sinking me down the toilet with my own urine. "Well who doesn't lock the door??", she asked rhetorically, aiming to point out my own idiocy and how all of this was really my fault. Fair enough.
Once I was standing pants pulled up, I managed to lock the door no problem. I took an extra moment to allow my mortified shoulders to relax after stiffening with surprised embarassment. I didn't look at her when I left, but thought to myself, "Who the fuck shoves open a door in a washroom that has just been agressively pushed closed against them?!"

The Parkdale Coke Wizard

It's time for another "Stories from Parkdale"

So check it. Last night a spirited group of youngsters (myself included) gathered at the Rhino to play some pool. Standing against the wall closest to the pool table, in a black leather Neo-from-the Matrix-meets-Count Dracula-meets-priest get up was who we refer to as, the Parkdale Coke Wizard.

Here is a man of no discretion. A man who constantly held a glass of whiskey in one hand while half heartedly masturbating with the other. And every so often he would stop beating off, do a huge bump of cocaine, sip some water from a pint glass and then grab his dick again. At one point during a game I had to make a shot right beside him. When I got the ball in he let out this quiet "aahhmmm" moan thing. I stared at him for a sec and was going to say something to the effect of "is your hand on your dick right now, man?!" but one of his eyes wasn't fully open and it looked like he was getting snow blind so I just left it.

Anyway, dude stood there for upwards of two hours, just repeating the same motions while we played around him. Not sure what that says really, I guess if you do something and refuse to apologise for it, sometimes you get away with it. Like masturbating in public while doing hard drugs and moaning at strangers.

Days 14 and 15

I kill roaches with a vehement disinterest. I am indifferently disgusted. It's not a hatred, or a fear, or a pleasure. I simply Do Not acknowledge their right to exist in the kitchen bathroom or bedrooms of the apartment and every night around 2:30am when I come home I do my best to eradicate them. Some days I only kill a couple. Some days I kill like, 25. Most of them are so small... baby roaches. But the (fuck I just killed one running across my keyboard) worst kind are the huge mama bear roaches with their floppy ecru coloured egg sacs. So nimble.

This isn't so much a preamble (though I will make a weak segue) as it is an entry in itself. Roaches. Ick. No court would convict me. Except cockroach court and ain't no way in hell I'm going anywhere near there!

The point is that I called my ex tonight on my way home because her bedroom light was on and I didn't want to put my squashing gloves on just yet. I was greeted with the sound of a phone being dragged though (what honestly sounded like really comfy) sheets, a soft murmur of voices and then a disconnected signal.
Oops.
Completely owning up to it being my fault for calling. Completely. And also acknowledging how crappy I felt after she hung up on me. And that feeling you get when you've relinquished your place in someones life and you find that their whereabouts are a dismal surprise. Or not a surprise per se, but certainly dismal...

But then you shrug your body and go home to take it out on the roaches.

Days 12 and 13

Ok so fuck yes.

I wanted to call a few days ago and I didn't. Like I REALLY wanted to call. But I didn't. And this is the payoff! This is it! I woke up today and was reminded of what having a life felt like. Of how being alone can be really good and spending time with people that think you're awesome can make you feel yourself becoming more awesome.

I am aware of the downer reputation this blog has gotten. It IS a fucking downer. It isn't meant to be upbeat because this is the salvation army of my mind where I go to donate all my unwanted crap.

Suffice to say my life isn't deadly blue all days. My love is now an echo and I'm listening to it fade. With each dimmed call my life looks a bit brighter and that ain't so bad, is it?

I even wrote a poem.

In this crucial time I stay away.
I want to posses you in the night and
be held accountable for
your swollen legs in the day. But
I think I know what love is now-
I am making broad strokes,
wanting it to appear.
I can tell you aren't
the love as I sense your heart's
a liar.
I wait for the day to come when
we can be content as strangers.

Days 9 ten and 11

I wonder how to put this as evasively as possible:

I sang "Cocoon" by Bjork all day today.

You don't need to know what that means. If I can delicately express this, it's going to be a rough week. And if my phone rang this evening I would have answered it, probably.

It's odd watching as your perception of what your future is changes while your present stays the same. Seeing things you thought were permanent shift and alter on the horizon while your heart stays in the same place. I'm still in love in this moment, where I'm eating stupid chocolate covered pretzels on the bare mattress of my youth. I'm still thinking about someone who isn't around but in the mind of my future I'm questioning more and more.

