Elisa Rose

Johnny and Kate

2011-10-12T03:05:00.005-04:00

~ Kate?

~ Yes?

~ Kate?

~ What is it, Johnny?

~ The cut of that blouse looks great on you.

~ Thank you.

~ I mean, it's genius, I'm sure it would look great on anyone, it's so good.

~ Thanks, Johnny. Or, ya. I guess....

~ You are beautiful, Kate.

~ I know, that's why I'm a model. People pay me because I'm beautiful. It's sort of why they pay you, too.

~ No, no. That's not true. I'm a great actor.

~ Well, so am I.

~ No, Kate, you just sit there, as doe-like, as non-thoughtful as you can make your face, and you just wait for the camera to click. That's not acting.

~ .........

~ What?

~ Hmmm?

~ Kate, what?

~ Oh, I'm just sitting here not thinking anything.

~ Kate. Oh, shit. Kate, who even cares. Fuck, why do you have to be like that? No one even cares if you're right or wrong, no one cares what you even think if you did happen to be thinking anything, you're just a doll. Practically.

~ What? What the fuck are you saying, Johnny? Can a doll push you, like this? Can a doll open the window and throw the mother fucking coffee table out the window? Like this?

~ Kate, wait!

~ Why? Will it ruin my reputation? Oh! What will people think of me, Johnny? If I trash this hotel room, will I ever get another modeling contract ever again? Oooh, oh no!

~ Kate, don't throw that lamp off the balcony!

~ Johnny, I don't give a fuck about this lamp. Or this fucking chair, or this telephone, or this coffee maker.

~ Kate, stop! I have a reputation to uphold. Dating you was supposed to be good for my career. My manager said that, with our cheekbones, we'd have the world at our feet. But, you're fucking it up with your emotional outburst. Stop it!

~ Johnny, look at me. Look at my blouse. Take a fucking picture, for fuck's sake. I look amazing! I am fucking hot! H-O-T! You think you're hot, but you need me! You'll never be anything more than Officer Hanson without me. I add "edge" to your image.

~ Kate! Kate. Oh, Kate, you're right. You're right. I don't need these bottles of champagne.

~ Johnny, be careful. There might be someone down there....

~ I don't need these dishes....

~ ...Johnny....

~ ...This couch....

~ ...Okay, what about this vase?

~ That too, I mean, that neither. I don't need that shit. I'm sick of this. It's all bullshit.

~ Johnny, I could love you.

~ I know, Kate. With the right drugs, you could love anyone. I mean, not to diminish your feelings, but....

~ No, I know what you mean. And, I'm going to look into that. I'm going to reflect on that.

~ Kate?

~ Yes?

~ Kate, the police are here.

~ ....

~ Well....

~ Ya, Johnny, um....

~ Don't worry, I'll say it was all me. You just -- pretend you've been asleep the whole time, okay?

~ Okay, Johnny.

~ Okay.

~ Johnny?

~ Yes, Kate?

~ You're rad.

~ Thank you, Kate.

~ No, I really mean it.

Birth

2011-10-10T12:21:00.005-04:00

My mom is a midwife, and a lot of people depend on her to allay their fears with the coming of a new human to their care. Kanye West visited their house one evening when I happened to be over for dinner.
While Kanye requested my mothers' services, my father sat back quietly and I quietly set a place for Kanye hoping that he would stay for dinner. He refused my offer, knowing that I would sell my story to TMZ, and also refused to tell me who the mother of his future child was, or even the state she lived in. I guessed she was from Nevada or Texas but he would neither confirm nor deny. He stayed focused on discussing his worries with my mother, who was so calm and reassuring and I could tell that he felt relaxed and comforted in her care.
I insisted on keeping an extra place set for Kanye, in case he changed his mind. My hopes were soon dashed when he gave my mom a hug, said good night and got into his Maybach.
I watched out the window as he drove away. I thought I saw a girl in the passenger seat; a white girl. I swear it was me, sitting there in silence as Kanye took the corners uncomfortably fast.
"It really is your baby," I insisted. "I don't want your money, I just want you to admit that it is yours. You'll see when it's born. It'll have a big mouth that doesn't know when to shut, it'll wear its heart on its sleeve, and it will claw at the world for comfort and wrap itself in a blanket made of dirt scraped from the hillside. You'll see that it will be just like you."
He kept driving up the hillside until the only way out of this mess seemed to be to die and be reborn anew, in a clean body, with clean teeth and a clean conscience. So we meditated at the top of the mountain, way above the city lights, the way the monks in Tibet would like to; unoccupied. Our inner lights became the street light that told us when and where to stop and go. Our power was neither black nor white, and a mathematician is still working on the problem today, on a giant chalkboard, with room to make mistakes. He adds two and two, and I still don't get it. He says "trust yourself," but, how can I trust him? I hardly know him.

Niagara Falls, Strippers, NHL, Acupuncture

2011-06-11T14:40:00.003-04:00

Spanish lessons, Niagara Falls, strippers, Buddhism, NHL finals, acupuncture. A new dress, a store credit for the new dress that failed to satisfy, pork sausages, giving 110% at work, a newish dress that makes me feel like I am from another world, Prada loafers, a glittered wine bottle, Smirnoff Ice. Dancing to Britney and Gaga while getting ready for work, a new pair of jeans that shows either my ass crack or my thong when I sit down, delicious coffee and pastries at a good price, a cook who sees me at different restaurants, text messages from a singer in a heavy metal band, podcasts about people in more fucked up situations than I, weather that is too hot or too rainy for most people. A struggle and frustration that is drowned out by all this.

Naked Buddha

2011-06-08T07:05:00.003-04:00

Ok, instead of strippers, now I am looking to Buddhism for happiness, since the date with the stripper failed to rock my world. I need to find answers, joy, etc., somewhere else. Not that I was expecting to find these things with the stripper, I was most definitely and deliberately trying to avoid dealing with problems by getting involved with him. Or them; it's really more this general appreciation for all those guys who take off their clothes while Rihanna's "Umbrella" is playing. Or even better, to that song "Down on Me" by 50 Cent and Jeremiah. This is a very nice experience, make no mistake.
Buddhism, however, is already making me happier by making me less unhappy, by reminding me to not be so attached to all the stupid thoughts in my head. To stop agreeing with that little voice in my head that says everything is shitty and that I can't go on, blah blah blah. Instead of getting into a dialogue with myself (or would that just be a monologue?) about what I'm going to do about the shittiness, how I'm going avoid it and all that, I just breath and be in the present and think, "hey, look at me, I'm fine at this moment, so, chill the fuck out, woman." Ya, that's how I talk to myself. That's how I meditate.
The great thing about Buddhism is that I don't have to give up all the great things like alcohol, strippers, America's Next Top Model and stuff like that. I just have to not expect it to bring my happiness. Enjoyment, yes. But, apparently, the goal is to love suffering just as much as these things.

Stripper

2011-05-28T22:21:00.003-04:00

The stripper is an enigma. I'm not even sure if he exists in daylight, or at all really. I'm not sure if I am dreaming when I see him and what it would mean if one were to analyze that dream. "You are feeling very magnetic, yet, when people are drawn to you, they move right by you, because you are such an enigma to them. The stripper represents your enigmatic nature that can't be held for more than a moment, before it disappears in a puff of smoke." The stripper wants my number, wants to see me, texts me, says "come!" and then isn't really there when I get there.
And when Kanye texts me and says "come!", I arrive, only to find out that he texted me more than an hour ago and got tired of waiting for me, and so, left. And when I text him back, he is full of regret that he gave up on me, and I feel bad that he feels bad, and, I wake up disappointed in cell reception.
The stripper works the pole and acts sexy, and does a fine job of acting sexy, so he probably is sexy. He loves women, and he loves men's money. I can't think of anyone ever having told me that before, so, I feel lucky to have heard something new, and straight from the horse's mouth, at that. Another treasure to add to my chest. Another anecdote to tell at parties. Another reassurance that there are all sorts of people out there, all you have to do is poke around in hidden corners, and ask lots of inappropriate questions. And being sexy yourself helps get your foot into back alley doors, so, don't be afraid to use what your mama gave you.
Hustlers. Sex artists. They are not even getting paid to dance on stage, they are working for tips, even though I paid a ten dollar cover to come in here. I feel like I should give five dollars, or even ten, to the dancers that I stare at the longest. It feels like downloading music illegally to not give them a tip, or, I guess more like downloading porn illegally. Which I think is more of a crime. Although, if the actors in a porn were to get royalties, I might be more likely to contribute a few dollars to that cause. Man, they work so hard! No pun intended.
I am not finished with my investigation, although, I'm not sure which angle I'm going to pursue next. I know I had some vague inspiration, after having seen male strippers in Puerto Vallarta, that it might be suitable for me to date a stripper, but I've just encountered a logistical problem in this scenario. I work days, they work nights. It just would not work out, as we'd never go to sleep and wake up together at the same time. It's one of those basic things, like having a similar appreciation of the arts, speaking the same language or liking to talk the same amount during sex.
All I know is that I'm keeping my dance card open. If it's money they want, they had better work for it. If it's sex they want, well, the same thing goes. I'm not sure who's playing who, but I'm doing my best to win.

