foxtongue: (Default)
Rise Up Fallen Angel, an imaginary exploitation poster

Rise Up Fallen Angel, an imaginary exploitation film poster.


Yesterday was a good day. It started fraught with computer problems, the stupid sort that feel like steel wool endlessly scrubbing against the back of your eyes, but ended on a high note, with a visit to A. that left me feeling better than I have in weeks, to the point where I caught myself beaming at strangers all the way home, waving a broken stick of flowers I picked up off the ground. Oh dopamine, how I have missed you. It's left me feeling super productive and significantly less like I've been crushed by steel plates. Not quite myself again, but a step in the right direction. I got up at eight and have been working on neglected tasks ever since, answering e-mail, putting away laundry, calling people, making plans, and continuing to tackle the broken hard-drives of idiotic doom*.

*First I could see the hard-drive, but not interact with it, then after Joshua worked on it an hour, it was discovered that the case was too old to be supported by Win7. Then, after the case was swapped, the drive, ostensibly a terabyte, refused to show up as anything but 1Gb, while the SeaGate software specifically meant to fix such errors has refused to run. Kill it with fire.

There's been other good news, too. Tony's going to be in town this weekend, up for a visit with me and Tamea, and staying here on Friday, the better for dancing and Saturday breakfast together. Apparently I'm being paid for my gig with The Short Story Long this weekend and my antique bureau should be selling soon, too, (see all my listings), which should go a distance towards clearing away my credit card bill and getting me down to Seattle for my NYC trip.

Unemployment has left me financially devastated this past year, so it will be especially delicious to finally shoot down some debts. To wit: EI sends me monthly letters, asking me to pay them back over a grand. ICBC calls every three weeks, reminding me to pay off $100 in fare evasion tickets someone put in my name while I was in Montreal. My credit card's maxed out, a slow death that one, used up on groceries. I finally did all my taxes, dating back ten years, (minus 2010 and 2011), but through the magic of interest, late fees, and general tax evils, even after living below the poverty line for a decade, I still owe them $70. It seems like the worst part of being poor is that the system is set up to keep you there.

But back to the good stuff! David was just promoted to manager of the Yaletown Book Warehouse! Not only will he be finally making a living wage, soon he'll be able to start saving to go back to school to be a primatologist. Related to books, but more personally, I got to meet Zsuzsi Gartner, one of my favourite authors, at her book launch for Better Living Through Plastic Explosives. She's going to be doing a reading at the VPL main branch on May 11th that I've decided I cannot miss. Also, the Dusty Flowerpot Cabaret is hosting a pay-what-you-can, tickets-only-at-the-door show at the Roundhouse on Sunday, 2 pm. Would anyone like to come with?
foxtongue: (b&w tony & jhayne)
Fido's nose and whiskers

Fido

Fido, David's pet rabbit who lives on our apartment balcony.
foxtongue: (moi?)
David


In an odd bit of unexpected news, a side effect of living with David is that Matthew Good has just posted/stolen (uncredited) one of my photographs from Dec. This both pleases me greatly and bothers me intensely in bemused equal parts. It's an odd yet understandable mix of reactions, and David has promised to call him today to rectify the matter, conveying as well my gleeful shaking of a tiny fist in his general direction for his unintended rudeness. Asked where he had found the image, Matt replied, "I found it posted by some chick on the internet." Thank you, Matt, that's pretty damned awesome. In fact, it kind of made my night. That said, all wry appreciation aside, I truly am deeply glad of who you are and what you do. You're one of the Good Guys. (And, yes, I'm totally digging the new album. Which you, gentle reader, may find streaming free at the top of his site.) I can't wait until you come over for tea, if only to introduce you lovingly to my nerd-smacking fish.
foxtongue: (Default)
theBonesOfJhayneLeaps
Tony illustrating a point with my picture and
a frame from one of my favourite music videos,
Elbow - the Bones of You
Video: Alasdair on a gigantic plinth in London as part of an art project.