Days 7 and 8

Denial is a funny thing. I've had a few people in the past while suggest-not too subtly, I may add- that I am struggling with an addiction.

More and more I agree with that theory because of this one erratic behavior pattern I've been forming. Basically what I do is I call my ex with a more or less innocuous ruse... "Hey, just calling because I wanted to know when that thing is due this month" or whatever. I then proceed to make small talk and listen absent mindedly not even to the words but to the voice. It's the strangest fucking thing. I don't even know what to call it; sitting there with the phone pressed to my ear talking about and listening to nothing but feeling like I'm being kept company better in those ten minutes than at any other point in the day.

So that's strange. And it seems like an addict move on my part because I get jittery in the moments leading up to speaking with them, then I feel this euphoric release when we talk, then I tense up when I know my "high" is about to end and once it does, I feel cold and empty. Like I just masturbated in a highway motel room by myself.

I am approaching that place where I piss my self off.

Days 6 and 7

Did you know that nostalgia was once considered to be a potentially fatal illness?
It's true. In the late 1680's the term was coined. It was also referred to as "Swiss homesickness" after Swedish mercenaries traveling extensively and exhibiting symptoms of acute discomfort and general malaise with no real cause.

I don't think there is an actual cure per se... just seems to be one of those things that lessens with time. I am aware of how many things trigger nostalgia right now and I am thankful that I have the perspective already to laugh about it. Certain streets, crossword clues, songs, foods, outfits, hair styles, phrases, tv shows, mental illnesses, facial expressions, numbers, jewelry, shower rituals, stores...all sorts of stuff. And I feel a little bit absurd falling down my memory's rabbit hole time and time again.

You just never know when you do something initially the significance it may hold one day.

Days 4 and 5

Oh yes. Keeping busy. Don't you let that tricky little nostalgia gremlin burrow his way into your poor battered psyche. Don't let the little pest nuzzle the Ventral Tegmental part of your brain, slipping past your already tried and tired Lateral Prefrontal Cortex that has just about had enough of her sass...

Anyway.

Apparently, being rejected by someone you continue to love has the capacity to derail the mind because love occupies the same part of the brain that also controls motivation and reward. A study I read suggested that the average scorned lover takes upwards or 63 days to regain motivation. Holy Mackerel.

So don't let the gremlin-brain-fucker-man have a shot at your mind. He'll sneak up on you, wrap the sheets around your pathetic form and spoon you within an inch or your existence until you smell exactly like the room I am typing this in (balls) and wish for nothing more than to disappear into your own odor and you will allow it because you feel starved for a loving embrace and you're unwashed.

Days 2 and 3

Starting off strong and in the anger stage of the Kubler-Ross grief cycle, today and yesterday. Of the 5 stages of dying, anger comes second; after denial, and before bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

I appreciate now being able to look in a mirror and see color in my cheeks even if it's because I've spent the past 2 days blustering around town. It's better than viewing my own face as a sign of defeat, as white as a surrender flag.

I have no words, I have nothing but these moments of rage that slip in when I'm not keeping busy. I fall victim to feelings of helplessness and longing but those are gonna go away fast. And since I've already been through the bargaining phase during the death rattle of the relationship, I am looking forward to acceptance. Bring 'er on.

Day 1

I quit smoking. I don't know when, exactly... after so many attempts in so many years to quit for good I finally one day just... stopped. I didn't keep track of when my last one was, I just stopped smoking. I don't even remember if it was late spring or early summer. If you can actually stand to *drop* something like that-drop it so completely you don't even remember when it happened-you're gonna be just fine. You'll be in great shape. Counting days is kind of a weird coping mechanism. It gives each day a sense of accomplishment but also a huge sense of stress. I don't like being aware of how time passes. It kind of freaks me out. Still, when I made my mute commitment, I found myself keeping track because it was the hardest thing I'd ever done and I needed to know where I was in the murky stretch of speechless time. And it was needed. And it was good.

I'm about to start counting again. I'm counting the days until they get to be so easy breezy I don't need to mark them anymore. I'm starting with today as day 1 for no other reason than I'm ready to feel better and I want to motivate myself.