Candy Valley

2010-12-27T22:07:00.001-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a land far enough away for you to never have visited it before but close enough for you to know at least one person who knows someone who has lived there. In this land there was great joy and great sorrow, just as in any other land that you may have visited or read about in a book or seen pictures of in a magazine. The special thing about this land is that most of their joys and sorrows revolved around a common livelihood, namely making candy. The name of this land was, coincidentally, Candy Valley.
The candy makers were free to experiment with the candy and came up with hundreds of different varieties with names like Tiny Dancer, Indian Sunset and Dark Diamond. Each one was sweet and lovely, but everyone had their specialty. They would sell their treats at This Town Market every weekend and many had customers from faraway lands that would come especially to buy their goodies.
The people of Candy Valley not only made candy, they also enjoyed eating it quite a bit. Some would stay up really late eating candy and wake up the next morning with a terrible tummy ache! Others would have a few candies in the morning when they woke up and a few during the day and it didn’t really bother their daily routine very much. Still, others would only have a candy now and then, to celebrate such things as a lightning storm or the sunset, for example. Sometimes when people were working at their candy factories they would eat candies to give them energy to help them get through the day. Almost everyone in Candy Valley loved to eat candy, or if they didn’t, they loved to share it with others who did.
There was no shortage of stories, rumours, legends and myths about Candy Valley and a girl named Little Jeannie had heard a lot of them. She knew some were true and some were false, because she'd been visiting Candy Valley ever since she had fallen in love with candy, as a little girl. Of course, the craziest stories, the ones you might think were false were more often than not true and vice versa. She was bored of her life in Condo Corner and longed for the freedom she imagined would be hers in Candy Valley. It wasn’t so much the candy itself that drew her to Candy Valley, but the idea that she could do and be whatever or whoever she wanted to do and be, in the adventurous atmosphere that surrounded Candy Valley.
One day, she set out on an adventure to live and work in the Candy Valley candy factories. She knew a few people from her visits over the years who could vouch for her, show the others that she wasn’t a spy sent by the candy haters to infiltrate and bring down the candy factories or even a thief who would steal the candy and sell it herself, but rather a good friend and a hard worker who also liked to have fun and eat candy.
When Little Jeannie first went to Candy Valley to work, she met up with an old friend named Blue Eyes. He was seven foot tall with long white hair, a beard braided into cornrows and, yes, he had blue eyes. He lived on the edge. He straddled the line between here and there, then and now, right and wrong; encompassing and then transcending both sides of the line. When he greeted you, he shouted out “eawestcundy!” or “weascunday!” or “escandy!” These salutations were a mashed up version of where he lived, in the center of Candy Valley, neither on the west side nor the east, but both at the same time. He said this to subconsciously let people know that they too were living on the edge of somewhere and somewhere else and always took the opportunity to let them know it. He also used a variation of these words to say thank you, you’re welcome, good-bye and get the hell out of my house.
Blue Eyes lived in a sailboat called Good Ship Lollipop in the bottom of Candy Valley. He felt that at any time water could come and transform the valley into a river or a lake, and just wanted to be ready. He worked on his sailboat every day, tightening the screws and checking for possible leaks. He did not have a regular job because he was too busy tweaking his boat and drinking a drink called The Greatest Discovery. He had a small candy factory built into the hillside above him, and hired people to work in it. On the ground above it he grew most of the ingredients he needed for the candy. He was usually too distracted, let alone too large, to actually work in his factory, so he was overjoyed to have Little Jeannie there to help him. She quickly became his “right hand man” as she learned all the ropes and followed all his intricate orders as closely as possible.
Little Jeannie and Blue Eyes were good friends and spent many hours together drinking The Greatest Discovery. It made them go wild with inspirational ideas and allowed them to cross back and forth between worlds and different states of consciousness at their leisure.
“Ewescundy!” Cried Blue Eyes, as Little Jeanie climbed aboard the Good Ship Lollipop one day. “Wait, before you sit down, I need you to fix me a Greatest Discovery. Make it double honey, double sugar and a twist of lime. But don’t leave the lime in the glass; the peel makes my mouth feel funny. And I don’t really need all that vitamin C as I find it inhibits the depth and width of my sugar high.”
“As you wish, monsieur. I like it single-single.” Little Jeannie pulled a bag of ice out of the freezer and smashed it on the ground. The ice broke apart and she dropped some cubes into two glasses. She squeezed some lime juice into the glasses and discarded the rind. She pulled a large honey comb out of the cupboard that came from the bees of a nearby neighbour. She scraped off some honey into one glass and added even more to the other. She took a bottle of beet sugar syrup that came from the beets grown in the garden above the candy factory. Little Jeannie thought about how she had planted the seeds much earlier in the year and had only recently harvested and boiled down the beets, and now was able to consume the fruits of her labour. It was a special feeling, to grow things oneself and making things out of them, from scratch, rather than earning money some other way and then using that money to buy things that were already made. It was so gratifying to Little Jeannie.
After sprinkling a dash of Crazy Water into the glasses, she brought them over to the table.
“This is your Brand New Brother!” Said Little Jeannie, with a wink.
Blue Eyes threw back his head and howled with laughter. “Weastcandee!” He replied. They clinked their glasses together with great mirth and downed their Greatest Discoveries.
“Let’s close our eyes. Let’s feel the reality of the moment together. Do you feel it?”
“I’m opening up. My mind is infinite. Oh! My heart! Ohhhh!”
“Just stay with it. You’re expanding. Hold onto my hand if you need to. Oh, yes!”
“My third chakra is being contacted by a rainbow. 911! 911! Send the ambulance of love! My fear is subsiding, I no longer feel fear! Oh my god, I no longer feel fear. My security lies within, I no longer need lies and props to feel safe! The truth holds us together, we will not fall apart as long as we stay in the reality of the truth. It is possible! The postmodernists are wrong, I DO understand.”
“Aaaaughaah.”
“Spent all my money, on whiskey and beer!”
“Trailers for sale or rent, rooms to let fifty cents....”
“Uhhhh, speak to me!”
“Wsquoonday.”
The world(s) went silent for a moment and Little Jeannie and Blue Eyes waited for the birds to start chirping again. A rustle from the trees outside the window of the Good Ship Lollipop and a joyous cry from a crow told the two of them that life existed and that they were, in fact still alive. A great relief came over them.
Blue Eyes sat upright in his chair. He looked around at the peach and lavender coloured cupboards of the galley. He stabilized himself with a slow back and forth rocking motion and then took a breath. He was ready for work.
Little Jeannie pulled an ice cube from her otherwise empty glass. She glided it across her face and on the back of her neck. She breathed deeply and smiled at Blue Eyes. “Ok. Ready,” she said.
The two of them plotted out the measurements of the ingredients for the next batch of candy.
“Now listen,” said Blue Eyes. “The acidity and the sweetness have to be perfectly balanced. I want it to be like a divine dance between good and evil, wet and dry, ebony and ivory. You know what I mean?”
“Oh yeah,” replied Little Jeannie, giving Blue Eyes a reassuring nod. She knew what was coming next; a breakdown of all the reasons why every single ingredient was important.
“We need a coconut that was blown down from a tree by the wind, rather than one who’s fall was caused by direct human intervention. This will give the candy an essence of serendipity. Than we need some sugarcane sprouts that have been meditated on constantly from the moment they were first germinated. An intention of peace—“
“Sorry, did you say ‘intention of peach’?” Little Jeannie’s mind had wandered off down a dim corridor who's walls were padded with mattresses and floor was carpeted with eggshells. She was confused by his sudden decision to add a peach flavour to the mix.
“That’s fine,” said Blue Eyes, sitting up straight and throwing his head back, tossing his hair over his shoulder and crossing his arms. “If you’re not going to listen to me, you can just go. Get out of here. Go dry hump a fish basket. Dirty white girls everywhere.”
“Blue Eyes, I’m sorry. Keep going. I’m listening!” She said, trying to convince him of her newfound concentration level. She widened her eyes and tried not to blink. Her eyes started to water from keeping them open so wide and for so long. He thought she was sorry, so he went on.
“Okay, so we need an intention of peace. Half way through the addition of the sprouts, you’re going to need to start chanting. Preferably something in lower tones. The candy is going to need a bass vibration to facilitate the integration of the pioneering spirit of the wild ginger that you’ll be putting in next.”
“Of course,” agreed Little Jeannie. “You can’t plant a seed in a hurricane.”
“Yes! You’ve got it! See?” Blue Eyes’ blue eyes lit up and he grinned a toothy grin, as though all had been revealed in one metaphor. “You need stillness to be able to reach out into the infinite!”
“So, yeah...?” She nodded hesitantly, hoping to encourage him to finish giving the instructions. Although she was paid handsomely for her role as right hand lady in his candy factory, she found it a bit exasperating to listen to the same instructions, with few variations, every single time. She knew he liked to feel like he’d covered all the bases, gone over all the details, just in case she had forgotten something since the last time she had worked. She’d tried a few times to convince him that she knew what she was doing, but he made it clear that she had no idea what inspirational idea might suddenly come into his head, mid-instructing, and that he had to feel free to be completely involved in everything, at least in theory, since he rarely ever actually entered the candy factory.
Blue Eyes put on his sunglasses so that Little Jeannie could not read his expression. He put on his hat so that she could not read his mind. Then, with his head held high and with a haughty expression, he said, "Another Greatest Discovery, please."
Little Jeannie got up and began making the drinks.
"I'll have mine with double honey, double sugar and a twist of lime. But don’t leave the lime in the glass, the peel makes my mouth feel funny and I don’t really need all that vitamin C as I find it inhibits the depth and width of my sugar high.”
"Right. For a change."
"What? No, that's the way I always have it."
"Oh yeah, now that I think about, you do always have it that way." This time she added a few extra splashes of Crazy Water, just for fun. Let's see if I can get through this day without spinning into too many other dimensions, she thought. She placed the glasses down on the table. "Here you go. This one's Between Seventeen and Twenty."
"Haha!" cried Blue Eyes, and their Greatest Discoveries disappeared down their throats and were last seen crawling out of their ears and having a pillow fight while stars rained down from the sky and their profoundest insights were confirmed with a rubber stamp and a slap on the bottom while they hung upside down and a giant Frenchman tickled their toes.

Examine the Wreckage

2010-10-21T19:11:00.003-04:00

Nowhere in the manual that came with me did it say to push my buttons so hard. But, if you want to really test this baby out, you can go ahead and do it, at your own risk.

I'm just saying this because you might think I am indestructible, and you would be mislead, by no fault of your own, but mislead none the less. And to avoid any more confusion, I would like to introduce you to the one who made me.

And, that would be me.

I am ridiculously low in patience, so I made her out of glass and air. She shimmers and shatters in the blink of a wooden eye. She doesn't miss a beat because she has the tips of her toes on the disco ball and one glass eye on the prize at all times.

For example, the cut in your foot only hurts if you have been walking too close to the wreckage. Don't examine the package, it's misleading. In summary, she'll talk around you to drown your fears. And, there's no insurance for that kind of death.

So, that's who made me. Doesn't really take the time to say what a princess I am, but, you'll figure it out sooner or later.

Art of Gold

2010-08-10T14:22:00.005-04:00

I just want to say right off, so that there is no stupid plot twist later that would get spoiled anyways by whoever saw this first and couldn’t keep their big mouth shut, that I am actually dead, that I have been dead the whole time but that I am not always aware of it. People will remind me of it from time to time and it will always surprise me and I will ask “why am I still here, shouldn’t I be on top of the clouds getting my heavenly suntan?” To which they will reply with explanations ranging from “you must lay with this person while she sleeps. Your energy vibrations balance out and keep her from falling into the abyss.” To, “you must go to the mall, go to the club, wherever this other person goes, and walk in her stilettos with her. She must not fall and hurt her ankle; it is not in her destiny to be burdened in this manner. You are needed as reinforcement.” And it feels right, what they say, and what I do. I understand it somehow, as long as I don’t think about it too hard, as long as I don’t judge it with my mind.

One day I saw a parrot, clear as day, watching a puppy dog carrying a toy in his mouth, as he faded in and out of view. One second the puppy dog looked solid and real and the next, you could see right through him, until he disappeared completely only to reappear moments later. The parrot waited until the puppy dog was just going out of view, swooped down and grabbed the toy from his mouth. When he came back into view, he didn’t seem phased at all. I wondered if he forgot who or where he was every time he disappeared and then accepted as normal whatever predicament he was in when he came back. I decided to do an experiment; to become wings for him and help him fly. I waited until he was almost invisible and then bent down and wrapped my arms around his see-through body. Wings shot out from my back and we lifted into the air. At that moment the puppy dog became solid again and was just as relaxed as usual, his little pink tongue hanging out and his solid gaze aimed straight forward. He seemed happy, but not surprised. When the puppy dog disappeared again, I felt myself alone in the sky, and I was surprised! I had no idea that I could fly, or that I even had wings, until I united with the puppy dog. He came back into view and I brought him back down to the ground.

I couldn’t hear the Actual People around me when they spoke, it sounded like we were all underwater. But when their hearts spoke to each other, I heard. They were particularly loud when what they were saying from their mouths was quite different from what they were saying with their hearts. The hearts may have heard each other in an underwater sort of way, too, because one heart would say “I love you! Please love me, please forgive me and please take me as I am!” And the other heart would say the same. If they had heard each other, they would stop asking to be loved because they would know that they already were. Too bad hearts don’t have very good ears.

Sometimes I develop crushes on Actual People. I lay beside a man on a park bench a few times. I felt these rays emanating from him that were similar and complimentary to my own energy vibrations. He kept a sort of balance around him which stretched into the streets and the park around him. The birds knew. They projected their songs in the other direction from him so as not to disturb him. I don’t know if I was really needed there, but I enjoyed his company. He was ugly by the standards of other Actual People. They avoided him and held their noses as they passed him, but I could only smell roses around him. He probably needed to smell bad to keep some space around him open so that he could do his job without interference.

My diet consisted of the breath of sleeping babies. I lay with them; in their cribs, in their mothers’ arms (what a nice place to be!), and riding along in their strollers. I breathe in as they breathe out, and there is an Angel there to give it back its breath, every time it breathes in. There is always an Angel there, and it is the one chance I get to talk to them, even though they often ignore me. They are so focused on their work! I tell them I admire them, look up to them, but they are not swayed by flattery. I ask them how I can advance to their position and they look at me as if they are about to tell me something, but then decide against it. One time an angel spoke but only said, “You already know the answer.” What kind of an answer is that? If I knew, I wouldn’t ask!

Okay, here is another plot twist I should have warned you about. I AM an Angel! All this time, even I didn’t know it, so it’s not like I was consciously withholding information from you. That is why I have wings! That is why I help babies clean the toxins from their bodies to make room for the pure heavenly air they inhale from the other Angels. I am still young, though. Practically a baby myself, as far as these things go. The ways in which I need to grow are in my perception of myself. It turns out that everything beautiful and wonderful that I ever want to do is entirely possible. I have the means to do it all, right hear inside of me, like flying, for instance, with these wings on my back! Just ask me and I will do for you whatever fantastically dreamy thing you wish. But remember, I can only hear your heart, not the words from your mouth. If you can train your heart to listen than you will hear my response.

I love love and I love art. Have patience and everything you carefully blend together will turn to gold, if your heart is pure.

My Love is Six Inches Tall

2010-08-06T00:51:00.002-04:00

Running to catch the bus, I twist my ankle, but keep going, because I don’t want to miss this chance to hang out with the Boy. He called me up at the last minute to go out for dinner with him and his friends for a birthday party. It was hard for me to get out at the last minute, but you have to take these opportunities when they are presented to you.
I limp onto the bus with my sore ankle and sit down on a vinyl seat. It is hard to slide across because my dress is so short and my bare legs squeak across the seat. It is not easy to be graceful, let alone feel glamorous here, like this, especially with all the regular people around me looking so drab. Some of them have fallen asleep and some are looking like they want to fall asleep, like they just finished working a twelve hour day. Others sit there with their headphones on looking so stiff, pretending like they’re not there, like they don’t have a thought in their head except for wondering whether or not they look inconspicuous enough.
I, on the other hand, look very conspicuous. Six inch heels, my cleavage popping out of my Gucci mini dress and a real Chanel lambskin purse on my lap. I hate riding through this shitty part of town dressed like this but what am I supposed to do, change on the street a block away from the restaurant and then walk in with all my regular clothes bulging out of my purse? No thank you.
I don’t actually care that much what these bus people think of me, as long as nobody tries to hit on me or mug me. I don’t want the wrong person thinking I’m rich, with money to spare to their thievery. If anyone took this purse or these Prada shoes, I would absolutely die. I would have nothing to replace them with. The Boy has only taken me shopping a couple times since we’ve been together. He says his wife spends all his money and he can’t afford to buy me any more than he already does. He occasionally gives me jewellery which he assures me is “real”, so, if I ever get desperate I could always sell it and buy another pair of shoes. I really hope his friends don’t notice that I usually wear the same pair every time I go out with them.
Sometimes when we’re out I see some of the other side chicks with nice stuff and it hurts a bit, that the Boy doesn’t spend more money on me. He says a lot of their bags and jewellery are fakes, but that they don’t care because it’s all about appearances. I hate that, though. I would feel like such a phoney if my Chanel was a fake.

I was surprised the Boy even called me up tonight. I thought it was a wives dinner, with paparazzi hanging around and all, but apparently it’s a private club and the girlfriends are invited instead. That means there will probably be half naked waitresses there and maybe even strippers. Sometimes I think those girls have it better. They get cold hard cash for looking so hot and all I get are a few trips to the mall, and one way out in the suburbs at that.
Of course, hanging with the Boy and his crew is awesome. Plus, there are a few vague promises of being a back up singer on his next album. I’ve been to the studio once. I was singing along in the control room and the producer or whoever he was said it sounded good, but I haven’t been invited back yet. The Boy says I live too far away from downtown, where the studio is, and whenever they think of me, they decide it would take too long for me to get there. And besides, they think, I’m probably busy. So, they just get someone else to sing, probably one of his side side chicks. I wonder what kind of bag she’s carrying.
Remembering a promise I made before going out, I pull my cell phone out of my bag to call home. “Hey sweetie, are you ready for bed?” My son, he’s five, tells me he’s watching TV and the babysitter has been talking on her cell phone all night. “You tell her it’s time for you to go to bed. Geez, I should be paying you to take care of yourself.” We say our good-nights and I-love-yous and hang up.
I check my lipstick in the reflection in the bus window. Looking outside beyond my reflection, I notice we’re getting close to the neighbourhood where the party is. I figure I’d better get off soon and walk the rest of the way so that no one sees me getting off a bus. That would not be classy.
I ring the bell and as I get up to go to the door I am painfully reminded of my twisted ankle. Upon further inspection I realize it is also a bit swollen. Shit. I limp to the door and hop down the steps. I try walking for a bit, hoping I can just ignore the pain, but it’s too much. I decide to take a cab, even though I only have about thirty dollars in my wallet and I still have to pay the sitter when I get home tonight, at god knows what hour. Fuck. I hate to ask the Boy for money but I will have to suck it up and do it anyways. He should understand, he knows how hard I work to show up and look good for him. I just don’t want it to seem like I’m complaining.
I throw my hand out and it’s less than a minute before a cab pulls over. I get in and the driver seems friendly. He tells me I look very nice tonight. And not in a creepy way, either, but, like he really means it. If feels good to be appreciated. He asks where I’m going.
“The Valkyrie,” I say. He nods.“To meet my boyfriend.”
He smiles. “Your boyfriend is a very lucky guy, I hope he knows that.”
“Ya.”
“I hope you know that.”
We stop outside of the club and I pay him most of what’s in my wallet. I stand up tall and glide smoothly into the club as the bouncer holds the door open for me. I smile at everyone at the table, taking my place beside the Boy, no one ever suspecting the pain I’m in.

