botched friday night.

sometimes i Can't be the one to shoulder all the awkward silences.

thanks for the reminder, barron storey.

"You say that one cannot approve my mode of thought....My mode of thought is the result of my own reflections. it is a part of my life, of my own nature. It is not in my power to alter it, and if it were in my power to alter it, I should not do it. This mode of thought, which you condemn is the only comfort of my life: it relieves all my sufferings..., provides all my pleasure in this world; it means more to me than my own life. It is not my mode of thought that has caused my misfortunes, but the mode of thought of others."

• Marquis de Sade.
(rediscovered in tonight's perusal of the Marat/Sade Journals)

aahhhh...

well, it's easy to tell when a blogger with no television is procrastinating. it's called blogpatrol.
my phantom google-joker is now marrying me off to my co-workers via google keyword searches, it seems.
har har.
someone who's an even bigger time waster than i, obviously.
but check this one: "guy I'm dating" + "sex addict" + signs"
ha.
followed by "the worst storm in history through the world".
Better...
followed by "transferring the tremendous world inside my head into literature".
and we're back to a cheesey waste of time. welcome to blogland.

Goodness.

there were many things that linger in my mind about Goodness, which opened last night at the Tarragon.
but the one i woke up pondering this morning was the concept that perhaps people do evil as a consequence of an excess of Love.
you know, excess of Love of another person (infidelity)
excess of Love of possession (capitalism)
excess of Love of an idea/ideal (fascism/totalitarianism)
excess of Love of any one thing (addiction)
excess of Love of oneself/one's needs. (Inconsiderate/careless behaviour towards others)

and on and on it goes.
ah, ever a dangerous thing, this Love of ours. it makes culpability an ever-present threat.

the book of the play is out as well, and lovely, and printed at Coach House of course.
and i would like to say that though i didn't design it, i did help with the burning of the paper for the cover imagery.
(shrug) let's face it, my life is about small accomplishments and Gleeful pyromania.

stef lenk, accountant extraordinaire.

and now, this morning, with flayed limbs and a slight hangover lingering in my brain, i attempt to sort out my ruddy taxes for the last four years. you know, we all say money means nothing, and it's so cold and just a tool and all that jazz, but as i look through piles of receipts and records of employment etc., i have to say there is a pretty interesting reflection of my life in this world in these infuriating piles of paper. not to mention some synonymous indication of just how panicky and whack my existence has been for the last four years.

bodyworlds.

well. perhaps for people who don't sneak into anatomy labs this exhibit was Truly astonishing, but quite honestly, i wasn't as super thrilled as i thought i'd be. ok, it was COOL. i mean, flayed humans on ice skates, how can that not be entrancing in some way or another. but the fetuses looked like wax models, and i (as well as my cohorts) couldn't quite get beyond the lingering ego in the room, what with mister Gunther quoting himself on the walls next to Nietzche and Seneca and the Like, and signing his works like he could take credit for the human body itself. i'd post some drawings from the event, but it would cost me an immediate USD$5000, according to the waiver i had to sign. Ha.

supposedly the man never takes his hat off. i bet you his skull is flayed just like his work.

at LAST.

UPDATED. well, 'xcept for drawings from the last month or so. Yippeeee!

philistine.

"it's almost worth being one, it's such a great word"
- YE, friday night.

incomplete senten....

i was speaking with my cohorts today about this new project of mine to attempt to finish sentences, and the strange phenomenon that has made itself apparent, namely, that i frequently stop and return to my unfinished sentence to complete it and then move on, only to realize i didn't in fact have an end to that sentence in mind!

MR suddenly said, "but isn't speaking in incomplete sentences like speaking process? you are trying to figure out what you want to say and you speak your attempts to figure it out as you go..."

ok, HOW MUCH DO I LOVE THAT EXPLANATION for what is, let's face it, otherwise a highly unfortunate trait.

of course i was also feeling particularly, how shall we say, vocal today and deafened one and condemned the other to a visit to the ear doctor tomorrow morning. (sigh) sorry guys. think of it, though, if i was a sheep wrangler this trait of being loud would be very helpful.

ah like the autumn leaves, so too with my blog.

mopey colours to match my website. how clever and Geeky i am.

to the tenant below.

that would be me.

i came home to this letter at my doorstep from my upstairs neighbours, who i now officially love. i will quote some snippits and you, dear reader(s) will love them too.
(you have no choice.)
(i mean, you didn't actually have to read this blog in the first place, anyway. so you might as well enjoy your time while you're here.)