Day 1 feels like a prickly cactus. Like bleary eyes and not enough food or water and too much nausea and too many bowel movements and not enough comfort and a big city hall sized door knocker masquerading as a heart beating hard enough inside my chest to knock me over at any moment.

I'm going to make a point of locating the tricky little devil who figured out how to pour lead into the chests of unsuspecting civilians and I'm going to tan their hide.

nightmare juice

Sometimes nightmares come out of nowhere. They slip into any good dream and you have to sit with that sinking feeling of dismay as everything shifts slightly over from "ordinary" to "slightly off" and then "slightly off putting" and finally, "nazi in a giant rabbit suit chasing you around a burning warehouse". Or something.

THEN there are other times. Moments within the cacophonous flood of images our minds process day in and day out where something just... sticks. And it could be anything. A dead bird, a mascara ad, a scene in a film, a cockroach, a terrifying looking hooker. The point is that it's a lottery, and the lucky image-that finds you at a crucial time in whatever your brain is doing in any state of vulnerability at any point in the day-plants a seed. That seed becomes the crux of the worst kind of nightmare. The kind where you go, "fuck this! Why am I SO terrified? I saw this (insert blank) on the bus this afternoon and now it has me running scared in a dream?!" The type of dream where you feel like a tool because you've broken your own fourth wall and yet you still wake up in an ice cold puddle of fear piss, confused and alone.

While brushing my teeth just now I looked down at the porcelain sink and an image flashed through my mind that literally turned the tap that controls the nightmare juice. In writing this I hope very much to stave off the creepy crawlies that may visit tonight.

ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

In a single instant everything can become inverted like a russian contortionist on her "A game". And money changes everything. Today something occurred that threw a minor wrench in some major plans. The kind of wrench that has a three bill price tag-easy. I'm not gonna say what that thing was because this spilled milk smells more sour with each retelling. However, having money for the first time, then losing it all in a second means that the plans made around that money are left hanging in the air. From the simple dinner to the outlandish pilot lesson, from the relief at being able to pay off debt to the exhuberance of splurging on oft yearned after but rarely obtained fancy retail duds, I was pissing cash and stocking up savings for a few months. Now, in the wake of the death of that fleeting dream I am back at square one once again. This time instead of losing my voice, my possessions, my apartment or my love, it's just my fucking cash that's taking off.

Of all the set backs this one sucks the least, so that's pretty rad. Go go gadget poverty once more.

...

I got nothing to say, I can only recommend you never listen to this song while feeling lonesome:

Neil Young- Harvest Moon

Seriously. Don't do it. It will remind you of every bittersweet memory you wish/rue having with someone.

on lost (tv)

TV is on its way out. The last leg it has to stand on is as the de facto entertainment of choice for lazy couples the world over looking to spend some qt together without actually *doing* anything.

In my most recent partnership we did like, five seasons of Lost as a couple and half of the last season in the torturous purgatory that follows most young relationships. Season six has yet to be watched to its completion.

Sometimes I (and perhaps everyone else on this planet) find myself honoring past moments in time in strange ways...

Last night I was approached my a drunk man in his late twenties, early thirties. He walked right up to me and started talking, gesticulating wildly with a lit cigarette as though the conversation had had a beginning, a middle and an end and I wasn't just being dunked into the incoherent stew of his mind for a few blocks on College street.

He ranted on and on about getting arrested at a Pickle Barrel in Markham last night while watching two of the eight kids his 45 year old biker friend Pork Chop had. Accused of public drunkenness, robbed of the $350 in his wallet, keys thrown in the gutter, and forgotten about in his overnight cell for a whopping 13 hours which were "incomprehensible to mankind" with a dying cell phone.

...To be fair, that does sound like a rotten night.

The odd thing was that this dude looked almost exactly like the character Desmond from Lost (a hands down favorite of my former), and I found myself walking along with him because he was keeping me company in memories.

another

Some events in life prompt us to reach into the vast ether in an attempt to forge a connection, be it superficial, one sided or genuine. Shitty break ups are one of those events.

Suffice to say this is not going to be a mournful account of should-have-beens and what-ifs. The aim here is to express at least a little melancholy while occupying a similar genre to the lovesick protagonist of High Fidelity, for example. This is going to be my getting dumped (and duped) with a grain of salt.

