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[Jun. 6th, 2006|11:21 pm] |
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Played with tarot cards in the cemetary tonight. Tehy keep on telling me what I already know about me. Imagine that.
Found two black feathers.
Got scared by a REALLY big big
Had a picnic in the cemetary. Turkey bacon guacamole wrp with chocolate cake that tasted like fridge. And mochas. With Dayna and Henry Zimmerman (b. i forget d. i forget) |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 6th, 2006|11:09 pm] |
The only object that I've ever felt i actually need
the piano
of my childhood, my mother's childhood, her mother's
offered to me
my time now.
but I know where things lead, lubricated by wine
rum
beer
vodka
tragedy
memory
any gift, favour, help
=potential anvil, debt
the piano is the ultimate
stranglehold
and i have to turn it down.
And I listen and love Tori's Beulah Land
grips me by the belly
And I know well
what my fingertips are incapable of, now
the sounds i can't make, now
my muteness.
What I trade for my dignity.
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| (no subject) |
[May. 26th, 2006|09:51 pm] |
I was supposed to go to Nakusp this weekend, but decided to stay home. Dave's gig is tonight and tomorrow at a really sleazy hotel and we thought that there was only one room provided. Didn't really want to share a flea-bitten room with five guys.
And so I stay home and feel ridiculous for being so screwed up about the fact that he's been gone for oh, what, five hours? Holy hell, methink to meself, I need to get a grip. Ah well, that's LOVE:
No, THAT was love.
I was complaining the other day about the cost of manilla envelopes and stamps, using that as a piss-poor excuse for not writing things and sending them out. Then (same day) I found a big stack of manillas on my shelf and $32 worth of stamps on the ground.
Hmm.
God said:
Stay home and write something, Lexi, instead of going to Naksup. Be creatyive and productive, you lazy little drunk.
I giggled in reply. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 23rd, 2006|08:36 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  cheerful | ] |
| [ | music |
| | old Elton John (Rocket Man and Daniel) | ] |
I LOVE ELTON JOHN.
Wow. Between Dave and I it's been three cars in three months. Cracked head, Axle, now Water Pump.
(burning out a fuse up here alone)
Damn.
We're getting sonme kind of cosmic spanking, and not a fun sexy one either. Also not a really harsh one, so whatever.
(and I think it's going to be a long long time)
The thing is, we can't figure out what we're being spanked for. I hate that.
(must be the clouds in my eye)
It started when we went to Vancouver. This weekend we're off to Nakusp.
(I can see Daniel waving goodbye)
Elton doesn't write his own lyrics. They've been written by some other guy whose name I forget and can't find since Elton started,really.
Well, Sir Elton wrote his crappy lyrics like the Lion King one. Best taste in tiaras though.
(till touchdown brings me round again to find)
(.Y.) |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 16th, 2006|07:22 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  discontent | ] |
| [ | music |
| | fiona apple | ] |
Well my radishes are up. Neato.
And my mom keeps telling me that my friend Les who died 3 weeks ago had a poetry website and it's still up but i can't find it for the life of me and i really want to see it before it disappears. He was one of my most significant mentors. The first person to straight-up tell me (not suggest) that I WILL go to grad school. It was an order. He was a war correspondent for Reuters in Viet Nam, did lots of other journalistic work, had dinner and drinks with Fidel Castro, all sorts of stuff. But he was in a bad motorcycle accident and lost almost all of his memory. Plus he was nuts (bipolar) to begin with. And I'm trying to preserve memories of him, through his poems and I can't fucking find them. He and I shared a birthday. That was magic.
Gone now. Fuck.
On a lighter note, I love my friend Lindsey. We don't see each other much outside of work. We're very different people, different lives, but we've been friends for about ten years, and it shows.
7:15 this morning:
me: "hey linds. How you doing?"
Linds: (points to eye) "puffy"
me: "huh?"
Linds "You were crying last night."
Only she would be able to see a physical sign of 15 teary minutes 12 hours later. Only Linds. Or maybe Dayna.
Lindsey's having a baby in about eight months. It's about the size of a kidney bean right now. I can't wait to meet that bean. Bean's blessed with a beautiful gal for a momma.
To celebrate Mothers Day my ma and I went up to Hidden Lake to catch frogs and tadpoles for her backyard pond (a gorgeous naturalized environment, with lilypads and moss and stuff, half wild). I caught one tadpole. She caught three tadpoles, six normal frogs and a little green tree frog. I'm shamed. Actually, i realized that I wasn't really trying, because I felt bad and wanted to leave them where they were. The next day i cheerfully went to work at a slaughterhouse, so what the hell's up with that? It's okay to kill chickens but not to relocate frogs to another nice little pond?