Instead of going to Michael's office after work yesterday, I went to the shop and got stick-on blackboard for the fridges, (both the one here and the one in Seattle), and scoured my way through Chapter's cheap section looking for books about painting and colour, to try and better pin down what would be nice in the bedroom, (both here and in Seattle). I felt alone in the city, dislocated, as if my movements were an echo of someone else's long past afternoon, a pattern of motion left like a mark on time, waiting for the right kind of lonely to step into it to manifest.

Eventually I shook it off, bought bus-tickets and a slurpee and went home, uncertain what my plans were, not thinking about it, reading a discount Hannibal Lector book and wondering what I needed to feel present in the day.

Thankfully David was home when I got in, and about as aimless as I was, so it was we found a mutual solace in finally tackling neglected projects around the house, our new sticky tape blackboard our starting off point. We folded away winter blankets and hung art and mirrors to Temple of the Dog and Live until eleven at night, when it was decided that continuing to bang nails into the wall might be crossing the line from antisocial to fully justified murder. Much of my art still needs to be framed, so most of what's left isn't going anywhere until some future pay-cheque, but it was mighty refreshing to get a start on what's been on our To Do list since possibly last summer. The only thing that would have make the evening better was if I had a head full of hair dye, but again, of all things, that one will not hurt to wait.
foxtongue: (canadian)
via mshades: From Portuguese - Saudade According to Wikipedia:
"...a feeling of nostalgic longing for something or someone that one was fond of and which is lost. It often carries a fatalist tone and a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might really never return."

Bones and silk, flesh, diamonds, and suede - the sound of our relationship sifted through breathing, through waiting, through stumbling to a slow, crumbling end. Finally our slow unraveling, thread by thread, has dissolved us. It is no longer us together, us against the world. Our ship has capsized, not by a sudden disaster, but by the slow leaking of quiet depression, silent and heavy and too much to bear.

(I realized during my time away that I am done, that I can no longer hold myself static, that I need change. Even something as small as a declaration of stepping away, to feel that I am no longer against the wall, no longer holding my breath forever.)

He, of course, has been hit harder than I have, as I've been adjusting towards this since December, slipping away, unable to survive as an equal in a relationship without communication, as my increasing demands that he simply talk to me were set aside, excused, and our stone connections patiently eroded into sand. He began confessing only recently, began speaking in spurts and dribbles late at night, trying to explain, but it was, as many things, too little too late. Poor little words, stalling, halting, too worn out to dance. Yet, already, between the worst moments, we seem to be relaxing, finding space. He's begun writing, I no longer feel pressured. I have hope for us now, when before I was beginning to have none.
foxtongue: (feed me stories)
Over my shoulder, the message lands, beginning with "Happy New Year Lady" and ending with "My love to any animals frozen in your freezer." What else is there to reply but, "I love you too."? We were a disaster in Toronto. We've been a disaster plenty of times. It is okay that I am Atlantis. Yes, I can see the forest for the trees, and these trees are shaking, waiting for the rain that falls to break them, waiting for the day when your hand takes my hand and we run into the ocean, laughing.

The Queen has a YouTube channel.

I touch both my eyes, and hear the real question, "what is romance to you?" It's been a question he's been skirting, trying to fall into step with me, but not having any idea what I might want to expect. I dredge my memory, easily splintering a few emotions, and call up past relationships. Riffling through the options like thank you cards. The day I collected all the light strings in the house and taped them into a giant glowing heart on the wall above the bed. It lived there for over a month, crookedly falling down regularly, charming and gentle. The cookies I baked iced with naughty poetry, the candles I left in a trail like flower petals, she loves you, she loves you not, she loves you, she loves you not, something to count on the way to the bed. Notes left in clothing, under books, inside his wallet, inside the lunch bag. I like your eyes they might say, or you make everything worthwhile. A magic trick recorded at four a.m., exhausted, but glad. The chocolate I made, then left in a tin at the front door of his office, with a calligraphy note signed in invisible ink.