I'd like to start off by saying that doing anything in life ever with one part of you performing under par is not impossible. It does, however, make everything more difficult, tedious and shitty. It is possible to walk up stairs with crutches and a sprained ankle, but fuck does it ever suck! And it's possible to go to work, get dressed, have conversations, eat and sleep with a broken heart but for some reason shit is just plain harder.

I like to think it's similar to this video clip but with all things forever until you stop feeling like a flaming bag of poop. Best of luck to ya.

Wtf

Sometimes in life, if you want something bad enough you are capable of doing stupid shit. Sometimes in relationships it's possible to replace self esteem with desperate optimism.

Wanted...

Wanted: Fancy clean apartment.

We are:

Tidy, moderate, attractive. 2 boys, 1 girl. Musically inclined, well read. We travel light in life and in our house. We like long walks, vivid sunsets, romantic games of chess, coffee and laughter. Some of us have been known to unroll the ol' yoga mat now and again. We like to have fun and be ourselves. Our favorite food is pierogis, our favorite dessert is everything and cookies.

You are:

Beautiful inside and out with a warm heart and an open mind. Please be vermin free, as we've been burned before. We love working fire alarms and landlords that don't try to initiate a three way. Our favorite stoves are ones that work. We go crazy for windows in every room of the house. If you don't smell like home cooking from every corner of the world all at once we will melt in your arms. We try not to be picky but in the past, the ones we've loved the most haven't had miscellaneous brown stains on the walls and ceiling and that's something we appreciate in a place.

I know we can't pay much, but we have a lot of love to give.

Hope you're somewhere out there, mystery dream apartment.

xoxo.

Dark days

Last week we found out we have bed bugs and are being evicted within an hour of each other. The reason we've been given for being evicted is renovation and the landlords have family moving in. Guess what? FALSE.

Everyone took a bag of stuff and left the apartment to consider what to do to get rid of the infestation before our slated move out date, November 1st.

The more we researched the worse everything seemed to be, Horror stories of ever adapting bed bugs resilient to plastic and fumigation. I lived in the clothes my dad got me the day I had to do my laundry for 3 days. I've been living out of a plastic bag.

We wanted to leave in October instead then had a mixup and ended up setting the move out date for Sept 1st- like 2 days from now. Our stuff needs to stay in the apartment for a number of weeks while the poison kills the insects so that isn't an option.

Unfortunately, the apartment has already been listen on craigslist here with a move in date set for as soon as September!

So not only do they think we are leaving in 2 days, they expect someone to move in to an apartment untreated for bed bugs, without renovating and no sign of their family taking the place over!

What the fuck?

Day old

Stripped of my possessions I reenter this world anew- raw and uncomfortable. All my shit is temporarily out of commission and the reality of this has just hit me. Autonomy out the window. Goodbye place to hang my hat. I know that material crap does not a whole person make, but as a chronic anxiety sufferer there’s a certain amount of stuff that simply must. be. accessible. My chosen reality has been carefully erected with small totems indicating “safety” i.e, all my DVDs are on a shelf and when I flip a turd, there they be offering precious calm. Having bedbugs is kind of like having all your possessions lit on fire. When grabbing easily washable clothes yesterday I took stock of everything that’s been exposed/is susceptible to bed bugs- the fabric cases holding my guitar pedals and cords, my guitar amp, my shoes, bed, chest of drawers, bags, vinyl, furniture, books-fuck everything. Feels uncomfortable. That’s the best word for it. Uncomfortable.

So to then go buy new clothes and walk around Toronto with nothing to do, nowhere to go holding nothing but a small plastic bag with a cell phone charger and a brand new pair of underwear is pretty bleak. A huge thank you to my parents for their invaluable wisdom, (mom, “spray the apartment, and RUN”) and their help.

And at night I fall asleep sitting up because I just crapped out a panic attack (literally and figuratively) and where's my fucking Ativan keeps racing through my mind and god I have to fucking work in the morning but not like this I won't. You know those nights when there's a phantom vice grip on your chest and you don't know why or how to relax enough for it to slip away and you've just moved out of bed bug farm to find yourself smack dab in the middle of cockroach alley and they are fucking big and how was this such a problem in Toronto and how did I live for 4 years in slum apartments without ever realizing?

Sleep.

Day break

Day out

I have a witness, goddamn it. I have categorical proof of how difficult it is to avoid parkdale hobo propositions without talking. Find Kate and ask her.