Ironizing out the kinks

2010-07-13T21:06:00.006-04:00

This is weird, I'm listening to S.B. (that would be my 14 year old daughter, in case anyone who doesn't know me personally is reading this) and her friends sing and play guitar outside while I listen to to Moonlight Desires by Gowan as instructed by Sonja Ahlers, on my laptop speakers. It's like, wait, what's going on right now? Am I being sincere(S.B.'s singing) or am I being ironic because the video is so cheesy and cringe inducing and his hair and clothes are so big? Or both? Sometimes it's hard to know why I like something and if I'm liking it ironically (e.g. R.Kelly's Real Talk video) or sincerely e.g. RTX's Western Exterminator because, I mean, it's all great. Speaking of youtube vids (when am I not?), the Double Rainbow All The way video has almost 4 million views, most of them in the last 9 days! I mean, this is amazing. Even if people make fun of it, it's still such an emotional experience to watch it, it's pretty cool. Just witnessing the guy's sensitivity is incredible. (Real Talk, by contrast, has just over 2 million views -- what does this say about society? Anything?)

I guess, my point is that if you love something than you love it, if it makes you laugh, than that's wonderful. Here's something that I don't like: I was at Urban Whatevers yesterday, and on the wall from accross the room I saw a nice sign for a book of the month, and a book on display next to it. I thought two things simultaneously; 'great, they are encouraging their customers to read great books!' And, 'maybe the whole display is just decoration and has nothing to do with spreading the love of literature.' Guess which thought was correct? That's right, the disappointing one, because, guess what book was on display, a literary masterpiece? Nope. (Okay, I judged the book by its cover, but here's why:) It was some kind of adventure story starring Chuck Norris. It was a real let down. I felt it was a waste of space, a waste of expression.

Which brings me full circle, back to R.Kelly (we could go around in circles many times and keep ending up at R.Kelly, it's that bad) and my link to his video, which might not be too different from Urban Whatsisface's presentation of a Chuck Norris adventure novel. It's good for a chuckle, but, does it hold any value as great art? Well, actually, I think so. It's so fucking over the top retarded that it's genius. There are probably some (younger) people who see the C.N. book and have a chuckle, because it's so ironic to have such an elaborate display for a piece of crap. (Again, I admit, I'm judging the book by its cover). But, I still think it was lame.

I'm going to post this now, instead of spending hours trying to clarify and end up writing a huge essay. Hopefully I have asked more questions than I have answered. That would be the honest thing to do.

Asshat

2010-07-10T11:24:00.003-04:00

What? Elisa, is that you posting on your blog? Yes it's me. Where have you been, why have you not documented everything you've been doing here? Because I'm too busy doing it. Doing it? Doing stuff. Oh, I thought you meant doing "it". Like, having sex. No, not that, but, funny you should mention it, my favourite expression of the day is "breaking it off" which means, something like having sex. Except, it varies.

According to the online urban dictionary, it means a few things.

1. to go down on someone and make them cum

2. to have sex with someone you are not emotionally attached to
(here is a sample dialogue where it would be used):
guy 1: I'm heading over to the jump off
guy 2: that bitch break you off yet?
guy 1: yeah, i got that ho on lock

3. for a girl to fuck a guy really hard

At this point, I have investigate what they mean by "the jump off". My guess is that they are referring to either the girl in question or the place where she lives.
...
Thanks to the online urban dictionary, I now know that in this instance, the jump off probably refers to "the side chick". Here are some examples of usage:

1. Puffy is dissing Kim tonight so he can be with his jump off

2. I can't wait to be the jump off of Brett Michaels

3. Tiger is my jump off bitch

I think the third one is my favorite. With every term they define, they also offer t-shirts for sale with those words written on it. I would like a t-shirt that says "Tiger is my jump off bitch". I'm not really the type to order things like that off the internet, but, if anyone wanted to make me one, I would probably wear it.

Another definition for the jump off is: the shiznit. You figure it out.

So, Elisa, you basically spend all your time on the internet looking up slang terminology? No. That's not all I do. I also go on youtube to check out r'n'b videos to see if there's anything I like. R'n'b? That's too black for me. Oh, no, r'n'b has been embracing whiteness lately, so, it's not just for and by black people. For example, Rihanna has a song with Slash called Rock Star. And Alicia Keys' new video, Un-thinkable, is about interracial relations. And Drake's new video for Find Your Love makes it clear that he's not even black. He's brown! So, what I'm trying to say is that if you're a nervous white person, there's no need to avoid r'n'b because it's too black.

My new favourite album is Love King by The-Dream. His music is lush and actually sounds like something Smog or the Magnetic Fields or some other indie band that I should be able to name drop but can't be bothered to even remember might come up with. The lyrics, though, are dirty, sexy, nasty and beautiful, in full r'n'b form. He talks about breaking it off. He talks about being really good at sex. He talks about being sorry for something bad he did (probably breaking it off with his jump off?). He even talks about falling in love. He obviously studied at the school of Prince, although I'm pretty sure he won't sing about being bisexual anytime soon. But who can say for sure with the way r'n'b music is going lately. So much openness! So much vulnerability! Pretty soon R. Kelly and Usher are going to be singing love songs to each other! Kanye is going to reveal the real reason he wears pink Polos! Another new video of Rihanna's, Te Amo, actually features hot love scenes between her and another woman. Very hot, actually.

What are you trying to say, that everyone is gay? Well, I was just going on a tangent... I think it started with Prince. So, Prince is gay? I have no idea. I'm just talking out of my ass.

Talking out of your ass:

1. When someone says something stupid that they have no proof of.
For example, "The Space Shuttle was destroyed by TERRORISTS!"
"That asshat's talking out of his ass again."

2. Uttering bullshit or talking nonsense. Most commonly done by managers and corporate whores.
Employee: "Will you make some sense and stop talking out of your ass?"

3. A person that talks just to hear there self talk.
"U sound better talking out of ur mouth not ur ass."

Sweat

2010-05-07T00:18:00.000-04:00

Ponies. Drive through windows. Rap stars. Apples. Sweat. Ya, Baby. My cell phone only calls one number, and that's your mother's because I want to thank her every day for turning you into such a sensitive creature. You want to smell the blossoms. Make money from weaving spider webs. March down heartbreak hill in your gumboots and superman pajamas. You whet my appetite with your sweat. We're partners in parties.

Forget college. A million people graduate from college every year, and still, life goes on and still, no one knows anything for sure. Invent a new language. Write a song. Tell it like it is.

You try so hard. You are nervous, are you going to score? And, who is scoring who, anyways? Are you the hunter or the hunted? Are we playing a game? Aren't we just seeing what happens when we press this button, when we go with this crazy plan, when I get on the boat, on the plane, into the car with you, while my friends are partying without me? You are just a boy. I am just a woman. It is hardly fair, or maybe it is fair, at last. I'll do what I like, without shame, and you can do the explaining. Does that sound fair? Fuck me. That sounds fair to me.

Your shoes are slipping off your feet, as you sit on the edge of the bed, smiling sweetly. You think that I like you and maybe you aren't completely sure, but, you are a bit shy and flattered by my attention. You see the confident look in my eyes and it makes you feel young, as if I have been around the world and back again and you have been here the whole time. Your heart is pounding through your chest and I can practically hear it from here. Sweet. Jesus.

Before you were a superman, you were a young man. You had not yet had a dozen ladies in your room at once, each one seeking your attention. You were still not sure whether your songs were childish and immature or charming and witty. People laughed when you said you were going to be somebody. Except me. I knew, sadly, that you already were somebody and that soon you were going to be somebody else.

When you look at me, look at me. I'm glad you don't pretend too hard that you know me, otherwise you might convince me that you do and I might think that you are right when you tell me what I should do. I might believe you are right when you say I'm no good at anything. I am glad you are so ridiculous and laughable. I'm glad you start shrieking when you think I am not listening to you properly, when I don't agree with you. The higher pitched your voice is, the calmer I feel, because I know that I am not the crazy one, actually, you are.

I've heard this song approximately 100 times. I don't even know what you want anymore. I think you are over me. You milked your heartbreak for all it was worth, but, I think I never really hurt you in the first place, that you hurt yourself by expecting me to be someone I'm not. I think that you never saw me for who I am and that you never could listen to what I say and actually hear it. We never should have tried so hard to make this a relationship. Oh, yes, I am so pleased with myself for being with a man that everyone else wants. At that party, I didn't even have to say a word, you knew and I knew that we were meant for each other. But, for how long? Why did we have to drag it out and try to talk it out when it was never about words in the first place?

I like to think there is a real you that is not a "real you" but a real real you. Is it when you cry? I don't know. Is it when you snort when you laugh? That's probably more like it. Is it when you are helpless for a brief moment when you are caught off guard, unprepared? Or is the real you the one just before you get onstage, in the in between time, when there is no turning back but you are not the center of attention quite yet. It is the moment that you belong only to you, right before you take a deep breath and give yourself away.

You have made it. You have your very own driver for your very own car. You have your people. And they have their people. They found me standing outside the club where you were playing that night and asked if I wanted to meet you. They thought I was your type. I thought it best to suppress my laugher, and accept their offer. I played it cool when I walked into the room but you were clearly caught off guard. How long had it been? Too long? Not long enough? Never mind, these are not our decisions to make. You drank your bubbly and I drank beer. Even though I rarely had the opportunity to drink the good stuff, I had to make a show of "keeping it real" so that maybe you'd feel bad about wandering so far from whatever it was I knew back then.

You've still got such beautiful, curious eyes and evidently, they've seen a lot. They've seen what you wanted them to see as well as some things you would rather not have seen. You had your cake. You ate it. And now you're sitting beside me on this Italian leather sofa in your dressing room, and you're telling me I have a beautiful smile. No, it's true, you say, I'm not trying to flatter you, I'm just telling you the truth. I can't believe you don't remember having said this to me eight years earlier.

I said I was seeing someone else. I said I hadn't read any newspapers, magazines or heard anything about what you'd been up to lately. I said I stopped thinking about you a long time ago. You said I hadn't changed a bit. You said your mother asked about me regularly. You said you were seeing someone but that it wasn't serious. I told you that I was a liar, and we kissed. You said my mouth tasted like apples.

Now you are the one who's been around the world and back and I am the one who has been here the whole time. You need someone who is down to earth, someone to keep you grounded. I need someone to fly me around the world. You think I am dynamic and poetic, and you want to be with someone who's not in "the business". I'm not sure what I want, just to play, I guess. Just to stay in your big house, to drink your Champagne and to fly to Paris every once in a while. You look at me as if I were an object that you thought was lost forever but was recently retrieved. I look at you and then past you at the pool out back and wonder if you'll take me shopping for a new bikini.

Pre-Apocolympic Stretch

2010-05-02T08:22:00.003-04:00

I moved back to my old city. Things had been really rough living in a new city; I had had my house broken into and an old lady was found inside clutching onto a US ten dollar bill that she'd found in a box on a shelf. I screamed at her, berating her for stealing from a single mother, and how could she do this, I'd worked so hard for that money (in the back of my head I wondered if maybe someone had given me that particular bit of cash -- but I had to make my point.) She shrieked back to me that her daughter had died and left her with a broken heart, which made me feel bad, so I mustered up all the sincerity I could to say "Oh, I'm so sorry. That must be terrible. But, I still want my money back. Please?"
So, that is why I left the new city for the old one, to go back to my best friend and my mother.
I went to visit my mother and made her some soup. It was a recipe I thought was particularly good, and was proud of it, but when my mom tasted it, all she could do was to talk about all the good soups my sister had made on her visits. Marmalade soup, for example. It was a chilled soup that consisted of marmalade watered down to a soupy consistency which was delicious on a summer's day, which is exactly the kind of day that my sister had visited on. I was surprised that my sister had visited at all, since she's been having issues controlling her anger and pretty much every other dangerous impulse lately, but, since she was living closer to my mom than I had been, I could see why she might visit her more often and thereby get closer to becoming her favorite.
When I visited my best friend and her new boyfriend, she introduced me to a nice fella who, it seemed, she was trying to set me up with. She later told me that she was thinking of having an affair with this guy. I told her this was not a good idea because relationships started this way never last. (When I brought this point up to her current boyfriend he disagreed: "Look at us, we started out by her cheating on her last boyfriend, and we're still happy together. Our grocery shopping trips and utility bill paying are still going smoothly." I didn't want to point out the obvious fact that if this new affair worked out than they might not, but, I thought 'she is a very lucky girl, I bet she will be able to keep both'.)
I was very upset at my best friend and I realized it was not because she was immoral but because she was selfish and I thought she should leave some men for the rest of us, namely, me. The new city had left a lot to be desired and I hoped going back home might solve the problem of the availability of decent men.
I decided to let the night club scene swallow me whole; I couldn't stop dancing till dawn in darkly lit rooms with music that just wouldn't stop and sexy people who also wouldn't stop. It made the most sense at the time to just stay there and wait out the apocalypse.