I thought everyone expressed themselves like this, moving through the world with poetry, an unspoken law, but I can see by his tightening smile, so sad, he does not.

SATURDAY

Dec. 8th, 2008 12:00 am
foxtongue: (moi?)

Hannekuweenmas house-warming party at Jhayne and David's place
(it's not our fault he wasn't moved in by October 31st)

365 days one hundred & sixty-two: being my friend

Saturday, December 13, 2008 at 11:00am - Sunday, December 14, 2008 at 7:00am

An all day non-denominational, costumes optional, holiday social and house party
to celebrate David moving in, with crepes in the morning, tea in the afternoon,
and candle-lit silent black and white horror films until dawn.

In regards to BYO:
Bring your own syrup, eggs, fruit, or toppings, bring tea, cookies, or pie,
bring flowers, feathers, or figs, whatever you feel appropriate,
but most importantly, bring yourself.


Extra guests welcome within moderation.

Facebook event link.
foxtongue: (welcome to the sideshow)
Southern California is Burning Again.

Yesterday someone replied to the Craigslist ad I put up regarding our old catboxes, (the cats have taken over the bunny-igloo litter-spaceship David brought over and will never give it back), and I replied, "Sure! Come on over." while sending David a note, "were they bleached or were we overwhelmed by other things?" The message back, "overwhelmed." So while I'm at work, feeling guilty for having David scrub the catboxes, as it was my chore to do, I decide to rectify matters I must fetch him delicious treats and chocolate while getting groceries on the way home.

(It's fully dark by the time I leave work. The only benefit to this: Keith and I watch the result of the four p.m. sun set from our seventh floor office window as the tips of ordinary architecture are suddenly beautiful, bathed in melted girl-music gold, while everything at street level is already a heavy blue day-crunched dark.)

Fast-forward to arriving home. I stumble in, ready to drop, heavy with bags of vegetables and canned soup, and then I stop, stunned. The apartment I left in the morning is gone, replaced by an entirely new portion of space. Everything unsorted that was haunting our living space, (minus the bathroom and the bedroom, untidy disasters both), has been shifted into neat piles in the spare room library. There are no more boxes to step over. The floors are clear, flat surfaces have resurfaced, it's a miracle. The apartment has been organized.

Summary: There is Not Enough Chocolate In The World.
foxtongue: (snow)
Karen and Par bring parenting to the best level:
P: So I'm ready to go out now, to get your Honey Bunches of Goats.
J: No! Honey Bunches of Oats! (exasperated sigh) Do I have to write it down for you?


The painting we started is finally finished, a week after it should have been. Hallelujah. It's not all finished, of course, but the walls we started have been done and that's all we really need for now. Our home improvements have been all one step at a time, one per pay-cheque, and now the Great Reddening has been accomplished, we can proceed with another two weeks of uninterrupted unpacking and sorting and shuffling things about.

(Until the next pay period episode of fix: a Weekend of Wallpaper! *music sting*)

Already the difference is immense. The endless bookcases have been dragged out of the hall and installed, clearing a definitive walking space, and some of the towering stacks of boxes have become rows upon rows of colourful, interesting books, engaging and pretty and, more importantly, shelved. Two of the mirrors have been put up, framing the still curtainless window where plants are now living, draped cheerfully over David's giant, smiling terracotta Buddha, the futon is bookended by soft, paper lamps, and my old chest of drawers, the 100 year old vanity, has found a new home in the livingroom, transformed into an entertainment center, as we fill it with our DVD's.