Today on the subway a dude in his forties shuffled across the platform to tell me I'm pretty. He then proceeded to tell me to go to school, work hard and get a good job because "now's your time". With every word he advanced till he was within an arms reach, leering toothlessly. I kept Buster Keatoning at him which he didn't respond to (as in he didn't respond to my responses, which leads me to think he was actually coming on to the bench I was sitting on.) and was equally unaware of the general reception his nearness got. One example being when my dear chum interjected with, "Um, we're kind of on our way to a funeral" and was greeted with more smiles from the dude. And equally unaware again when we threw our arms up to keep him from sitting on our laps. Presumably to coo more at the bench/my tits.

Today was a Lynchian nightmare. A homogenous soup of hideous images flashing by. I saw a woman shitting on a restaraunt while a man who worked there forcefully tried to eject her (for the record, she refused to get up until she was done. Atta girl.) I saw the rain refracting off the tears of mourning friends while family bickered over waiting in lines to get in to chapel, dissatisfied with nothing. Unhealthy gums looking to connect with young teeth. The thought that life potentially does not get any easier was discussed over dinner tonight and for some reason that makes shit easier.
Don't you think?

...Don't answer. I'm scared of your reply.

Day in

Concessions have been made, are being made, will continue to be made.
IT all starts with that weird empty feeling that grows in the throat. And that which is at first a manageable inconvenience begins a slow disintegration into a nuisance, then a bore, then a pain, then an agony and soon you're talking at work because you're sick of writing, and you're talking to your mother because you miss her voice sometimes.

And I don't even want to talk I want to fucking SING. I want to sing at work and in the shower and while I'm in the car and at stupid karaoke and when my friends are sad and when my band mates want to rehearse and when people ask me to play shows and when I hear music in my head and when I write a song and when I just want to fucking sing something!

Seeing the specialist on Thursday. They will numb the back of my throat and insert a camera. They also may put a camera down the back of my throat through my sinuses. Not sure which yet. After I find out what the actual problem is (inflammation or callouses or something hazardous and mysterious and unimaginable) I can figure out how to treat it; speech therapy, singing lessons, extended horrific silence...

Please let it be nothing. Blame it on my crappy singing technique and let me carry on.

Day OK

So I started learning sign language. I started learning sign language while watching an indie filipino version of the Step Up franchise starring deaf actor/dancers called Dinig Sana Kita. I had already learned "please" "thank you" "I'm sorry" "stay" "friend" "love" "children" and "is this about the salary" before I realized the futility of learning sign language when no one else actually knows it. Maybe if everyone watches this film we can all be on the same page about it.

...I also learned how to say lesbian. I don't think that will ever come in handy, but you never know.

Day who the fuck knows?

Due to what I will refer to as a fluke personification of my worst nightmare ever, I spent the past 2 days working in the projection booths in...less than desirable conditions. My dear co worker fell ill and while the cause is unknown, the effect was made painfully blatant. I want to preface this by saying if you know me well at all you have been made aware of my (somewhat in the past) crippling phobia of vomit and all things pertaining to gastrointestinal angst.

So imagine my chagrin when I arrived at work on Tuesday to vomit in 3 of the 5 projection booths and no warning about it. My co worker mentioned he had been vomiting uncontrollably and frequently (like every ten minutes) all day, but had neglected to mention any sickness in the booths. In the small, dark, unventilated booths. IMAGINE MY CHAGRIN. IMAGINE IT!

Two days. Two days I spent working, back erect, hands obsessively scrubbed, surfaces disinfected, nostrils flared, head hot with paranoia.

And I'll tell you right now, I'm fucking slipping. It's such a comfort to speak. It's such a damn comfort to speak words. To respond in kind- because it's obvious what's worth saying; what's most important. But it's the little things... The "mmhmmm's" and the "absolutely's" that add up to a rapport with someone and feeling connected to something. Sure, I can go to my boss and say, "I forgot to start this movie and it's now 15 minutes late." Which is important, but then I'm still left feeling disconnected.
And what's more, I don't want to spend all my time sitting at a table pantomining to whoever has the attention span to look at me for more than 10 seconds. I'm sick of crumpling up pieces of paper with no longer relevant responses and throwing up my hands in exasperation when I'm still trying to play charades to a dead topic of conversation.