Mood Lighting

2010-04-30T21:40:00.002-04:00

My big sister and R.Kelly were hanging out by her VW van. They were flirting with each other, touching, tilting their heads to the side and looking at each other in "that special way". I approached them and started being my charming self and the next thing I knew, he'd chosen me over her, to be his girlfriend and to go to Usher's birthday party.
When we got there, I was so stoked to be R. Kelly's new girlfriend and to finally be able to go to cool parties that we had sex in the bathroom, and it was good.
I must have passed out at some point because I woke up the next morning and there was tons of coke lined up on the table and a hooker was giving Usher a blow job on the sofa. R. told me that he had just had her earlier and that she was pretty good. I was a bit insulted that he would do that, so I had sex with him to show him I was better. He agreed and promised that he would never have sex with a hooker if I stayed with him. The End.

Make it or Break it.

2010-03-29T22:40:00.002-04:00

Don't worry, we don't have to talk now, I know you're busy. My life has settled into an easy routine and I know you are still struggling to make it, so I will let you be on your way. If you ever need advice I have plenty. Please call me if you think of me. Or just write a letter. That way, if you don't have anything to say for a few minutes, you can put down your pen, stare out the window and then pick it up again and keep writing. That way, we won't have any unpleasant awkward silences over the telephone.
My cowboy husband has just walked in the door. He has picked up the guitar and is singing to me now. I love his voice! I will make a recording of his singing and send it to you. Don't worry if you don't have time to listen to it, but just in case you do, it will probably make you happy. Maybe when you are driving to one of your auditions, or to your job at the diner, you can listen to it. Do you have a car? Sorry, I don't remember if you do or not. You must travel around the city a lot. It must be so exciting! I wish I could come visit, but, I'm pretty stuck out here. It's hard to find an excuse to go into town when I have all I need out here.
Remember, we have a spare bed if you need to get away. Also, they are looking for a waitress at Poppy's, so if you ever feel like maybe you're out of your league in the big bad city, I think Jim would probably hire you. He still asks about you. He says you're beautiful and will definitely go far. You should be encouraged by that!
Well, love isn't the only game in town and rich men are a dime a dozen, so don't forget you're umbrella, rain or shine! And always wear high heels at night, like the French!

CLASSIFIED

2010-03-26T19:01:00.004-04:00

World Famous Disco Dancer seeks employment in the underground. Preferred positions include mafia boss, extortionist or back alley abortionist. A die hard believer in liberty for all and a love for mankind in general. Experienced at berating the underdog. Two time world taking-people-for-granted champion. Possesses all necessary equipment. Can begin work immediately, if not sooner.

9T9 DAYS AT C

2010-02-23T21:17:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure if the collage book works in this format, but, since it turns out not everybody in the world is on f.b., where I also have it posted, I am posting it here. Each page from the booklet is scanned. The real thing is way better than this, obviously, but we make do.

Mistakes -- A Recipe

2010-01-31T13:37:00.000-05:00

My mistakes are sprinkled with a mixture of guilt, regret and embarrassment. But at the base of the dish, is a desire to live. A desire to see what I am like in a variety of situations and how others will react to me. I can look at a circumstance and know it is wrong to get involved in and I can see a type of behavior and know that it is difficult for other people to witness and to be near, but, in order to feel like any sort of expert, to even sit in judgement and to say it is wrong, I must first live it.

My mistakes must involve a host of characters to round out the dish. There must be someone who is also involved for the first time, someone who has been doing it for years and will continue to do so, someone who exploits those going through this experience and a few well meaning bystanders who condem my behavior and "don't want to see me get hurt". These elements are crucial for the dish to be complete.

A mistake must not be cooked for very long, it should be short and intense. If it does take a year or more, it must have sporadic bursts of heat and not be all encompassing. Otherwise, it could burn. And a burn can be very difficult to heal from. Recovery from the mistake itself is difficult enough and requires some healing time, far away from the location of and people involved in the mistake. Of course, being a mistake, it inevitably must go on a bit longer than seems even close to reasonable.

My mistakes must be a contrast to the my successful dishes, ones which receive applause and have people clamoring at my door to help to consume. They must not happen too often, otherwise people will get burned out and no one will care enough to be around to witness them. People must be lured in by the all the successful dishes, all the properly executed versions of the classics, all the delicious appetizers and promises of greatness to come. And then, the mistake must come out of the oven at just the right (or wrong) time, to the shock and fascination of onlookers. And just when they think that I've completely lost it, fallen the long fall from grace, I will turn and look to see their reactions and just as they will be getting a show out of me, I too will see a side of them that is only visible from the perspective of the disgraced. This is a truly educating experience.

I may jump into hot water head first, quickly swim to the top and crawl out and cool myself in a cold water bath, and although I survive, I am forever changed by mistakes. I have a new perspective that helps me understand others going through similarly disgraceful experiences. Although my intention may have been to gain perspective to make a better judgment, I find that judgment no longer applies. The only thing that matters is understanding. The guilt dissolves into a sense of purpose, the regret into satisfaction with a dirty job well done and embarrassment into pride. The dish is complete, and nourishes those with open eyes, an open mind and an open heart.

2010-01-19T18:28:00.001-05:00

I'm burning down my imaginary house. Rush is playing in the background. They are playing live on a stage a safe distance from the flames with speakers at least as high as my dream home. A pregnant reporter stands a safe distance away but I am standing at the front door, after having doused the place with gasoline and dropping a match on my way out.
I am warmed by the fire in a way I was never warmed by the house itself. It had the perfect amount of bedrooms, the perfect lighting through the living room window and of course a perfectly laid out kitchen fitted with all the right appliances. All who visited were filled with good cheer and all were welcomed back for another visit. But if they ever return, they will find nothing but ashes.
The band plays a number of songs that I am unfamiliar with but are unmistakably Rush songs. They are not songs about love, they are songs about the human race, a race which will never be won (one) unless everyone wins.
The reporter asks a lot of questions when I back away from the fire. "Where did you come from?" "Why are you so sensitive?" "Why was someone else living in your dream home while you lived in theirs?" "When was the last time someone caressed the small of your back?" I answer as honestly as I can and she types it all into her Blackberry. And then I walk over to the stage and lay down on the grass and look up at the stars.
The ambulance comes. A couple of paramedics approach me and grab my wrist, presumably to take my pulse. They look alarmed. They carefully lift my body onto a stretcher and carry me towards the forest. The owls are getting suspicious, but I reassure them with some energy that I radiate towards them from my solar plexus. They are still watchful, and in truth, I am grateful for their concern.
The dark of the forest swallows me up. I find myself lying on the ground in the trees, alone. The paramedics must have forgotten about me in the all the excitement. In all the rush.
I want to go home. I'll write to my parents in the morning to ask them if I may. I wonder if they were badly burned.

I have a little teapot, tall and lean.

2010-01-18T16:26:00.000-05:00

I am in love LOVE LOOOOVE. With a teapot. I haven't been this enamored with an inanimate object ever since I can remember. This has been one of the best days ever, due to this teapot. It is GORgeous. Silver lustre and little flowers on the side. Silver lustre! It looks like it's glazed with real silver! It's not, though, it's just made to look that way. It says Bavaria on the bottom. I am in love!
I bought it for a few dollars at a thrift store. It was a bit dirty and I thought it was pretty stained but then I performed some magic on it (washed it with a bit of soap and water) and voila! It is as good as new! I am so lucky to have found it.
I have a picture of it sitting on the shelf in front of three boxes of cannelloni. I think it looks very European, maybe eastern European, in any case, it looks exotic to me. It makes me think of practicality and decadence, all at once. Like, we have to stock up because it is Winter and it is a very long way to walk to the store, but we have a silver lustre teapot to warm our bodies and our spirits. So, we are very rich, even if we are poor.

I have not hugged an inanimate object in quite a while, but I hugged my teapot. It has nice curves! It makes me so happy! I feel like the teapot radiates love back, or at least outward into the world. The teapot is a conduit for love!
I have a tea cup that doesn't really match the pot in colour, but in luxury, it is an equal. It is yellow glazed porcelain, with gold edges. I love it very much, too. So, a cup of tea poured from my Bavarian teapot into my Royal Albert teacup brings me pure joy. Add to that the smell of bread baking in the oven, and I am in Heaven. There is nowhere else I'd rather be today. This is the best day of my life.

Julie, Julia and Elisa

2010-01-15T12:31:00.000-05:00

I'm in the middle of watching Julie and Julia (while simultaneously fringing a scarf) and I just had a little lunch break. Naturally, I was inspired to blog about what I ate, since that's what the movie is about, and I too am both a blogger and a lover of cooking.

First of all, I made a soup last night, and while I was waiting for it to reheat, I thought it would be a good idea to write the recipe down in my recipe log book. This is the book where I try to capture exactly what I did to make something wonderful, but this is very tricky because this is how I measure things: A little bit of this and a bunch of that. Try to precisely record that. So, I wrote it down in my book and I will re-write it here:

(We'll name it:) Last Night's Soup
1 big and one small onion, chopped -- soften in pot
1 1/2 Carrots, chopped -- add -- cook
1 Bell pepper, chopped -- add, cook a few mins.
1/2 can Garbanzos & about the same amount big white flat beans -- add
Add seasonings
Add water to cover
1 cube soup stock -- add, boil, turn down to simmer.
Chopped thawing spinach/arugula -- add.
1/4 jar "VH" brand yellow curry.
Simmer it all for about 20 minutes
Let sit for a few more.
Eat. With bread of any variety, it matters little.

And then I did something I like to do, because, well I believe that a clean, well preserved cook book is an unused one full of bad recipes, I stuck my finger into the soup and wiped some broth on the page of the recipe. It is sort of a ritual, actually. It's evidence of a life well lived.

In truth, I think it matters what bread you don't eat it with: wonder bread, or a sweet bread or one made wrong, like with too much baking soda are salt or something else unpleasant. Last night I ate it with some strange pan fried bread from a bread book called Home Baking. They were alright, but I would never make that recipe again. Today I had better luck having my soup with a tuna melt. Not a regular old tuna melt, mind you, but rather a special one that includes these fine ingrediants: Tuna in olive oil from Italy, goat's cheese from Quebec and Irish soda bread that I made from a recipe in that same Home Baking book. It was a divine accompaniment to Last Night's Soup.

Now, I am going to get back to the movie and get back to work.

Bored to death

2010-01-08T21:50:00.000-05:00

These days I have to remind myself that there are people in worse situations than I who persevere and triumph over their adversities. Here I am, fearing that I'm going to die of boredom, or some other such mundane event is going to swallow me up whole and I'm going to live the rest of my life in plain old mediocrity. Very scary. And in order to get through this, and keep my head up and keep going, I have to think about all the much more terrible situations that one could be in, that maybe I myself have once been in, and consider that my current situation is not all that bad.

If I ever use the term wage slave to describe my feelings about my job, all I have to do is to think about what it really means to be a slave, and then I feel less self piteous. I recently read a fine novel called The Book of Negroes, and that put it all in perspective for me. At least I'm not having bloody welts whipped into my back. At lease I'm not being raped and then sent back to work in the rice fields. At least all my friends and family are not dying all around me. Thank my lucky stars for that. I'm only bored and irritated, that's all.

Are you getting "fresh" with me?

2009-11-26T20:29:00.000-05:00

I had a nice discussion with a co-worker today while we were making onion rings, coated in puffed quinoa. He apologized for being snippy (or was it snappy?) with me the past few days. I explained that it is very difficult to give him instruction when it is evident that he doesn't know what he is doing and then I apologized for using a "tone" of voice that bothered him because I was expecting in advance that he would continue to be unreceptive to my guidance and was already bothered by it. He told me he doesn't like to be micro-managed. I said, "Oh ya, who does, right?"
Also, I asked the kitchen manager for my tips and didn't get them, but I probably will tomorrow. I have been asking for my three month raise for 2 weeks and I still haven't received an answer about that.
While I was slicing sundried tomatoes we listened to the original version of the songs that Daft Punk sampled. They are not necessarily as good as the songs that Daft Punk made out of the sampled loops.
If it wasn't for the fact that I've been working a day or two less per week than usual, I would probably be absolutely bonkers by now. As it is, I feel fine! Happy! Re"fresh"ed! Super creative (can't stop making collage books)!
My back is so sore, but I can't bear to tear myself away from the computer.
I love it. I live it.

You (or somebody like you)'ve got mail

2009-11-09T13:04:00.000-05:00

I've been promising to send some things in the mail to a couple of friends and today I finally finished the packaging side of things. Next up comes actually sending it all off in the mail. I'm tempted to just throw a bunch of stamps on one that is going to US because I don't know how much it'll cost. The stamps are pretty, so, if I end up putting too much on, well, it'll be worth it for all the prettiness they will give the envelope. It's been years since I was a regular sender of mail art. It's been years since I was a regular maker if little things hand drawn, hand written and given away or traded for treasures. One time someone gave me their watch for one of my little photocopied books. Haha. I'm redoing one of my old books with new drawings because I only have one left and I can't find the original and I don't want to photocopy an already bad photocopy. It's mostly stolen pictures from playboy, anyways.

It's fun to meet new people and then Google them afterward. Is that creepy? I just like to be informed. Online stalking is perfectly acceptable, I think. I don't think it should even be called stalking. Researching, I think, is a better way of putting it. Except that that sounds like you should be writing a report about it afterward, and that, I think, would be creepy.
I'm listening to music that is featured on the TV show Entourage. I have discovered Young Jeezy and I he is my current "ooooooooh, love to hate you baby" favorite. What a dork! But what a great groove that song "And Then What?" has. (Sorry, I'm not good at linking. You can look it up on youtube yourself if you want to try loving to hate it too.) I used to think Lil Wayne was a re-tart, but then I discovered he was in the gifted program when he was a kid, and so was I! He also has some homemade looking tattoos, and so do I, so we have a few things in common. Therefor, I think he is quite smart, not a re-tart at all. He's just playing the clown cause it's a great way to become a "motherfuckin' cash money millionaire". I, on the other hand, am not so great at playing the clown, although I do try sometimes. I am not a motherfucking cash money millionaire, but I hope to be one someday. Why not, you know what I mean?
The Ramones are playing now, and I don't feel right listening to them in this context, from the soundtrack of a TV show. I'd rather put on a record and hop around and have the needle accidentally skip around, and try to hop a little lighter, than to hear it as an mp3 played through shitty speakers. I was about to skip the song, but, it's only 2 minutes long and that's how long it took me to write that, so I'm on to the Teddy Bears? WTF? A Swedish group that used to be hardcore, now it's sort of electronic and even has some ska influence = double WTF? Oh, and they wear bear costumes. Okay.
Time to go find a mailbox.