There are still boxes and clutter everywhere, but we're limping along, and it's getting better every day, though we took some breaks we took this weekend. Saturday, after a trip to IKEA with Ray, Nicole, and her new roommate Trevor, we went to the closing night of The Velvet Edge, the period gothic-horror Lovecraft play Duncan and Erin were in, and on Sunday we took two new friends from Portland out on the town for a best-of-Vancouver tour, (the Naam, Zulu Records, True Confections), before throwing our backs into it again.

Today our Portland friends are coming over around 6:30 for tea and a movie, (feel free to join us), so we're not likely to get a lot done, but I think taking an evening to just appreciate what we've accomplished will be exactly the sort of treat we need. Almost all of our attention has been given over to figuring out where to put pots and pans and what cupboard should hold what that we haven't had a lot of time to be social. It's about time we have people over. I'd hate to imagine what would happen otherwise. Terrifying atrophy. An inability to go out in sunlight. Possibly even pointy teeth.
foxtongue: (Default)
affirming


We held hands on the bus a lot our first day, as we travelled into unknown relationship territory, glad, fried, tired, and scared. As I said before, our trip back east was truly make or break. We would either come out of it with a lot of our problems fixed or we would come out of it as single people, ready to give up and go our own ways, understanding that we were just not that compatible.

Today we got up, and David made French toast for us while I processed pictures of our trip. Nicole came over, then my mother Vicki, then Ray, to share breakfast, to give presents, (I gave Vicki an orange keyhole scarf for her birthday), and paint the spare room. Our home is ours, and it is a social place, vibrant, with cozy pets and enough comfortable throw pillows for a small army of interior decorators to attack an encampment. (I have a bit of a problem, actually. I just can't say no to awesome little pillows.) We are a we, stronger for having been forced together with no escape, stronger for spending some days inescapably without any contact. Whatever uncertainty we had was blasted away by the proof of our survival. There are a lot of reasons we shouldn't be together, but not enough reasons or strong enough reasons to break us apart. Looking at him now, as he examines some of the terrifying things in the fridge that Karen left behind, while our friends are painting in the other room, helping our apartment become a home, and we all listen to my mad, wonderful ex-boy on the stereo sing and play an electrically wired cowboy boot, I'm glad he's here. I'm glad I found him, and I'm glad I found me.
foxtongue: (Default)
David


Taken from the bus as we drove through Roger's Pass in the Rockies, between Vancouver and Calgary.
foxtongue: (feed me stories)
Japanese Man Petitions to Legally Marry Manga Character

We've decided to paint the guest room library the colours of a Hypselodoris nudibranch bullock, but darker and a bit richer, leaving us with aubergine, pumpkin, sunflower mustard, and crimson red. Well, really, I decided and David took a look at what I was talking about and said, "No, you're not too geeky. That'll be awesome."

Which means, as Nicole pointed out, my apartment is beginning to unintentionally match my hair.

She stayed over on Saturday night and watched Ghostbusters with us, after we helped her emergency move this weekend, instead of going out for Hallowe'en. (Ray was going to help her, but he accidentally bailed, leaving her in a bit of a panic, her car shaky from a Friday accident and too small for her things, so I called up my mother and asked to steal her and her van for the evening.) The whole thing was a giant ball of sticky, fidgeting stress, all wrapped up in her raw and recent post-accident break-up that left her spending Friday night in her car, but my impromptu rescue thankfully worked out. David and I were enough to help haul things out of Nicole's a day overdue storage container, my mother's van was a perfect fit to tetris cram in absolutely everything, and her room was just the right size to set up her bed and neatly avalanche pile her things on it without breaking anything or making a mess.

Seattle-kilt Tony came by for a Saturday visit too, which was also a treat, though a less fraught one. We went for breakfast at the Pannekok House with him and a batch of equally fun-clever Seattle folk, (and David and Dominique, though obliquely, as they were one table over), then dervished our way from there to tea at my place, where Nicole had holed up to take a shower and decompress from her awful Friday of Stress and Doom. (You did catch the theme there, I hope.) It was nice. The four of us sat in the living room and played with Emerson the Emo Bunny, drank honey lemon ginger tea, and shockingly didn't talk about anything terrible. Next time I'm in Seattle, I'm going to try to make sure to see him. Next time, too, I hope to bring David. It's about time those southerners met mah man.

step taken

Oct. 30th, 2008 12:23 pm
foxtongue: (geigerteller)
Scientists record 'music' from stars.