So I took some time off and spoke a little bit here and there. It started when I went to the doctor (who thinks it's nodes, but isn't a specialist) and after I started, it became nearly impossible to stop. By the time I was faced with the vomit, I was like a little kid that needed soothing.

So in order to do that, I spoke.

Day 3

According to the sheet of paper the movie times are printed on at work, here's a record of everything I said today in absolutely no order, as it's presented on the sheet in a hugely random way:

No cleaning lights anywhere. Same as before.
Working here nights.
Why?
Shall the roasting begin with "your mama" jokes? Too base? We can do better?
That "Dizzy" movie looks like total garbage.
11:30-12:30
BJ?
They were off when the films started- I checked.
You're gonna sleep well.
I was gonna jerk off last night then got distracted by a wiki article on a Russian mass murderer cannibalist pedophile. Killed the mood. Pun not intended.
13 hour shift.
If a disconcertingly adorable girl named Sarah comes up here's a ticket
I turned them off.

13 hours, that's the gist of it.

EDIT: BJ is a PERSON not a proposition.

Day 2 pt. 2

Do you ever have one of those days where your apartment smells like someone took a slice of apple, shoved it in a half full beer bottle and let it ferment under the armpit of a 15 year old boy?

I have.

Do you ever come home to a mysterious crust that covers the apartment and contains (but is not limited to) mold, stiff socks, dishes, miscellaneous stains on the floor, walls, counters, coffee table, dust and broken glass on the floor, unrecognizable food in the fridge, kitchen surfaces that appear to be melting from a vast array of soggy/charred/flaky/onion-y bits that have been stuck there so long that they are now themselves part of the furniture? Or a garbage can that smells like cheap bourbon because of the complex and time consuming fermenting process blended with the delicate mix of old food and mice turds? Is that blood in the sink? Are there ashes in the fridge? What's that fuzzy grey stuff? Why is it everywhere?

At $300 a month you really get what you pay for.

Day 2

When you can't speak you can't argue with your landlords about the $113.00 they want you to pay them for a replacement fire alarm after the archaic one (that didn't even require a battery as it was wired into the now defunct, I'm sure, fire alarm system in the building) broke in the middle of the night one December evening. Hello, it's August. Thanks for getting on that right away, in case our equally ancient oven fucked up. While I was swearing into the moldy ceiling debating which diode to snap the landlord poked her helpful ass into the apartment to say, "We will fix it for you at your own expense. $50.00"

...I'm sorry, what planet does she live on where HST is $63.00?!

My inability to deal with this is potentially crippling to a bank account that contains the colour red more than a deck of fucking cards. More than a Kill Bill movie. More than the collective back pockets at a fisting convention.

And on I go...

Sarah, did we see a man die today? A more defeatist person than I might then suggest that Death is following me. From the folded pulp of feathers and innards that was once a pigeon smeared on the street that now resembles more closely my massacred attempt at over medium eggs in the morning, to the man on Dundas today, sprawled on the ground with a leaden heaviness that exceeded even his obesity. A team of paramedics frantically tried to revive him, I've never seen anything like it and we drove by without any closure. I hope he's OK.

Do you ever look around at the world and think that the random synchronicity of the events therein relate to your life in an overly positive or negative manner? On a superficial level, you drive a Mustang and all of a sudden you see Mustangs EVERYWHERE. Similarly, you grapple consciously with fears of say, vomit and death, and within a week you are put directly in front of each fear on at least two occasions. What, you think life it trying to tell you something? We should all be so lucky. It probably isn't, and even if it was, you couldn't say anything back.

IMPORTANT- I'm asking anyone with a higher than normal level of boredom or curiosity to participate in one full (or half) day of not speaking, after which I will interview them on their experiences, amusements, hardships and annoyances and post it here.

Day 1

I'm calling this day 1 because I took a 3 day spoken vacation. The day before the concert to avoid giving the vocal chords a nasty shock, the day of the show and the day following for the Lake birthday extravaganza.

After work and walking home from dinner this evening I realized the value of words as self defense- not meaning a sharp retort aimed at well meaning friends poking fun at your temporary muteness- as a way to repel further harassment from the men of Parkdale. Perpetually laden with plastic grocery bags mysteriously full, riding bicycles on the sidewalk and softly crooning at women on the street. One woman was propositioned by two young men in a mini van (I wonder where I've gone wrong that I can only entice men on bikes) apparently she was a scantily clad lady rather than a modestly dressed hooker. And on the block leading up to my home looking into the flat hungry eyes of the drug wasted citizens whose gazes could really be interpreted as friendly or malicious.