Partners in parties

2009-10-28T16:59:00.000-04:00

*** Ponies. Drive through windows. Rap stars. Apples. Sweat. Ya, Baby. My cell phone only calls one number, and that's your mother's because I want to thank her every day for turning you into such a sensitive creature. You want to smell the blossoms. Make money from weaving spider webs. March down heartbreak hill in your gumboots and superman pajamas. You whet my appetite with your sweat. You're the apple of my eye. We're partners in parties. ***

-- Everyone's having a party for me because they figured out that I was great all along. Some said I'd never be anybody, and others said that someday I would be somebody but no one seems to know that I always was somebody.

-- I knew. I always knew that you were somebody. And, unfortunately, I knew that one day you would be somebody else.

-- Naw. It's still me. I'm still the same kid you've always known. Your partner in parties. The apple of your eye.

-- Ah, yes. Sometimes I take these things for granted. I'm a blind, batty old lady who dreams of a youth that is mine for the taking but that I am oblivious to. You can't imagine how I forget myself sometimes.

-- Sweet lady. Angel of good times. Lover of lives. Taker of time, be cool.

-- Uh huh. Show me all you know about living the good life, big boy.

-- Give everything away. Give it all up for love. Your broom, your how-to books, your roller skates.

-- Your friends, your money, your home....

-- Your lonely, sad eyes...

-- You're crazy.

-- For you. Let's step on the gas and get this baby into high gear. I'll drive you crazy, too, my love.

-- I'll meet you back here in an hour, and if the offer still stands, I'll go anywhere with you.

Raccoon Dog

2009-10-21T14:57:00.000-04:00

I just discovered a type of dog I'd never known about before; the raccoon dog. It looks like a raccoon, but it's not closely related. The reason I found out about this is that I was surfing the net (do we still use that expression?) and I found something about how Puff Daddy's clothing line Sean John was using raccoon dog fur on garments labeled "faux fur". It turns out a lot of clothing labeled "faux fur" is really raccoon dog fur, so, if you care about this sort of thing, look closely at the faux fur garments you are buying!
Oh, what a world we live in. It's so hard to get everybody to be honest! Thank goodness for watchdogs, hey? Here is a picture of a raccoon dog:

Cute, huh?

Today I was going to produce a song and send it to Cash Money Records for their consideration. Well, I did work on a few tracks, yes, but then I checked out the labels' website and I think you need to be black / brown to be on it and I am not. I have to find another dream to work towards. Maybe not such a long shot. I'll be white for the whole rest of this lifetime, I'm pretty sure.
Wait a minute, I could be wrong. No, I am still white, but, I think there is a whitish guy on the label. So, there's still hope!

None of your Beeswax.

2009-10-16T18:22:00.000-04:00

I'm making the most of my internet time, getting some blogging done. Letting you all in on my personal beeswax. I'm living near Queen and Ossington now, but I don't have internet. Yet. I've been putting it off, using some excuse like "it's nice to disconnect from the world now and then" but, I'm here at T.A.N., a nearby internet cafe with a really nice lady who gets ready to make my "usual" coffee when I come in, which is a double americano. I have to remind her next time that I don't like too much water in it. Of course, every time I come in I'm totally zonked, pooped out, ti-erd, so I forget to tell her how I like it. Okay so anyways, I'll be hooking up the internet at home asap. eh - sap.
I'm working at Fresh. In the kitchen. There is a real assortment of characters there, who may or may not end up in some semi fictional writing of mine. There's one guy who works too much and is really passive aggressive and asks questions to make people feel awkward, or so he says, but really, he's searching for vulnerabilities in people so that the vulnerabilities are set free and no longer control the person who's trying to hide them. Or something like that. There could be a class on this guy. A discussion of what effect, exactly, he is having on the world around him. What is his role? Everybody loves him even though he gives people dirty looks and is sarcastic and calls people names like slut, for example. He seems to love people and to give up on them simultaneously. Like, do whatever you want. I don't care. except that I do care, very deeply in fact. That's what he's like. I think. I'm not really sure. He's a good guy though. If anything bad ever happened to him I would not be glad.
Toronto is a cold city, getting colder. I'm glad I'm in the art and design district. What luck that we found a good and sort of cheap place here! I'm totally fine with gentrification at the moment. Although, I am also totally fine with the mental health center nearby and as a result people standing on the sidewalk on Queen St. not really going anywhere, just leaning forward at odd angles and/or talking to themselves and or twitching various body parts. I am totally fine with these few things. I'm reluctantly accepting of most other things in my life, though. I wonder, will I get a new job? Will I make some more friends and get a life here in this cold city? Will I get some nice furniture for my apartment? Will I start dating someone? Will my bike be alright locked up in front of my apartment? Will I get some nice moisturizer now that the weather has changed and my hands and lips are super dry? The answer is in the ether. Either. Or.
Famous people I've seen at work: Just one, Joe Jonas.

P.S. I feel a bit disoriented not moving the green this fall. But yes, it turns out there is life outside of the East Shore after all.

There's no place like somewhere else. Or is there?

2009-10-11T11:58:00.001-04:00

We give thanks to all those who have worked under the fluorescent lights to make enough money to buy all the things we need. We intend to use the strength from the food we eat for good things, to say good words and act with pure and positive action, spreading great joy, happiness, health and wealth. In the light of the sun, stars and moon, we are grateful for all the mothers and fathers who have participated in our creation, whether by recreation, devotion or passive compliance, to make our existence here today possible. We thank those who have said yes and those who have said no, those who have asked us to stay and those that have told us to go, those who have given and those who have taken away, who have reminded us that nothing and everything belongs to us, all at once. Thank you, babies, for agreeing to be born to take care of the world when we have outgrown our usefulness to this planet. Thank you all.

Crumpled

2009-08-18T09:20:00.000-04:00

I've been having really strange dreams lately, the kind where I wake up and have to take a moment to adjust because where I just was is radically different from where I am. This morning's highlights include buying something at a supermarket, having an orgasm by touching my bellybutton and having a few day old son of mine go off on an adventure but not before barbequeing some shrimp at his going away dinner. That's all I can remember. And it all happens with a heightened sense of urgency. I wake up and sort of breathe a sigh of relief that life is really not that complicated right now. Well, maybe it is under the surface. In fact some things have to be getting sorted out about whatever brought me to Toronto from the Kootenays, but above ground I'm just going about my days with a sense of relaxed waiting.

A face is appearing in the crumpled bedsheets. All the blankets and extra pillows have been pushed onto the floor. I wake up and release whatever confusion is working itself out in my dream and focus on what I have to do each day. I trust that everything is working out and that all I have to do is to keep going to work, doing my job, following one open door after another even if the room looks like it's too small. Because, if I even tried to imagine the bigger picture, I would drive myself crazy. So, I put my headphones on, pack up my "uniform" and take the subway to work. I think very little, I do what I have to do and make few decisions throughout my day. I endeavor to be cheerful and cooperative. I keep it simple and straightforward.

And then I get home and fall asleep after work, an uncontrollable fatigue having come over me. I try to wake up after half an hour, but feel stuck, so i drift around in a haze for a while longer, trying to pull myself out of the dream. I am panicking, overcome by a feeling of dread. "Oh my dear god, why am I here in Toronto?" And then I talk myself out of it. "Everythings' fine. Just keep going to work, doing your job. Don't worry. Things will be taken care of." But it is hard to fully come back to Earth. It feels like half of my brain is still elsewhere. It's much harder to function on half a brain. So I stick to watching TV and have a gin and gingerale.

I feel like the Hanged Man of the tarot cards. Events are out of my hands. I must wait it out. It's a bit of a relief, as I wouldn't know what to do at this point if I had to be in control of things. How can one be in control of magic, anyways? One can participate or not participate, but I imagine the sense of control is an illusion, anyways. You just have to put yourself in the way of a miracle, and say "Yes please!" And meanwhile, go to work everyday to keep yourself actively in the flow.

Thank you.

Naked if I wanna be.

2009-07-30T22:50:00.000-04:00

Who me? Oh, I'm just trying out another social utility network, Twitter. WTF does Twitter have that Facebook does not, I ask. So far, it seems, nothing. In fact, it appears to have less, which maybe is the point. Just updates. And more updates. And because that is the main feature, People do it all the time. I'm tempted to do it more often than I actually do. Of course, I wonder, why would anyone care what I have to say? Okay, I wonder that when I blog, too, but still I write. And then I think of something to say that I think is sooo clever, and I post it, and then sometimes someone responds to it and I get all excited that someone noticed me. And ya, it makes me feel slightly more connected to the rest of the world, which is nice.

I love going out and getting drunk and meeting people and laughing and bullshitting, too. That's fun. But combine alcohol with posting stuff on the internet and it can be trouble, and sometimes that trouble is fun. I really feel like I'm living on the edge when I post something that I shouldn't really be saying, but I really want to say it, so I do anyways. I love that. I'm not drunk right now, BTW. I am naked, though. I was just about to have a shower and I got distracted by all the ways I can tell the world what I'm doing.

"Elisa is naked but not drunk". That sounds good.

Romeo

2009-07-12T12:29:00.001-04:00

There's an elephant in the room.

Mrs. Kendal: Why, Mr. Merrick, you're not an elephant man at all.
John Merrick: Oh no?
Mrs. Kendal: Oh no... no... you're a Romeo.

2009-07-10T10:10:00.001-04:00

I'm crying crocodile tears for MJ.

2009-07-09T13:31:00.000-04:00

How am I doing? Fine. Ya, I like that word, fine. But, say it like this; faaaiiiiiiine. Ya, great, and how are you? You know, there's a lot of hype, maybe just in my head or maybe it comes naturally, with this big move. I mean, what the fuck am I doing in Toronto? I have no fucking idea. I just got it into my head, like I get so many other great (that's grrrraaaate) ideas that somehow make sense on some deeper level and can even be justified on the surface, but, oh, I don't really know the answer to the question "why?".

The first days of moving into my new apartment, which by the way, is accross town from all my friends here, I got a cold and didn't feel like leaving, let alone get out of bed. So then when people email and ask how are things going in Toronto? I'm like, ya, i'm faaaiiine. Things are graaaaaate. I'm doing really well. Uh, no, that's not what I say. I'm not "doing really well". I'm not doing much of anything. I haven't started actively looking for a job yet, other than to tell people I know that I need to get one. I guess you could call locating the nearest liquor store a success, but, no, not really. I did find the name of an upscale food store, and I plan on marching down there as soon as I update my resume, and telling them they should hire me because I can talk about food in a pornographic way that makes people want to part with their money in exchange for absurdly decadent nibbles of culinary delights.

As I lay in bed, though, in this apartment, with these walls and that elevator and the long trek across town, I feel disconnected from everything. I look down from the balcony and see all sorts of people walking by and can here children's screams from the playground across the way and I know that there are people out there, but, it all seems so ordinary and mediocre, and that's not what I came here for, although, again, I can't even say what the reason is.

If truth be told, I want to be noticed. By lots of people. I want people to give me presents, to take me out to dinner, to collaborate on projects with me and to give me money. That's about all I can say. I want it to be in the flow, and sitting around in my apartment does not feel very flowy, although, nothing feels very flowy when you have a cold.

I'm glad I have friends. I'm glad people like me.

Sweet.

2009-07-02T17:40:00.001-04:00

I've just remembered that I shouldn't forget certain things. And the only way I can be sure I'll remember is to WRITE IT DOWN very soon after it happens.

Cream (get the money) is playing through my shitty laptop speakers. No, not that song, the band. I never went through any sort of Cream phase, but now that I'm listening to them I feel like swirling my body around like a hippie and going into some sort of LSD or heroin induced trance.

Hello Toronto, BTW. Hello city. Hello people that I know from another time, another place, in fact several times and places. Life is so long....

One time I went to Albany, NY in a van with some deadheads to see the Dead. Another time I hitchhiked to Toronto to see PJ Harvey and fucked up by kissing a guy, who wasn't my boyfiend, on the lips and cried for days when I told my boyfriend and he broke up with me. And then one time I had a baby and gave it a name and took care of it and we loved (still do) each other. One year, I cried almost every day I went to school. A few times I broke hearts. A few times I dated somebody because I liked the music he made. I used to take ballet lessons. I hitchhiked through BC and stayed in the camper of Big Bad Bob Lee, local singing sensation, and he fed my friend and I cheese wiz on homemade bread and instant decaf coffee. I've had a long and sweet life, is all I'm saying. And it's only getting sweeter. And longer, too, I guess.

32 to Life.

2009-05-26T00:45:00.000-04:00

Angela. I think that you are real and everything else is a dream. When I die, I expect to see you there, wherever "there" is, and we will discuss what just happened. You will say, "did you really think it was all real?" And I will say, "well, I always sort of knew it wasn't, but I decided to play my part convincingly never the less." And you will say, "me too! That's exactly how I felt." And we will both laugh and say, "of course we felt the same way, we so often do."

I dream of a family that takes itself so seriously, it forgets the meaning of brotherly love. I dream of a daughter who loves me so much, it makes life like one big hug. I dream of winners, losers and heartbreakers, who are all very happy to call me a good friend. I dream of a sudden windfall blowing my way in little tiny gusts of good fortune. I dream of beautiful silk scarves tying together all my hopes and....

hahaha.

2009-04-30T13:06:00.000-04:00

Remember in Mary Poppins when they're having a tea party and they all float up to the ceiling? So silly. Mary Poppins was a practical woman who knew about, not just believed in, magic. It was a matter of fact sort of thing. She was almost serious about silliness, as though it was as important as taking your medicine (with a spoonfull of sugar, of course).

It's amazing that mothers with the means to hire a nanny can just go ahead and keep living a frivolous life and leave it to another person to be stern and to discipline their kids. Their only real responsability is to hire a responsable nanny. The idea of a community raising a child has always interested yet confused me. For example, why does one sometimes feel like a bad parent when someone helps them? The whole thing is a little hard to understand.