It's done! It's done, it's done, it's done! Karen only has a few things left to pick-up, we only have a queen-size mattress to somehow move, and that's it. That's it! Even Remi's found a place to live for November. Tra-la-lee-lah-lay-dah-lee. It'll be all wrapped up by the weekend. There is, of course, furniture to be shuffled around, boxes that need unpacking, clothes that need to find homes in drawers, but it's all, finally, in one place, with no obstructions.

We sat on the floor last night in a puddle of clear space, mutually exhausted, (something I think everyone does when they move into a new home), somehow stunned, waiting for the soup to be ready, surrounded by boxes and upended furniture. Swamped by our day, he looked so tired I had to grin. "Welcome to the house," I said, "Officially like."

Already we've shoved the futon in her room and lined the walls with bookshelves, which opened up space, and the bones of our new home are starting to show. David has a job interview with Raincoast books today, so I don't know how much he'll get done while I'm at work, but whatever. It's starting, and that's positive enough. Plus, rock on Raincoast. Rock on.

Video: the secret lives of invisible magnetic fields.
foxtongue: (while I hope)
Stephen Fry's most excellent Twitter.

Today's the day Karen's moving out. I adore her to pieces, she's clever, fun and urban planner silly, but I'm terribly glad. I think she's going to be much happier living by Main St, and I know that I'll be much happier when my apartment isn't stacked to the ceiling with boxes. Once her room is empty, we can move the double-stacked bookshelves in from the dining area, as well as the fourty boxes of books, move the futon in there too, and get a bit of much needed elbow room. Thankfully, today's also the day where Ray and Nicole and David and I try to haul the rest of his things over, (except the Queen size bed, which we've put for emergency sale on Craigslist for as ridiculously cheap as my conscience would let me), finishing forever with the tiny purple room where he's been keeping his stuff. He will be officially Moved In, with no more popping back to Arbutus for another change of clothes.

With that, I'll finally be able to relax a bit, too, as David will take over a batch of the organizing and unpacking. When there's space in the house to move, I won't feel that every minute needs to be spent working to make it livable. (I almost cried, the other day, overwhelmed by how much needs to get done.) I can put that task aside and work on what matters more to my spirit and spend some time catching up on more virtual things, like processing my way through the vast collection of photos that I've been taking since Kyle generously sent me his spare. It's been prickling under my skin that I haven't even had enough time to make sure that I've got all our trip pictures off David's laptop, let alone take a look at them. Prickling with great prickliness.

Past that, not a lot's been going on. There hasn't been time for anything else. We're still sorting out what we're doing this weekend for Hallowe'en, trying to figure out if we can even pretend to afford to go down to Seattle, while our finances are smeared like jet lag over too many bills. I have en eerie premonition that we might not even make it to local house-parties for a spooky lack of bus-fare. Vuullnaaavia! We neeeed youuuu! Oh, for a beautiful and silent clockwork assistant to help us in our time of woe. "Where can we find two better hemispheres, without sharp north, without declining west? My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, and true plain hearts do in thee faces rest. Within twenty-four hours, my work will be finished, and then, my precious jewel, I will join you in your setting. We shall be reunited forever in a secluded corner of the great elysian field of the beautiful beyond! "

Diamanda Galas plays Vancouver Nov 29.


p.s. My spam is more refined than your spam. The latest subject line: "Lists for specialties such as: medical geneticists, neurological surgeons,psychiatrists and much more‏".
foxtongue: (so sorry)
SleepyCanSecWestJhayne, by Julia

"I made tea."