I'm never wearing this shirt outside again.

The contrast from speaking to not speaking is sharper this time. I feel like I've gone from being on a hardwood floor to a slate concrete one, if that makes any sense.

Like having a cigarette while attempting to quit makes you want one more than it satisfies you in the moment. And it's not that you're cheating, but you're cheating yourself.

And being able to sing for one night was this awful reminder of what I ought not do- everything from the endless sticky driving in rush hour to get to soundcheck, forgetting necessary things (like my guitar. Whoops.) and backtracking and going back to the venue and carrying heavy gear up many stairs and peeing so many times (and pooping nearly as many times) and feeling faint and dehydrated and nervous and light and tingly and waiting and performing for a room full of people who could care less about you (and a few who do care) and sweating too much and making no money and standing for hours and carrying heavy gear downstairs. All the things that I used to do everyday and loved for seven years and hated for one and loved again for one night.

Sorry for the long post. Feeling lonely...

Day 10 or As frustration Mounts...

Situations may now all of a sudden be arising where it is hard to avoid talking. Old people lost and looking for washrooms for some reason require verbal direction and I'm trying to remember, did I just ignore things like that last week? So complete was my focus...

Some customers came to see Girl With A Dragon Tattoo today and left the theater after 10 minutes saying "we don't want to read all those subtitles" and so they walked off grumbling and tried to sit in another theater so I called after them, "hey! Where are you going?" to which they replied, "we want to see another movie". I said, "that's ok but you need to exchange your ticket at the box office". Fucking entitled baby boomers then went on about how far away the box office was. I was like "yes, because god forbid you ever should walk. Or read."

Now this is unrelated to the theme of the blog entirely but worth posting-
A baby mouse was caught in a glue trap in my apartment a few hours ago. I didn't know what to do so my friend Jasmine and I took it outside and put the mouse (and glue trap) in a planter on the street and discussed gently prying the poor creature off the board with some water and a butter knife. As we stood on the side walk squeamishly holding each other and stealing glances at the mouse a sassy young gangbanger type teenage girl walked by, her cornrows fastened beneath her chin like a strange beard. She leaned toward us, "what, are you trying to cut that mouse in half or somethin'?" We shook our heads frantically until she said "here I'll take care of that for you." She began flicking at the baby mouse stuck to the card with the butter knife with hands that were disconcertingly well practiced. Once it was free (and fine) she officiously gave us back the knife said, "I hold them things by the tail" and strode off.

My hero.

Days 8 and 9

I debated heavily as to whether or not I'd post anything for these last two days because I actually spoke.

I have this show coming up that I committed to months and months ago that I'm very excited for. It's in a few days now and I had a rehearsal with my best guy Andy yesterday and broke the silence for an hour or so. I think that Andy and I are pretty good at what we do but I've never seen someone learn a song without any verbal interaction. Like whoa.

And again today I had an indulgent evening where words were exchanged for another hour or so.

AND THEN finally when I came home tonight, I came home to a junkie stealing my roommates bike. So I spent a good 15 minutes being that person people in Parkdale look out their bedroom windows at and think to themselves "my life isn't so bad after all- I mean, listen to that crazy hooker swearing on a street corner"

It was certainly the first time I spoke above a whisper and I said solely things like "Hey! Fucker! Leave that fucking bike alone! Get the fuck out of here! Is that your fucking bike?! NO! It's MY fucking bike so scram!"

Then he came at the car with a crow bar and was all like "If it's your bike then unlock it! What are you doing here?! Fuck off! Bitch!"

So I drove around the block to park, ran into a cop (because they cover the ground like so much cigarette ash on my street) gave a brief account and returned to park. By the time I had circled the block the bike was gone! So fuck.

My friend today asked if I felt like I was cheating by talking... I don't think I'm breaking any rules because it's my silence for whatever health reasons... but it's like those olde time english made for tv movies where there the wan sickly kid who's prescribed lots of bed rest for his miscellaneous illness but really all the kid needs is to kick a soccer ball for 5 minutes a day. I feel better not speaking but I think it's ok to excercise once in awhile too.