I'm not sure what the rules are. I would like to know the rules. All of them. All the rules about everything. Because I like rules. Good ones, that is. Ones that work. I am good at making up rules. I should think up some more good rules, for when somebody needs some.

Oxtail Stew

2009-04-26T02:25:00.002-04:00

I just found the following in my drafts. I wrote this April 09. I'm posting it as is, since it doesn't have an ended. I will say, though, that it was buttery. I do remember that much....

"I just made oxtail stew for dinner. It was an event, actually. It took 4 hours to make, a few adjustments and some tips from the experianced at eating oxtail stew Lance. I grew up vegetarian, so when I read anything about an oxtail in a cookbook I would skim over it as something foreign and uncook/eatable. Somehow, though, it came to my attention as something I might possibly want to explore, maybe a mention to Lance that got his culinary excitement aroused, I'm not sure what finally convinced me to buy the meat, but I went to the butcher and there was some freshly cut, so I bought it. A whole tail. I'm not so sure it's really from an ox, more like a cow maybe. It was cut into sections. It looked like something I could handle.
I kept it in the freezer until the morning of an arranged dinner date with Lance, Willow, Jesse and Dusty"

I stole this picture off the internet, but this is pretty much what it looked like:

WANTED:

2009-04-25T13:11:00.000-04:00

World Famous Disco Dancer seeks employment in the underground. Preferred positions include mafia boss, extortionist or back alley aboritionist. A die hard believer in liberty for all and a love for mankind in general. Experianced at berrating the underdog. Two time world taking-people-for-granted champion. Possesses all neccessary equipment. Can begin work immediately, if not sooner.

She's dressed in white again. I'm falling down again.

2009-04-15T01:28:00.000-04:00

You don't know how frustrated I am to be having technical difficulties regarding getting pictures onto the internet. (Someone else's computer, dial up, blah blah blah.) So. I will just have to tell you about this striped shirt I bought today at the Sally Ann. It's a vertically striped shortsleeved blouse (or "shirtwaist", as they called blouses in the olden days, but more on that later) with ties at the collar, um, no, that's not a good description, okay, the fabric at the collar extends, so that it can be tied in a flouncy big bow. The point is, it's cute and I don't currently own anything like it, so I was very excited to wear it out. Oh, let me remind you that I live in Crawford Bay and there is never anything worth getting dressed up for, unless you consider a trip to the corner store worth getting dressed up for, which I often do. So, Miss B got a call from her guy-pal, inviting her out to THE pub, Newkey's, for a drink with some guys who are visiting from down the lake. She asked if I wanted to go out and I said "hell ya" and quickly put my new shirt on and fixed the bow just right. Then I put on my cashmere vest with beaded edges, and with the bow sticking out the top, it was just adorable. You all just have to take my word for it, because as I said, technical difficulties. Then I put my cowboy boots on, and well the point is, my outfit really looked cute. Oh, Miss B looked hot, too. She had a nice head scarf on that looks really pretty. So. We finally get to the bar and guess who's just leaving -- everyone. We managed to convince B's guy-pal to stay for one drink with us, just because we got so dolled up. The other guys had to drive home before getting completely shitfaced, which I understand. That's how things go here on the East Shore.

I met a guy the other day who was funny, and I said I'd write about him in my blog. I can't think of anything really relevant to say about him, except that his code name is Toast.

Okay, the shirtwaist thing. In my last blog I mentioned a preferance for jumping as opposed to being burned alive. This is a reference to the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire in New York City, back in 1911. Over 100 young women, mostly teenagers, were trapped on the 9th floor of a burning building. Their employers had locked them in. (Terrible, terrible conditions.) So. One by one the girls jumped to their deaths. Some of them hesitated a moment too long, caught fire, and then jumped, screaming, to their deaths. The symbol of the factory, coincidentally, is the same as a tattoo I have on my arm; a circle with a triangle inside. (It also happens to be the symbol of Alcoholics Anonymous, but this, too, is a coincidence.) I had never heard about this disaster until a week ago, while watching a documentary on New York, focusing on this time period. The news affected me as if it had just happened. It was the largest workplace disaster in New York City until the twin towers went down.
On a related note, and equally as morbid, I heard a story about how the Mongols were holding a Chinese city under siege (my information here is based on somebody else reading a book and telling me about it) and after a year of starvation, a whole bunch of women from the city, dressed in white, climbed up on the wall and without a sound, jumped to their deaths. Aparently, they would rather jump than eat their family.
I guess I'm sorry for the morbid stories. They're haunting me, and I figure if I tell other people, it won't be so scary. Besides, I can't always just talk about my fashion outings. I will, however, let you know when I finally wear my pink layer cupcake top out. Stay Tuned.
Speaking of tunes, I desparately need new music. I feel like I'm living someone else's life, one where music is not of utmost importance. Sort of a holiday from being me. I reeeeeally need to dance more.
P.S. Oh great, now I'm going to go down a rabbit hole of researching famous sieges throughout history, thanks to the endless fountain of info that is Wikipedia. Thanks.

2009-04-08T01:58:00.000-04:00

Oh ya, as if I'd tell you that.
But I'll tell you what...
That's what.
Amazing.
Grace.
Torture.
Divine Providence.
Disentangled Relations:
Promises, promises.
You'll get what you want.
Or you'll want what you get.
Torture.
Pinned to the wall,
Hunted down.
Wanted: Dead OR alive.

Lock it down. Deliver the blows.
(Deliver the blow.)
When there's no:
Love and Tenderness.
Johnny Rotten? Have you forgotten?
Stupid you, oh stupid you.
I'd rather jump than burn alive.

Lord love a duck

2009-03-09T21:00:00.000-04:00

I don't smoke anymore. In case you were wondering, since I am holding a cigarette that yes, I was smoking, in a picture on the previous post, of me at the pool hall (billar) in Yelapa. I smoked for about 3 weeks. It felt neccessarry at the time. Now I think about it and it makes me sick. I hardly drink, either. In fact, I hardly do anything these days. I just sit around in this cabin in the woods, avoiding going out as much as possible, as I just can't take the snow. My car is parked way down the hill because I couldn't drive up the icy driveway, so that doesn't make it any more tempting to go out anywhere.

I took 2 gravol last night. Well, one last night and then one early this morning to get back to sleep after about an hour long coughing fit. I'm getting over a stupid fucking flu that I guess I caught in Puerta Vallarta, or from Stella, who would've caught it in PV. When I was in Yelapa and the locals said PV, I couldn't understand what they were saying. It sounded like PB, so I would for a moment think that they were talking about peanut butter. What? I'd say. Or que? Or, to try and be polite (and usually get laughed at) I'd say mande? (I don't know where my e with an accent is). Well anyways, that's where my flu came from. I went to the doctor the other day and whined to him about how shitty I felt, hoping he'd give me some magic pills, but he told me to ride it out. Waaaa. He also said that this same flu is raging all over North America. There are no official numbers from Mexico, for whatever reason they don't keep track of these things, but the numbers are: A LOT from the US and Canada. Okay, I don't know what it is exactly. Oh, my point is... 2 gravols was probably too much. All day I felt spacey and light headed. In conclusion, I recommend: only 1 at a time.

At some point Spring will be here and I will feel it in my veins, my bones, my heart, and I will be like maple sap, running like crazy, you know, doing things again. For now, I'm going to read a lot of books. Just finished Amy and Isabelle. I really like the way these people's boring old lives are made interesting and important. That's one thing I find impressive, when writers can make mundane things seem funny and/or meaningful. It's all in the details.

The devil is in the details.

What the christ is that supposed to mean?

Oh, by the way, I've been making an effort to add religious expressions into my day to day vocabulary. Angela once said that she hates it when people say "God willing" and so of course, I had to start using it. Not to piss her off, as I hardly even see her, but just to be ironic, I guess. I wondered how it would make me feel to say it to people. I like it. It reminds me of the time I started to wink at people because I found that when people winked at me I never knew how to react, and it made me feel awkward. So I thought I'd do it to other people, to see what they'd do. I think some people thought I was flirting with them, but I wasn't. I'd meant it as a "you know what I'm talking about" sort of thing. I occasionally find myself doing it still, but really, I think it's a bit lame.

I think the next time I get scolded for doing something wrong, I'll say "the devil made me do it!" Like, if Brigitte catches me washing her cast iron pan in soapy water again, I'll tell her who's really responsible. Because Lord knows, I'm a good girl and would never think of doing such a thing. When I was a little girl, my mom, or my mom's friend, I can't remember, used to say "Lord love a duck". I wonder where that expression came from.

2009-02-25T20:50:00.000-05:00

I am back in Canada. In Vancouver, to be exact. Still not "home" yet, but then, I don't really know where home is right now. Home is where my suitcase is.
When I first got here, I felt like total crap, crying all the time, so much on my chest after 2 1/2 months of living a totally different life, and needing to proccess it all with someone who understands ME, and that someone is my beautiful friend Angela. After spending the day with her eating Vietnamese food, thrift shopping and having our nails done, I no longer felt like crying all the time! And I started sorting out some of the crazy "adventures" I had in Yelapa.
Yes, it's been a long time since I've posted. I've done some writing on my laptop, but was never able to get it online. Dial-up sucks ass. Now, my laptop is busted, so that's that for now. I'll save it for reference for the screenplay of the mexican soap opera that was my life in Yelapa. Love affairs, more love affairs, cheating on my "novio" who was cheating on his "novia" and having him storm off in the middle of a heated discussion and me not following him and him asking "where were you?" when he found me later. Drama. Lots and lots of drama. Some ex-rated bizznazz. Some tears. Plot twists. Ironic conclusions. When I got off the airplane, I immediately started writing songs in my head and haven't stopped. I could do a whole theme album on my "love" affairs. I put quotes around love because I have no idea what love even is, I just know that a lot of the feelings I had were labeled love, but, sometimes you just say things for lack of a better word or out of habit or because you think it'll make the other person feel good. I think I've said it for all those reasons on various occasions.
Now I'm back in my homeland. I like that rain falls from the sky. I like thrift stores. I don't like how expensive fruits and vegies are. I like hipsters again. I don't like that there isn't a big mexican community with whom I can practice my Spanish.
Here is a picture of me at the billar, where I look like a cheap hooker. I don't know why I say cheap. I also don't know why I like to exhibit unflattering pictures of myself. Staying humble, I guess. Keeping it "real":

Here is a picture of me and some hot mamasitas, out on the town in Puerto Vallarta. (I really wished I'd thought to bring some other footwear besides flipflops and sneakers for going out in PV, btw.):

There are a hundred other pictures from my trip, well actually 60 in total, on my facebook page. Here is a picture of coming home:

Yelapa Daze and Knights

2009-01-06T10:55:00.000-05:00

I am posting writing from four different days, all at once, because it should be read chronologically, instead of newest first, as it would appear if I posted them one at a time. I haven't been able to post anything from Yelapa because the internet is ridiculously slow, if it works at all. My stress level gets unreasonable high whenever I try to use it, even for emailing. So, I came all the way to Puerto Vallarta today to let you know about my Yelapan adventures.

December 27th, 2008

It's Saturday evening, 7:05pm to be pretty much exact, in Yelapa. I just got home from Puerto Vallarta, on an amazing whale watching boat ride. This one whale just kept jumping up into the air and flipping its tail in the air. I'm so buzzed. Tired and wired at the same time. Just threw some food on the stove to cook. I picked up a bunch of goat cheese at Walmart, of all places. They have the best cheese selection that I can find, so far, in PV. Crazy, I know. I've never bought cheese at Walmart.
My new favorite drink is "New Mix". It's Squirt and el himador tequila. So good, and only around 12 pesos. I walked into the farmacia drinking it. I felt a bit strange, drinking and shopping, right by the security guards, but it seemed okay. Then I got another one for the boat ride. I love Mexico. By the way, when I made up the name elisa of the spirits for this blog, I didn't mean for it to be a bunch of drunk writings, but sometimes it is. I'm not exactly drunk right now, though. Usually, when I am drunk, it is either because I'm at Tacos y Mas drinking Dina's killer "one, maybe two per night limit" margaritas or I've been djing and dancing at the Yacht Club disco and several people have bought me drinks that I couldn't say no to.
It's hard to write while I'm out socializing. I had a bit of alone time after Theresa and Matt caught the boat without me and I went high-speed internetting (oh, the luxury!) and then farmacia hunting. I actually LOVE being alone, by the way. Don't tell anyone, though, because I also like to not be alone.
The other day, uh, Christmas morning actually, I met Theresa, Don and Brigitte for breakfast, that I dragged myself out of bed for, after a 5 hour sleep, and Theresa wanted me to tell Brigitte (who wasn't out the night before) about all the boys I danced with and all the groping that went on. I was a) very tired from being the dj from 1 - 5am, and b) getting used to / jaded by / cocky about all the boy attention, and was just like, whatever, it happens all the time, and didn't elaborate at all. Theresa was disapointed, as she wanted to live vicariously through me and my youthful adventures. So, okay, I'll be the sacrificial lamb for all your butt grabbing, pelvis grinding, sweaty everything dreams.
Some guys like to lead you, some like to follow the dance steps, and teach you when you don't do it right (I don't follow dance steps, no siree bob), some are really drunk and just sort of lean on you and sway, some are American or Canadian and so are afraid to get too close to you, some sneak up on you from behind for a quick grab while their girl isn't looking, some read your moves and just follow along smoothly and of course, that, is what I like. So sometimes i keep going back to that person all night long and eventually there is some butt grabbing etc. but, whatever, it's nothing.
Oh, I seem to remember one guy telling me I was like a scorpion, or a snake, the other night. Don't know what that means. I don't sting, so that's a crazy analogy. I consider myself playful and cute. Like a bunny. Okay, not really. I am a dragon. Mythical; do I really exist? That's what I'm like.
Alright, so tonight the gang is at Brisas, eating chili rellenos. Then the Yacht Club for some disco madness. I really have to wake up early tommorrow to go out snorkling at the islands. So, no djing tonight. I am not bringing my laptop out, so they can't force me into anything like that. I have to save my stamina and musical selection for New Years Eve. I wish I could download new music based on my knowledge of what these kids like around here, as well as what the old fogies need. I got accosted by an old fart bee-atch who asked me if they should just go home to bed or would I be playing anything for them old fogies. I played a few disco tunes and other oldies and then got back on track for the young set. The local kids are the ones I really wanted to get shaking. They LOVE the song Calabria. Especially the Spanish remix. "Whoop! Whoop!" The old farts like Love Shack. "Tin roof, rusted."