"Dear Maintenance and Tenant Below (that's me),
Thanks for the advice about the shower curtain. I was sorry to hear that it is still raining downstairs....It looks to me like a blind man and a monkey may have renovated the bathroom in the early 1950's; the work that has been done is substandard and shoddy and it smells like a urinal at a highway rest stop. It would not surprise me in the least if the plumbing surrounding the drain or the faucets under the tub is leaking when we use the tub... I'm not sure if it was the monkey or the blind man but someone built a removable enclosure around the tub out of plywood indicating that this may have also been a past issue. I'm really not sure I want to know what is under there, I don't think I can take the stress, but I think it would be really easy for someone to move it to have a look at the pipes and the conditions of the nether region under there. Again I am really sorry that there is leaking but I don't think there is anything we can do up here except buy everyone umbrellas..."

somehow, even if my bathroom ceiling caves in like it did three weeks into my tenancy here, at least i'll be able to sit in the rubble and have a chuckle at the pithy epistolary rejoinders quoted above, and know i owe my suffering not to them, but to the Complete Ineptitudes of Annex Property Management Group.

bibliophilic ineptitudes.

it occurs to me this morning that, considering how much i (say i) read, i rarely have much to say about books on this blog of mine. the stuff of books that is.
so i'll take a moment to make a few comments and pilfer a bit of wisdom from my most recent reading material.
last book completed (the other day): Beneath the Wheel Herman Hesse's second novel, about a poor lad who doesn't get on so well in the strict german system of fascist education/religious fervour. It was kind of an edifying read. I can imagine a young Hesse (I don't know how old he was when he wrote this) sitting at his desk fuming over all the rules and regulations and having to go to confession Again and throwing it all into this diatribe of sorts. It's pretty righteous, and a bit egocentric, which of course doesn't change in his later books, except to develop a more tasteful subtlety. Anyhow, I like him, this Hesse fellow, he makes some good points.

now i'm reading Animal Dreams. Barbara Kingsolver. mostly 'coz of the quote posted the other day, which has been haunting me since Shannon shared it with me, must have been over a year or two ago...
Anyhow. I'm not postivie about it yet. It's been a while since I've read such a meandering novel, and my tendency always seems to be "Get to the Point!". Also, the main character, some philosophically ailing twin returning home to small-town Arizona to take care of an ailing father is not exactly fodder for my devoted interest, but she seems to be this writer who will be writing and writing and then suddenly she just puts a gem in there. just suddenly. you're reading and reading and you think "ah, this is a pleasant enough story, it passes the time, something is going on, after all..." and then POW, there's a GEM.

i like that.

In my opinion, mountains don't move. They only look changed when you look down on them from great height.

googling.

i confess, i've kind of gone off this blogpatrol "what did people google etc to get here" and all that. but tonight is saturday night and i was feeling a little wacky after 5 hours of drawing bite-size thumbnails for a new hopeful project of mine. so clickety click, and for your amusement as well as mine, the last keywords googled that arrived someone at my blog: movies LCBO thighs practise.
of course.

gratuitous posting by a Loyal Fan.

click here for the captivating tale of La Muñeca (or what Miz Gloeckner was concerning herself with on my birthday). I Love blogs.

Besieged by a deadly virus.

well, i've been Duped into being sick.
it started wednesday night when a short encounter with the abode of an unassuming (and really very genteel) cat resulted in a Crazy allergic reaction that unfurled in a record time of about 10 minutes, and which i'm convinced sent my entire immune system forth in an attempt to save my swollen eyes.
instead of doing the clever thing and realizing the danger of unwarranted allergic reactions, i went to the Coach House launch anyhow and revelled my way through two glasses of wine before i began to suspect a creeping sluggishness from within.
it was at this point (I can only assume) that some lurking nasty cold virus saw it's chance and Pounced.
and i now Officially feel like HELL.
i haven't had a cold in years. i usually get a warning. Some itchy throat, fatigue, signs from god, you know. but not this time. it was a Complete surprise attack. i'm convinced our viruses have reached that point in evolution where they can think their battle strategies through. they've got the inside scoop, they've got patience, they've got timing, and they've got determination.
sigh.
this could be the beginning of the end.

when i was a little kid i used to have these weird hallucinations when i was feverish, of an expansive sheet of white paper, a chair, and an undulating pencil-drawn circle. I would somehow be standing on this weird paper landscape trying to negotiate my way to the chair as the circle got bigger and smaller and then invisible in the distance etc.
the doctors of course were disinclined to see these signs as indications that I'm truly Certifiable, and somehow i've been allowed to lead a relatively normal life regardless.
nowadays, (or nowanights, as the case may be) my feverish hallucinations were relentless spinning nightmares about film masking sheet grids and recurring page numbers.
tragic. truly.

HOLYMOTHEROFINDIANAJONESI'MGOINGTOSTARTABUSINESS!

right.
tuesday night.
last-minute thwarted plans to see an old friend, two other possible events, probably constructive as well, but i opt for the third, which is, an improvised retreat to one of the time-honored U of T libraries to do a couple of hours work on my latest creative endeavour.
a few hours later a phone call from Monsieur le Jp. a late show? why not.
we see atom egoyan's latest at the varsity and decide to wander home through the mist, because, you see, mister JP's iron horse (read: sturdy and time-honored bicycle) got stolen about four days ago, so he no longer has autonomous transportation.

we're standing at the northwest corner of Spadina and Bloor.
I'm complaining.
neither of these things is particularly unusual.
i see a man cycle by.....ON JP'S BICYCLE.
it seems that this TOO is not unusual.
something happens to my face, 'coz jp turns around to see what i'm staring at. simultaneously i say "DUDE" and point (somewhat uselessly, to be frank) in the direction of his bicycle, and he spins around and leaps forward to grab his said two-wheeled wonder from some greasy drunk man who is now loitering in front of the 7-eleven.
I'M SSSOOOO NOT JOKING.
for those of you poor things new to this fair blog, you may want to verse yourself in the events of 17th January of this year, when i too had my bicycle stolen, only to see the rapscallion that nicked it cycle by me less than two hours later and I got to reclaim the bloody thing.

of course, in very steflenk fashion, i had to shake the mofo off my bike in the middle of the intersection of bathurst and queen during a red light, and in suitably jp fashion, mister drunk man got off his bicycle amiably, insisting he had been meaning to give it back all along, and even pulled a red reflector out of his pocket and said "hey, i got you this".