Anyway, if you're sick of my writing notes at you and want to hear something else, come to this: http://www.forestcitylovers.com/

Day 7

It's odd how the brain can form habits and routines. Like how after waking up early for a week with an alarm you can find yourself waking up at an arbitrary time like 8:13am every single day without fail or an alarm just by an odd feedback loop in your internal clock.

Today at work I sustained all sorts of minor injuries; cuts, bruises, head knocks, cramps etc. and not once did I cry out in pain- oh that shit fucking hurt, but I'm not in the habit of making sounds anymore, as unnatural as that feels.

Interesting side note- women are significantly better at deciphering my pantomime bug eyed gesticulations than men. Men are also more prone to whispering at me, thinking I'm deaf and writing things for me to read or trying to talk with their hands. Cute.

After 9 grueling hours battling the oniony mountain of dishes at the restaurant, I have conceded- rancid dish water-1, vagina-0.

WOAH EDIT- My friends came over and I was SO TIRED after work I SAID SOMETHING

I said (embarrassingly enough) "Dude".

So there it is. Today I said "Dude".

Day 6

Despite despite how apprehensive I was, the restaurant shift went well.

...Better than the projection shifts Ive been working because they have those goddamnded walkie talkies I'm forced to click my tongue into just so someone on the other line can ask me to slightly adjust that thing no one gives a shit about in that theater one person bought a ticket to fall asleep in.

Tomorrow I've asked to wash dishes instead of hosting to see if that's any better still. It will probably be less about resting my throat and more about a vicious battle between the sink and I, wherein the sink tried to force roach eggs and rancid dish water into my vagina and I try to RESIST.

As a final note, I had this incredible triumph today when I actually haggled a guy down from $9 to $5 at an antique store on Queen st.

Talking- who needs it?

Day 5

Spent the day working in the projection booth. Found that I had a near irresistible urge to talk to myself. Just to make a noise.

Day 4

Went to the bank in the morning. The teller wanted me to sign up for an unlimited account but didn't say it to me, he grabbed my notebook and took up 2 pages writing what it was and why I should do it. I didn't want to be rude and just grab the book back and was also cracking up too hard on the inside to tell him I can hear just fine.

Later at the dentist the hygienist did the exact same thing.

I had an argument with a parking attendant with notes.

I feel like Buster Keaton, all exaggerated eye, head and hand movements.

Found myself getting more frustrated when unable to communicate with friends. Started to develop a rudimentary sign language- it's interesting the things that are established first, that are most important or at least used most often; "coffee" "ice cream" "my house" "your house" "anxious" "tomorrow" "yesterday" etc. So now I can ask someone to go for "coffee tomorrow", basically. That's about it.

Went to a concert- first time going out since I stopped speaking. Everyone was super kind and the nature of the show was that between acts people would sort of drift outside into the parking lot, which had enough light to read what I wanted to say and no loud music. Got along ok. Apprehensive about going to a bar. May try and avoid that one for now.

Despite it being a bit or a rocky month in terms of anxiety and panic attacks and what not, the anxiety completely left when I stopped speaking.

...except for one panic attack in the evening. Not sure what that was all about.

Day 4 was the first day I went without saying one single word and after awhile I felt like even if I wanted to speak I couldn't.

Still, was a really nice day.

Days 1 thru 3

I am trying to avoid needing surgery for throat polyps. The only way to do that is to not speak for possibly up to 3 months.

What are polyps?

A.K.A "nodes" throat polyps are common among untrained singers. They occur when the muscles of the throat tighten too much and become too strained to vibrate properly. This makes the muscles develop callouses which limit vocal use. They are benign growths that can and do go away on their own.

If given the choice to not speak for some weeks or not sing for a lifetime, it's no contest in favor of the former.

Days 1 through 3 have involved developing te beginnings of some systems to make life easier. Some signs for things like "coffee" and "hungry" are being established as well as a handful of pre written notes saying things like "how are you" and "thank you".

A successful shorthand remains to be seen. By the time I've written a phrase, the conversation has turned twice. It's amazing how fast people can communicate and how used to discarding no longer relevant thoughts I'm becoming.

My bosses are all kind of irate.
My friends are incredulous, teasing, kind or accommodating.
I am isolated from both my parents who don't text.

People tend to over gesticulate now, too. Like they have sympathy muteness.

$$$ spent on notebooks