December 29th, 2008

I've fallen in love, yet again. His name is Rey. He is, like, the best boyfriend ever. He follows me wherever I go, never talks back, when he attacks me, I know it's out of love, and when I tell him to stop, he does. He is a Yelapa dog. He adopted us soon after we arrived. Super loyal, super sweet and smart. Everyone's trying to convince me to take him back to Canada. Since I've had a recent experiance of loving and leaving, I know I could leave him here in Yelapa and I would eventually get over the heartache. Part of loving is being able to let go, after all.

I was at a French bakery in Vallarta the other day and the baker gave me shit. He says, "what eez zees, I look you and think you are a beautiful woman and then I look at your nails! Zay are obsene!" (They have remnants from a manicure from nearly a month ago.) "Zee next time you come into my bakery, PLEASE have your nails done!" It was like a tough love slap in the face. They still look like shit, but Terry has some polish remover, and I have some red polish, so I will get on it. And then I will go back, and he'd better appreciate it.

After talking about how jaded I am about the disco, it got a bit more exciting last time. I saw Romeo again, and we danced all night long, and even made out in the sand, outside the Yacht Club. I have to find out if he has a wife before I make out with him again. I don't want to get beat up by a jealous Latina. I can still hang out at the restaurant beside the one he works at, and tease him. Lay around on the chair in my bikini, walk past him to the bathroom, half naked. I shouldn't get into too much trouble doing that.

Jan. 3, 2009
Asses wild. Disco night, once again. I mean, it only comes around twice a week, so how can you not go. New Years was super fun when I was shaking my booty on the dance floor and then super annoying when right after I started djing, some punk kid came up to me, bouncing, saying, can I go next? And I'm like, ya, just let me dj for a little while, okay? So, he comes back 20 minutes later, saying, you said a little while, can I play now? And I kind of lost it. It was also because this girl wanted to unplug my laptop and plug in her ipod to play a song for her boyfriend who just happened to be the son of the owner of the club. Actually, I can't remember exactly how shit went down that night, but I remember packing up my laptop at 4.30, saying, Fuck it, I am outta here. It just so happens to really annoy me when there are a lot of people trying to dj at once and I am one of them, and I happen to be the best, of course. You know what I mean? Ya huh.
All I feel like doing today is dancing. We're sitting at the hotel restaurant today, for a change, and they start playing Abba, and I couldn't stop dancing. Chair dancing, walking to the bathroom dancing, frisbee dancing, whatever else I was doing, I was also dancing. Life here is hard. You know what I mean? Okay, SOMEtimes it is hard, like when I have to wash clothes by hand, which is pretty much every other day. Wringing out clothes is hard work! Boo hoo! And when I have to go jogging every morning at dawn, it's so much work! Boo hoo! Okay not really.
Another disco. My girls are leaving tommorrow. One more night of spending beyond my means, just to hang out with these two amazing friends of mine, who I love so much. After tonight, it's bananas, tortillas and pasta. Cheap things around here. Avocados aren't really cheap, but they are filling. No more of this fucking going out for more than one meal a day shit. In fact, no meals out for a few days to make up for the last few days of indulgences. Thank goodness for boys at the disco who think that if they buy me drinks I will sleep with them, otherwise I'd never be able to afford to go out. I know what you're thinking, what a ho. Or, what a tease. Or maybe, what a smart girl. Well, whatever, I do what's most fun.

Jan. 4 2009
My new boyfriend is a jealous Mexican named Romeo, who doesn't want to see other guys hugging me or touching me in a seductive manner. I use the term boyfriend loosely, but he did introduce me to his friends last night as his girlfriend. Somehow his jealousy strikes me as romantic, it shows how much he likes me and is not afraid to let me know. He doesn't want other guys groping me in front of him, which is fair enough, although I have been so flirty, there are a lot of guys who hug me and have been buying me drinks and probably want to have sex with me and I now have to ignore them, in front of my new boyfriend. There was one guy in particular who is very enthusiastic when he sees me, like he likes me or something, I don't know, and Romeo asked me not to hug him, because he is jealous and wants me all to himself. He pronounced the j as a y, which was adorable, by the way. I said okay, not in front of you, but I'll do whatever I want when you're not around. I figure this is totally fair, since he has a girlfriend (who lives in another state, he says) and there's a boy that I love, who's in another country. Then I saw the forbidden guy on the beach today and he gave me a hug and i was like, oh, Romeo wouldn't like that. Then I was like, uh, why the hell would I not do something because a guy told me not to do it. That's so not like me, is it? Hmmm. Well, I have been known to be in a repressive relationship. But this is different, plus it's somewhat experimental and also, short term, only one more month.
This is my first Yelapa boyfriend. I have no idea why I am so attracted to this guy, he is totally not what one would think of as my type. I have realized, though, that I don't have a type. Everyone I date seems to be not my type. So, what does that tell you? Basically, I like whoever I like, I don't follow logic, I just go with my feelings. And it feels GOOD when Romeo kisses my... never mind. ANYways, Stella hates his hair, and he had this star earring in his ear, which was so cheesy. He's 24 years old. He's smart, though, apparently really good at math. He's a hard worker, and ambitious. These are some of his qualities that he's revealed to me as he's getting me tipsy enough to run out of the Yacht Club with him, to hide underneath the deck, on the rocks, with the waves crashing onto our toes. For some reason, all I want to be is up against his body. That's all. In the daytime, I go to either the restaurant on the beach beside the one he works at, or to his. He serves me, all reserved, holding back all that passion he reveals in the dark, my Pacifico. And I say gracias and act all casual, and he goes away and serves the other customers and goes to sit in the back with the boys, talking about god knows what, hopefully not me and whatever we did last night at the disco. Last night we decided we weren't going to pretend we don't know each other in the daytime, but it's a hard habit to break. (I'm not fully convinced that he does not have a girlfriend close by that will beat the crap out of me if she finds out I'm messing around with him). Basically our interactions are either this daytime reserved behavior or our passionate nights at the Yacht Club which have become less about dancing, or grinding on the dance floor, than about holing up in the corner of the bar and then running outside when it starts getting too hot.

2009-01-06T10:47:00.000-05:00

Dec. 7, 2008

Music is the most beautiful thing in the world. When I realized that I had to change my facebook status back to single, music was here to make me smile. So many great songs are on my mp3 phone. Chrisine -- Siouxsie and the Banshees, Dangerous -- Akon ft. Kardinal Offishall, Toy Soldier -- Britney Spears, Creator -- Santogold. All good songs. My people -- The Presets. Oops, that's one of "our songs", maybe I should skip that one. Not really a getting on with my life song. Shit. Lame. It's so good, I couldn't skip it! Not only that, I texted the boy the song lyrics, "and it feels so good!" But instead of feeling good, it feels like I'm sliding back on my mission of being in the present.

I know, I know, "don't be so hard on yourself, lady." But honestly, my whole sense of self identity is based on being hard on myself. Some people can sit around watching movies or sucking their own dicks or other self indulgent activities for hours! But me, I feel guilty if I sit still for more than 15 minutes. Having a hangover, for example, is a huge guilt trip for me. I like to be on top of my game at all times. But sometimes, I have to let go and get shitfaced. It's okay. Sometimes.

Okay, my most favorite self indulgent activity is dancing. That, though, is totally justifiable because for me, it's like meditation. I feel so centered and balanced after a good dance party. And meditating is always justifiable. I guess.

Was I ever even "in a relationship"? I only wanted the complicated part of that status because it was only going to be for 3 weeks, anyways... for now. And then I got all these reactions to it, like I probably will again, but it's for my own sake that I do this, not for any reactions I might get! Really! (Oh sure, Miss Rose, that's why you're blogging about it. you don't want any attention, really.) Then I get exes saying, "good luck!" And "it's always complicated". Oh, really? Gosh, this is only the bazillionth time through this relationship bizznazz, I never realized that it could be difficult. I'll tell you what's difficult. Difficult is coming down off the love drug and learning to love yourself.

"If love is the drug than I want to O.D." -- Brian Jonestown Massacre. Yes! I totally feel that way! THAT, my dear, is my favorite drug. Besides dancing that is. Oh, wait. Earlier I compared dancing to meditation... okay, my favorite HIGH is dancing. "Love" is still a drug. But, like Whitney said, "learning to love yourself, that is the greatest love of all." So true.

Dec.14 Yelapa, Jalisco, Mexico

2008-12-16T10:42:00.000-05:00

I'm experimenting with typing on my laptop while sitting in a hammock. It's alright, so far. I skipped out on going to a pig roast tonight because I didn't want to have to walk accross the river in my jeans, in the dark. The high tide is causing problems with the sand banking up too high and the river getting stuck and then busting through the sand, creating steep banks. I don't yet know where the best spot is to cross the river. I feel a bit bad not showing up, after being invited to somebody's mom's birthday. It's been a lazy day, though.
Last night was disco night. I deejayed from midnight to about 2:30 to a packed dance floor. I was very happy. It was basically my first time doing a dance set in a club. I've done all that radio deejaying and a few parties and some art openings, but this is the first time I've time I've had to keep people happy and moving and sweating and grinding on a dance floor. It was awesome. I occasionally went out and danced, mostly with this local guy named Romeo. He was just some guy with freshly laundered clothes, smelling of Mexican laundry detergent, but he was a good dancer. Stella cut in because she thought he was creepy and that I needed to be rescued from him, but actually, I was enjoying myself. I guess she's never seen me in action on the dance floor before. I have a tendency to dance and sometimes even makeout (not this time, though) on the dance floor, with random or not so random hot guys.
Yesterday I woke up depressed, not caring whether or not a scorpion would sting and kill me. I went swimming up at the pool above the waterfall and then had a reiki session from Don Tambour. That made me feel better. So then today, Stella got me out of bed by yelling about a scorpion on the wall. I didn't believe it at first, because she'd thought that a dead spider in the bathroom was a scorpion, but sure enough, it was the real thing. It was about 5 inches long, just sitting there on the wall. I had to kill it, of course, so I grabbed a spatula and squished it, chopped it, scooped it up and threw it outside. I guess today I did care whether or not I died by scorpion. So things must be looking up. Don't ask me why I was depressed yesterday, I don't know.

2008-12-05T11:59:00.000-05:00

Okay, just for the record, falling in love is definately a worthwhile thing to do. Even though we are in different countries for the next 3 months, the love is still in my heart and in the words of my 6 year old niece when describing the feeling of seeing a cute boy, my heart beats in my vagina when I think of him.

Puerto Vallarta is noisey at 11:39pm, well especially in this hotel right by the playa los muertos, where we will be catching the boat to Yelapa in the morning. First person we ran into just happened to have always wanted to ask me out for dinner, so Stella and I let him take us out for sushi. When we got back to the hotel after walking around, I just crashed, while S played guitar on the balcony. We'd done a little session outside, sitting on the sidewalk earlier. It reminded me of when I was just a bit older than her, busking in Ottawa, playing all those Pink Floyd songs and probably Neil Young, too. Oh, and lots of Sinead O'Connor. That was a long time ago now. With every year that goes by, those experiances become further away. And then I can say things like, that was nearly 20 years ago when I did that. And I say that with a certain amount of amusement, and also pride. I like getting older. I like having done things long ago.

I'm happy to be here. Not ecstatic happy, just, as though I don't need anything now. I don't want. It's nice to take a break from wanting every once in a while. Needing, too. I just eventually need to sleep, but I'm sure it'll come. S is sleeping. Maybe if I stretch my rollerskated and airplane slept in body, I will feel better.

*Next Morning!!* ...Yes, I finally managed to sleep through all the hooting and hollering in the streets. "I don't give a hoot" -- does anyone say that anymore? We found a wi-fi cafe with good coffee! Still in P.V. until, probably the 12.30 boat. I think we'll get a cell phone and some shampoo first. Not that we have any room in our overstuffed backpacks for anything else, but, we have to take advantage of shopping in the city before we head out to Yelapa. Holy vagina, it's good to be in the hot sun!

2008-12-03T01:40:00.000-05:00

Here is where I am: In Eugene, with a fresh mani-pedi in classic red, tummy full with a carne asada burrito from a drive through with lots of hot sauce and a bushmill's beside me in a hi-ball glass that came free with the bottle. We just dropped a girl off at jail for violating her parol. The whole drive there we listened to Love Lockdown by Kanye West on repeat. That song has been a staple in my life for the past month or so and who knows for how much longer, who knows what will happen next to warrent such a great song played over and over. Life, maybe.

It's important to just keep drinking in times like these. Don't ask too many questions and don't talk back. Don't speak the truth or at least don't say it more than once if someone obviously doesn't want to hear it. Put the booze into the water bottle because this is the US, not the Kootenays, Canada. But let the girl who's about to go to jail anyways drink straight from the bottle.

It's okay to yell if you apologize afterwards.

If your mother doesn't come to your rescue, find another mother, someone who needs to be needed and who needs you and your decorating expertise, too. Be sweet, be loveable. And then climb back into your SUV and play Kanye on repeat. Keep your love locked down.

Juvenile fantasies about new parents or an older man get twisted around and haunt you all the way home. Haunt your new home. Haunt the bathroom, with the lights out and... no one's home.

I keep hearing self destructive people say they love themselves. Self confidence masquerading as self love. Yes, you are totally rad, but... why are you hitting yourself? Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself, until you realize the hand that is forcing your fist to punch yourself in the head is your own, not your older brother's. He did whatever damage he could and then left you to repeat the process.

So keep your love locked down. Your love locked down. You lose, you choose.