REGARDLESS. all i can say is, i'm going to start a business.

on book marketing.

Miz R and i were discussing the fundamental flaws in book marketing the other day, and some doubts about its proficiency came up, nothing really new, but still worthy of mention, i think.

so most of the time book sales start with book launches. people read in public and those that watch them, one would assume anyhow, get stoked enough that they want to buy the book so they can go home and...read it in private. ha. the covetted result is the opposite of the event itself.

i mean, let's face it, us bookish sorts are not naturally attuned to sitting in large crowds while fostering our fetishes for literary consumption. that's the deal with books. reading is a solitary activity, always has been, rarely won't be.

so it seems so contradictory, putting a bunch of literary enthusiasts in a room, enthusiasts for solitude and quiet introverted pursuits, and hoping to be able to excite them with public displays of book, get them all riled up and assuming they can enjoy the same sensations from having words spoonfed to them from a stage that they gain from a cup of tea and a book in a comfy chair late at night.

R and I agreed that the actual saving grace of books was/is as intelligent friends in times of lonliness, from childhood onwards. to this day i see solitary figures sitting in public reading and frequently envy them, since i Know they are in perfect company, an accomplishment that sometimes i cannot boast.

it seems to me that books should be marketed as such: "Books: Clear and Lucid Company! Stable Things that stay put for when you want to spend time with them! Fantastic Inventions To Make You Feel Less Lonely!"

of course the fundamental problem with this tactic is that to do this we would have to start by acknowledging lonliness as a human and pervasive trait. It is a rare soul that admits to being lonely; those who do are very frequently stigmatized as obviously not worthy of company, for if they were they wouldn't be lonely, would they?
the difficulty we humans have with admitting such things, would make the buying of properly marketed books a shameful activity.

marketing books as what they really are would make them as shameful or clandestine a purchase as other strange and perverse marginalia* we seem so determined to keep fetishized and exclusive to classes of "certain sorts of people".

no wonder books are frequently considered unappealing or threatening by much of the general public; one cannot control anything that can be enjoyed by another person in solitude, and the thoughts/sensations/admissions it might excite.

not to mention the actions resulting from this. every revolution, even the small personal ones, has to start somewhere.

....
*subsequently edited due to an in-person lewd snicker from one of my readers about my previous comparison. which i feel proves my point quite adequately about peoples shameful derision of solitariness.
however, for (what i perceive to be) the common good, i would prefer that books never be thought about with lewd snickers.

bad moods.

let's face it, my bad moods are a fat bitch.
or a grave misdemeanour on the most accomodating of days.
but the one thing about them that can be of untold merit, is that they keep people from making demands of all sorts long enough for me to sit quietly and ponder my decisions about what and what not to do.

my yoga teacher at the paramount late on a sunday night.

"i'm feel absolutely sick from corn and chocolate.
i couldn't be more pleased."

one last tiny thought.

i think it was Barker who told me of a buddhist monk comparing the ego to a small annoying yappy dog at one's feet,

it was this i mentioned in our discussion about ego today, to which Rebecca responded, "well, the problem is, that one often attempts giving the dog bones to make it shut up, but the real truth is all it wants to do is yap."
SO true.

this year is going to be about ignoring the dog as best as i Possibly can. though i sometimes wonder how i got saddled with a great dane that screeches like a shiz-tu.

32 years, 1 hour, and 53 minutes old.

BLOODY FANTASTIC.

we agreed tonight that 80's music was/is/will forever be WICKED 'coz they were just So serious about their cheesiness. there was this whole cheesy passion thing going on in the eighties, but everyone was so Earnest about it. i mean Think about it, Bon Jovi "Shot Through the Heart", John Cusack holding up his ghetto blaster in "Say Anything", Molly Ringwald doing just about whatever she was always doing, "Jesse's Girl", Billy Idol's "White Wedding". they were all so serious and "profound"-esque. SO EXCELLENT. of course, this is all relative to the 90's, which was full of anger and angst and disdain, and the 20's (so to speak) which is so full of just plain depression, the 80's were GREAT.
sigh.
it's been a good night.

telling Miz Silver Slayter 'bout my latest oddities with my ghost, she's determined that he's obviously a literate old man with allergies, adding Winnie the Pooh to my computer favourites, rustling through my books (the latest noticeable occurence), and blowing his nose)...he's probably a highly appropriate tea companion.

which suits me just fine.

i'm 32. WOW. and i'm Exactly where i'm Supposed to be. WHO KNEW?!?!?