So sweet, I stand in the doorway, looking back over my shoulder, an image from last year, why do they all sleep like that? One thin arm thrown over their face, head attempting to burrow into the mess of silk pillows that cascade across my bed. If I took a picture, it would seem almost identical to pictures I've already taken, heart warm in my chest, smile a permanent part of my skin, the camera a friend and confidant, recording like I love you, safe in this moment, embedded forever, or as long as my digital media will keep. How does life repeat like this? So slyly, so quietly, to perfectly the same, yet with different props, a different body, another frame of mind over reference over history over name. The division of minutes a lie, fabricated like music to make myself feel better about getting older while staying the same. I want flowers to fall from the ceiling, red and orange, a snowstorm of petals to announce this is new, define a change, to create an unreality in the midst of the repetition, floral scents as solid as mist, as solid as my feelings seeing this, as I look over my shoulder to see him in the bed, arm up and over, time traveling stock still, a year ago, a different man, yet still here.
foxtongue: (dream machine)
A map of breaking news.

Prairie sliding past in the dark, giving the illusion of being in orbit, five feet above the ground.

David and I are back in Vancouver, spending the weekend entirely on house things - putting away our clothes, doing laundry, dishes, clearing out furniture, swapping out my monitor, putting up curtains, acclimatizing the cats to the rabbits - preparing space for him to move in. It's interesting, how I can hear doors slamming shut all over my future while we do this. I know, given all the options, this is the best possible decision we can make right now, yet still, it's unnerving. Whispers of change, of stability, less possibility of incipient chaos creeping, cheerfully twisting my days like promises. Bridges burning. A day-job, a live in partner, multiple pets. My number up at last, or again, depending. Back against the wall by choice, the blindfold thrown away, considering a final metaphorical cigarette. Sunlight.
foxtongue: (Default)
Scientists have discovered the monogamy gene.

"Nature is trying very hard to make us succeed, but nature does not depend on us. We are not the only experiment." Buckminster Fuller

Yesterday was my sixth month anniversary with David. To celebrate, we went for La Cafeteria for breakfast with Michel, picked up the now-fixed polished aluminum deer head we brought for Christine, (a bit of antler broke off in transit), did our laundry, had pumpkin spiced hot chocolate, went for a delicious pick-your-own-pasta dinner, met with Mélanie and Mike Kitt, then for pie with them and Michel, and decided to move in together.

Nice how I slipped that in, hey? So yes, when David and I return to Vancouver this week, no matter that he just moved, we're moving him again, this time into my place as Karen leaves for Main St. We'll be a house of two people, two cats, a rabbit, and a library. I'm strangely looking forward to it, even with the pre-knowledge of Just. How. Heavy. His. Book. Boxes. Are. No one's ever moved in with me before, not really, not for more than a couple of weeks. I've always moved in with them, the proverbial them, the lovers, partners, the boys/men. I think it's going to be interesting, and less of an adjustment than I might suspect.

Today we're getting on a train to Toronto with the glorious Christine, who last night came home from work dressed as a sexy ninja, because that is how awesome she is. Once there, we'll be meeting up with my fellow-monarch-in-bad-timing Shane Koyczan, who just happens to be in Toronto this weekend, and painting the town some sort of appropriate colour, as I glory in being home for a weekend.

For the double-plus, Nuit Blance is running this weekend, so the current plan is to hang out glorying tonight and most of Saturday, then spend as much of Saturday night as humanly possible wandering the all night arts festival with Shane and the funtastic duo that is Zaiden, Will and Mellissa, before breakfasting somewhere delicious and catching an early Sunday morning bus west, back towards Vancouver.
foxtongue: (have to be kidding)
Heisenberg, Goedel, and Chomsky walk into a bar. Heisenberg says, "From the fact that we are all here I can infer that this is a joke, but cannot determine whether or not the joke is funny." Goedel says, "No, we can't tell if the joke is funny because we're inside it, if we could observe ourselves from outside, we would know." and Chomsky just shakes his head sadly. "No, no," he says, "The joke is funny. You're just telling it wrong."