2008-11-26T00:48:00.000-05:00

Here is the progress on my packing up and getting the hell out of here: Slow. I forgot to eat today. How does that happen? I have no zesty spark at the moment. I'm not feisty or funny. I couldn't muster up a single out loud laugh today watching South Park with K and S. I managed to get through the parent / student conference at the school, and learn a bit more about S's education. I'm so tired. We got Chinese food from Gray Creek for dinner. It was alright, it'll last for days, and we don't even have that many. Thursday is the day we drive to the coast, and then down to Eugene on Sunday. Everything is getting pushed back. I thought I had so much time to pack up and get out of here and then a funny thing happened, "love" that is, and I have gotten so little done, in favour of sitting around and smooching. I feel like a teenager, sneaking out of the house at night to go sleep at the boy's house.

Guilty pleasures for the lady of leisure.

Come clean.

Speaking of cleaning, I hired my friend to clean my house today. What a great idea that was! Another friend came over to pick up the rented modem but I wouldn't give it to him. He hung out and shared some expensive scotch with us. Yum.

I love Riondel. There is no where else in the world like it. Riondel = Freedom.

Love, love, love.

2008-11-18T01:16:00.000-05:00

Well, in the space of just over a week I fell in and am unsuccessfully trying to slide out of love. And in the end, when love disapears down the road to who knows where on who knows what high or low, there is always art. If heartbreak is good for anything, it's art. If there is any use for it, any good that we can get out of it, we might as well milk it for all it's worth. The tortured artist is not a myth. If you think you're an artist and you're not tortured, you are probably just a good business person. If you're tortured and not an artist, you better be a good surfer and/ or skate boarder. Survival. Because sometimes life rips your heart open and it's up to you to put it back together. And, YES. it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Whether or not you even want to call it love, due to personal limitations in expression or past heartbreak or whatever, opening yourself to another person on a deeper level, something different than just hi how are you wanna fuck, or how would you like your coffee today or, oh, you like the songs i sing.... The taste of someone's mouth that makes you want to kiss it and kiss it and kiss it. Because even that doesn't come along very often. And when it's so good you want to hold onto it dispite all the warnings that you (I) saw way before we ever became lovers and thought, how would I handle that situation? If I could have him, hold him, knowing that he will fuck his life up as surely as he will get up in the morning and take a piss, what will I do when that time comes? When it also affects mine, because I am waiting for him to be here for dinner. Stella laughs and tells me to tell him to wash the sand out of his vagina, or it might get infected, and says, you're not going to break up with him, are you? He's still a good guy. you can't break up with him. But, oh! I am leaving in a week, anyways. Going to Mexico for 2 months. Love canNOT survive such distance. Especially when you're abroad and having a boyfriend or even a husband who is not present means nothing, you are still available, and how can you argue with that when it just feels so good in the moment. So. In the words of Elliott Smith, that gangster, that tough motherfucker who stabbed himself in the heart how many times i don't know, "...suffering is just a game" and it is and it's a fun one!

Unreadable but, like, totally stoked, okay!?

2008-11-05T01:08:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I found, as though it were Christmas day itself, a box of sunglasses I had packed away a year ago, when I moved into the house that I am now moving out of. They were in the box for the popcorn maker, which I was getting ready to pack away. When I picked up the box, it rattled, so I opened it and guess what I did next, upon discovering its contents -- I squealed! In delight, of course!
I had been wondering where my sunglasses collection was. Mostly thrift store finds, some cheap mall designer knockoffs or faux vintage. Mostly unreplaceable. There is a pair I got in Puerto Vallarta three years ago, and when I went back there last year to see if they had anything as great as those, all I found were "smells like designer brand" type sunglasses. I do NOT want a label name if it is not that label. I don't mind if they are copies of designs, but I don't need the actually label name written on the glasses.
Wearing sunglasses is like wearing a disguise, because you become unreadable while wearing them. The only indication you are giving as to what you are thinking is demonstrated by the style. For example, you could be saying "I am unreadable and I am edgy" or "I am unreadable and not afraid of looking like a dork" or "I am unreadable and afraid of looking like a dork" or "I am unreadable and I am a fashion victim". Sometimes sunglasses are worn with irony, sometimes not. Oakley's are almost never worn with irony. (I do not find them to be fashionable, only functional and I will never wear them). Aviators are quite often worn with irony, only people usually don't know it (you're not really a cop or a pilot). Ugly eighties glasses, ironic at first, until they're so cool it's not ironic. (Style is totally subjective and contextual and timing is always a factor. Obviously.)
I have some pretty and some almost ugly but likely are stylish anyways glasses. Here are some examples:

Ugly, ironic. Started wearing them two years ago, Stella hated them, now she thinks they're cool.

Barely ugly, actually probably cool.

What the vagina? I had no idea these were so crooked.

From the side of the road in P.V.

My favorites! (Notice the smile on my face.) I risked my life to save these when they fell into the waterfall in Yelapa!

2008-10-30T23:30:00.000-04:00

This is how much fun Stella and I had having a dance party last night: A LOT. Here is a picture of us dancing on the front balcony.

We danced to a few Presets songs, one of them twice. It's called Talk Like That and it's sooooo danceable! I discovered a few new dance moves while dancing to it. Amazing! Stella had some great moves too. And then we rediscovered the joys of dancing on the balcony. I feel sorry for all the people in Riondel who didn't know there was a great dance party happening at our house! I turned the volume up to try to clue them in, but... no one showed up. Which is fine because Stella and I are a great party all by ourselves! Yaaaaay!

Legend

2008-10-26T23:19:00.000-04:00

More on Del (since he's a legend and people want to know): He said that he recorded with hawkwind in 2002, but they don't have enough money to complete the album. I don't know what else he's done lately. I'll ask him. He mostly just hangs out everyday at the cafe where I work, and plays Go. Sometimes he wears black crushed velvet leggings. He makes pasta in a frying pan. When I was recording at his house, he had a "stool" for me to sit on, which was made of a burlap sac filled with wine bottle corks. actually very comfortable. I gave him some weed and pumpkin pudding for recording with me.

There are other interesting, fabulous in the real world people here. There's Peter who was on the Star Trek pilot episode, right there on the "bridge"! He's in poor health these days, but still holding on! He's got tubes going into his nose. And then a dj who is famous in Berlin, and his wife who has some sort of aristocratic title. They're loaded and sometimes have parties where they fly in dj friends for the night. Another guy who used to be a fashion photographer for British Vogue in the 70's. And then there's me, of course, the "rock star of Riondel". That's what someone called me when I went to a wake this summer looking totally fabulous. Any oportunity to get dressed up, I do.

There are other people who have mini fiefdoms, and they develop rock star sized egos, for sure, with all these people working for them, and laughing at all their jokes and doing whatever crazy shit needs to be done. They act like they are the center of the universe, but there is always someone just like them next door. I have worked for some of them. I have done some crazy shit. I had big muscles in the spring and summer.

We were talking about how the East Shore is like a mini hollywood, with all these personalities, and everyone gossiping about each other, as if we were in people or US magazine. It's easy to feel fabulous here. It's easy to develop a big personality. Lots of room to grow (no pun intended).

Drunken Strangers, by Stella Shaw

2008-10-26T12:46:00.000-04:00

Stella has a story about drunken strangers:

after our most recent school day (thursday, due to a pro-D day on friday, or as i call them, "ass-Dirt days" for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with anything) had ended, my good friend annora (who, i've often said, is like my gay lover except that we're both female and we're both straight) and my friend (who i am wary of due to reasons that i'm not at liberty to express because it's simply a waste of your time) alicia left the school building only to find a couple of drunk guys fishtailing around the smoke pit in a pickup truck, which scared the balls out of alicia and gave annora an opportunity to unleash her magic jokes about drunk guys in a pickup truck. we neared the smoke pit, but alicia convinced us to hide behind the fence in the tennis court next to the smoke pit so they wouldn't run into us, which was a kind of stupid idea because shortly afterwards they backed into the fence and stopped there.

I really had to coerce that story out of Stella. She thought I was being sarcastic when I said i like her writing. I wasn't. I'm not. She's a really good writer. Stella is 12 now. She ROCKS!!!!! The fact that she hangs out in the smoke pit does concern me a bit, though.

Totally Wires

2008-10-22T01:46:00.000-04:00

Here's the progress report on the Body Double album: Good. Today involved recording Del Detmar on keyboards and violin. He thinks he might be a better violin player than keyboardist. His um, "living room" is full of wires and old gear with tons of knobs to turn and buttons to press and things to hit to make noise. He has an ax that he plays, a real ax, with a string and a pick up, and it makes noise. it is hooked up to a box that tells him which note he is playing. very handy. I started off with a song in Dminor and when I told him what the chords were, he said, oh I've got a book about those. So, never mind about the chords. We just got straight to recording. It'll definately be a cut and paste editing affair, whenever I have a moment or a few hours or a week.

Piano Magic

2008-10-20T02:19:00.001-04:00

What a very interesting day. It's only now that I'm dead tired that I can really put it into "perspective". I went with Queen Bee to see a guy named Daryl play piano at a church I'd never been to, in Crawford Bay. I didn't know what to expect, but I thought it would be a lovely thing to do on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I'm not sure exactly how to describe it, the guy did play piano, but the presentation also involved letters emailed to him by one of his fragmented selves. These letters included a poem to be shared with the audience, and advice on what tempos he should be playing the songs at, among other words of wisdom. Some of these poems and words of wisdom I felt were directed at me, and I felt a bit odd, and wondered if others felt the same. Stuff about finding yourself by forgetting yourself. It was all very transformational. i had a drink with him and Queen Bee and a couple other people afterwards. Felt sort of like a groupie, but he wasn't hot or anything, i just ended up sitting beside him and giving him a hand massage because his fingers were aching from practicing so hard for the concert. Also, it made me want to go to this church. Not for the religion, but because the place was so pretty and it felt really good to be there. I may go there with Queen Bee some other Sunday. Oh, I was asked to play an acoustic show there sometime. I guess really soon, as I'll be leaving in about a month. Or maybe when I get back... hmm, we'll see.

On another note: There is a song by Destroyer called "I want this cyclopse" with a line in it that goes "it snows here in sasquatch country, where the criminal element runs free" and it reminds me of the kootenays.

2008-10-18T18:59:00.000-04:00

I learned that a grizzly bear has been snooping through my garbage. That's right, a grizzly bear. They're the big ones. The ones you don't want to mess with. Do you know how big their heads are? Very. I didn't actually see it, but my neighbour did, and then he picked up my garbage that the bear had dragged through my back yard. I was glad that it wasn't the garbage can with the secret stuff in it. You know, love letters from politicians and such. Now I keep my garbage cans inside the house. I have to wait "Till Tuesday" to take it to the truck that takes it to the dump. It's getting smelly, but good thing it's downstairs.

Andy came by the cafe today and said I heard you got two tickets to Mexico, and everyone knows everything about everyone around here (a bit of an exageration but not much) so I wasn't surprised that he knew that, but then he said matter of factly So when you come back you'll be hooked up, since everyone who comes back from Mexico seems to have gotten hooked up and I thought, hooked up? Makes me sound like a fish.

I made exactly the same amount in tips today as I did yesterday and that number is: $56.

Dance! Party!

2008-10-18T01:17:00.000-04:00

Something I learned yesterday: Don't wear nail polish while making pie crust.

Something I did yesterday: Danced. Kyla did air guitar to Guns n Roses, and Amelia did a Kid n Play dance. This was after a big turkey dinner. Kyla tried the Kid n Play dance and then her tummy didn't feel so good. I tried it, too, but my pants were too tight. Brigitte did a swirly back bend. Nobody did yoga on acid and got paralyzed, it wasn't that kind of party. Apparently that's what happened last weekend at the harvest party.

Today I did some more music networking. I'm looking for fabulous people to record with.

Well, this is my first night alone in ages. It feels strange. I really like people. Well, some people, obviously I don't like hanging around with everyone. I can only stand hanging out with very few people for very long. I think that's pretty normal. What I mean is: It's nice to hang out with friends and be creative. I'm going to have to go to Toronto to finish recording this album with Sonja. Meanwhile, I've got some other projects....

Mercury Direct

2008-10-16T17:25:00.000-04:00

This is great. Today I was notified by email that Mercury is "direct", which means it's a good time to commicate and make BIG plans. I booked 2 tickets to paradise aka Yelapa, Mexico. I went to Stella's school to return the printer that Sonja Ahlers borrowed from one of the teachers there, and while there, made arrangements for Stella to continue her schooling while in Mexico. Also, chatted with the music teacher about recording some kids singing in one of my songs. The song is sort of adult, has a line about doing a line and other stuff that would probably go over their heads, but, i think i will just play them the part i need them to sing. The teacher suggested we sing the song on music night, so there's a possibility i will write some family style lyrics... maybe "kill some time" instead of "do a line." The kids might like the part about the bi-polar bear cracking through the ice.

As I write this I am listening to Sweet Home Alabama, from the playlist on the blog of another Elisa Rose. I wanted my blog address to be elisarose.blogspot.com but this sweet jesus loving lady has already claimed it. Oh! Now it's I Love Rock and Roll! This Jesus loving Elisa Rose really likes to rock! Awesome! I just read a bit of her blog, and she says you can buy popcorn for the military troops as well as support her son's cub scouts. Anyways, enough about the OTHER Elisa Rose. Wait, one more thing, now her blog is playing Beat It!!! Oh my GAWD!

I live in Riondel. Or Riondhell as I like to call it, even though it's a misnomer, as Riondel is an excepional little town and I have relatively few complaints about living here. No gas station though, so I went to Crawford Bay for gas today. I also bought bacon, swiss cheese and a pepperoni stick. I'll be making a quiche for a family with a new baby, while I take care of their 3 year old son. Stella is supposed to be practicing babysitting, so I'll try to ignore them while they do their thing. I have a lot of work to do, anyways, like: cooking both the quiche, and apple upside down cake and roasted vegies to take to Brigitte's for a belated Thanksgiving dinner. Also, I would like to get some tracks mixed down and put on cd so that my friend Don Tambour can practice to it and lay down some some hand drum tracks. Oh, I am recording a cd with Sonja. Our band is called Body Double. Or Whitemare vs Riondhell. There will be several other guest musicians on it, including Dusty Rose and Stella B.

I have to re-teach myself how to post links and pictures and all that. It's been a while since I blogged. I'll ask Sonja.