Holy crap do I ever need a beer. |
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| Maturing |
[May. 10th, 2006|09:28 pm] |
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I desperately miss the simplicity of wanting to run and that's it, just fucking run. |
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| No means (quack) no |
[May. 9th, 2006|09:14 pm] |
Mother ducky was there. I'm concerned about her.
Actually, I'm concerned about a number of female ducks in the park.
Mother Ducky is alone in her stump and there's no male hanging around. All the other girl ducks have mates. Why doesn't she? It's illegal to feed the ducks now, but who will bring her food if not me? Knocked up and abandoned. Damn him!
There also seems to be some type of gang-rape thing going on with the ducks. No, they AREN'T consenting. Multiple times now I've seen two or more males go after a female, even chase her in the air until she lands and allows herself to be pushed behind a bush. And who knows what goes on back there.
And yes, I do feel that I should do something about it. These ducks have been sold into sexual subordination. They must be liberated! They must learn to liberate themselves! They have been conditioned to hold themselves in contempt, have no sense of the worth of their own bodies, no...
Oh fuck it. Quack means quack.
Whatever that means. |
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| Crouching Trowel, Hidden Ducky |
[May. 9th, 2006|07:01 pm] |
I seem to be a gardening girl. I've planted sunflowers and lilies and peas and spinach and lettuce and radishes and green onions. And those are just the cold-weather crops (she said, proud of the lingo). Soon there'll be carrots and beans and kohl rhabi and peppers and tomatoes and four o' clocks and castor beans and more lilies and the chives and thai basil and garlic and morning glories and holy hell I need a bigger yard.
I've never been quite this obsessively inclined before.
Maybe it's because I haven't smoked in eight days and I'm desperate to keep moving. I've decided to be either a ninja or a samurai when (if) I grow up, and you can't have a smoke break when you're a ninja.
I have to go find a mother duck now. Walking along the other day, I wondered aloud where the ducks nest at the park. There are always so many babies, but where the hell do they hatch? As I was wondering I jumped up on a stump and nearly stepped on one right there. Right in the middle of a stump in Polson Park. So I'm going to go find her. I'll see what she thinks about my ninja-dreams.
Apparently I need a ninja name, though. Not THAT'll be tough. But I'm determined.
<img |
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| Dead Chickens |
[May. 4th, 2006|08:53 pm] |
Ah, the new job. The new old job. Sick of customer service? Okay. Dead chickens don't mind if you're cranky.
And a good thing for them. Because EVERYONE there is. It's not like back in the good old days when we would have skin fights and barnyard noise competitions and practice short-arm and long-arm cutting (although that we still do, but it's halfhearted). Blarg!
People who can't handle authority end up in positions of authority. Look at Bush. Junior don't know what tuh make of all them there dang Iraqis. Similarly, we have a new lead-hand on the packaging floor. Don't get me wrong, he's smarter than Bush, but doesn't have Junior's people skills. And wow does that ever say a lot. Yikes.
Today I thought about hiding in the bottom of a tank filled with small-sized (AKA starved) chickens. But they caught me thinking and beat me mercilessly for it. Ha! |
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| ouch |
[Apr. 28th, 2006|04:35 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | work | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  ugh. | ] |
| [ | music |
| | stupid local radio (why buy a mattress anywhere else?) | ] |
Well tomorrow's my last shift at this job I've had for two years. That's okay. I'm sick of customer service (you'd like WHAT at two minutes to closing? Of course. I'd love to). But wierd, wierd stuff here today...
The other day my boss miscounted the till, thought there was a hundred dollars missing. There wasn't, but he ran around paranoid for an hour before he re-counted. And he eyed me up all wierd, suspicious-like.
And then he leaves today and takes all the twenties out of the till "Just in case. You never know." What the hell?
You see, stealing from the till is something you do when you're 18 and strung out on coke and meth and you work for someone you hate, and who hates you. It is NOT something you do six years later when you work for people you love and drink beer with and have for two years.
I'm okay with getting the suspicious-eye in stores, being followed by undercover department-store almost-cops, that's just their job and hey, depending on what I'm wearing I might look like a theif. But goddamnit these are my friends!
And so I have to look at the fact that I count among my friends people who think that i would steal from them. Hmm. Don't know me very well, I guess. But that's the thing! they DO! They DO know me well!
And still think that....
fuckin' ouch. |
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| here-there |
[Apr. 25th, 2006|09:39 pm] |
HIM: I want to move
ME: To where?
HIM: Elsewhere.
Ah, elsewhere. I love elsewhere. I've spent a lot of time focused on elsewhere, overlooking here.
Here-there.
I used to work with a guy who said "there" at the end of every sentence. "So I was outside working on the Bronco, there." "Had a pretty good night, there." "So I says to my old lady I says hey why don't you come on over here, there?"
Here-there. I like here-there. A big Cherry tree is blooming here-there outside my window, it keeps bumping up against the pane. There. Here.
I love here. So there! |
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