Language source root map.

Crossing the park outside the train station to buy our tickets back east tonight, the night smells like dark, warm grass and marijuana under the broken lights. A man on a park bench to my right sings a snatch of song as I pass, though with a falsetto woman's voice, sweet, light, as if they were secretly a ten year old girl in a ratty disguise of fourty years of hard drinking. Inside the train station, I don't see David, who's to meet me here. The building is mostly empty, the sort of vast space which hushes conversation, forces everyone to talk a little quieter as if our voices might be swallowed by the square footage if we were to speak too loud.

I walk past the bench with a young dreadlock-attractive couple, the sort that are nationally recognized as being from British Columbia. They both look like they should live starring on Folk Festival posters, but a little more tired, a little more worn around the cuffs of their sweaters and indian cotton shirts. The next bench only has a studious young man all in black, with a pair of new wing tip shoes in a box resting next to him. I sit on that bench, after pinning him on my mental map as the least likely to talk to me, and take out my book instead of strike up conversation. David has thirty-five minutes to arrive with our cash, and then the discount on our tickets will vanish.

The clock ticks..

After every page, I look at the clock, trying not to fret, but thankfully, it all works out. David arrives with our money, the man behind the counter apologizes for the flawed website and the terrible help-desk women who hung up on simple questions, explaining that the help desk offices are located in Dallas, Texas, Nova Scotia, and Bangladesh. He is generous, kind, and completely helpful. (Thank you man-behind-the-counter, you're excellent.) We buy our tickets, I shake his hand, and we walk off into the night, three minutes to spare.

Wagons ho, we're going on the 18th.
foxtongue: (have to be kidding)
Anyone want a chandelier? How about a lamp? Please?

The weekend was spent moving David from his cave apartment of the mysterious smells to a pleasantly crooked #9932CC-darkorchid room in an old heritage style house on Arbutus street, right across the street from the Ridge Theater. It was an alright move, as such things go. Nothing irreplaceable was broken, nothing precious was lost. It involved many, many boxes of books, one might say too many, really, a veritable library of books, and little else. Some clothes, some furniture, two rabbits, but mostly boxes and boxes of books. I drew a floor-plan before we moved anything, so the chaos was almost instantly organized. Already it's a habitable room, minus the stuffy proximity of the rabbits, who are currently living under the desk. I feel I should be proud of what I accomplished, though right now I'm too tired, too worn out, and too absently annoyed at my life. (I'm not sure I would date the man who would bring me back to that room.)

My house remains untidy, though order has been emerging in leaps and bounds. It's possible to see how nice it will look when everything is done, which is new, as before I would examine the apartment and see only disaster. Boxes of extra kitchen stuff, old clothes, and unwanted books have left, either given away to friends or donated, and what's left is shrinking almost daily as we recycle, sort, and dispose of what we don't need, want, or could possibly use. It helps, too, that our landlord has finally given in and provided our building with recycling. Where there were piles of folded cardboard and plastic containers, now we have floor-space. It's almost novel. I'm only sorry I won't be able to finish everything before I leave for back east.

I'm packing too much into too little time, with too little money, and not enough resources, yet somehow, I plan to survive. To start with, my next two weekends are going to be spent in Seattle. This weekend, I'm biking down with my mother to visit with Kyle "freaking" Cassidy, (who has just proved himself to be utterly fantabulous YET AGAIN), and his lovely beau Trillian, who are in for a wedding, and next weekend I'm going down with Nicole to shot-gun shoot at hipsters with Eliza, who has an art opening. Then, I'm gone for two weeks as I travel by bus to Montreal and Toronto and pray to whatever is available that I'll manage to pay for it all and still be able to eat.

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