so long downtown

A Dream About You

Keri Noble
I had a dream about you last night
I dreamed that you were dead
When I woke up I wanted to call
And get it out of my head
But we don't talk anymore
I made sure of that
But I'd give anything to hear your voice
I would do better if I could go back
I'm sorry for your tears
I'm sorry I never told you in all of these years
I didn't leave you like I should
I hope you found someone to love you like I tried to
But never could

I always knew that it wasn't right
To get involved with you
But I never thought that you would fall so fast
Got me to thinkin', “what the hell am I gonna do?”
But now you seem like you're fine
Like you've moved on with your life
But I'd give anything to talk to you
And tell you I know I didn't treat you right

You live and you learn
You build and sometimes you just watch it all burn

I had a dream about you last night
I dreamed that you were dead

Bachelor Party madness

went to bed at 6 AM this morning after my pal Basil's bachelor party last night. Highlights of the evening:
Going to spurs and watching people line dance
All of us sucking at pool, all night
The doorman telling us to keep our cigarettes in our pockets, not on the table, not on the bar (wtf is that about?)
Basil singing "Man, I Feel Like a Woman" at a sketchy karaoke bar (video to come)
One of my friends telling me something something he shouldn't have just to hurt my feelings- and me kicking everyone out of my apartment.

Fun times- until the end- but maybe we all get a bit evil after drinking for 8 hours straight.

No drinking this week- just packing.

Sarah Harmer, Tonight, March 28th at 8PM on CBC Radio 2

I have a bizarre relationship with Sarah Harmer. It seems every time I buy or download one of her albums whatever relationship I am in is down to it's last month. Then I spend the next three or four months attaching memories of love lost to each album, so they form a tight knit emotional bundle. Fun!

Today is also Cat Appreciation day, oddly enough. On this date King Richard issued an edict forbidding people from eating their cats. So go cuddle your cats and give Sarah a listen tonight.

Some things have changed

I get up now at roughly 5 AM and watch movies or listen to the morning news without fear of waking anyone up.

I don't drink at home unless I have company. Which is unfortunately rare.

There are mushrooms in the house. There is pulp in the orange juice- which is slowly being phased out with grapefruit juice.

When I am shopping I keep wondering if the measuring cup was mine, if it was left here or taken, if I can still make bread or do I need to buy a new one. I get home- look on the shelf, it is still there. I shake for a full two minutes in some sort of helpless thanks- this little kindness that only I perceive.

There have been no romantic fires (yes- in the fireplace- not in the kitchen), yet.

The bathroom faucet is continuously clean. I must be good at not getting toothpaste or soap suds on it. This is horribly anal, but sinks are big, just avoid dripping on the damn faucet already. It's a Moen!

My clothes and furniture are surprisingly cat hair free, already. Which is good and bad. The cat hair gave my clothes a "lived in", homey look.

Ah- and there is no poorly maintained reeking litter box over flowing.

There are only four or five pairs of shoes as opposed to the dozens that crowded the foyer. And that's ALL my shoes, not just the winter or summer ones.

I don't sit at the window wondering why my partner is six hours late for our dinner date without a single phone call. I'm rarely up at 2 in the morning.

I stopped making garlic hash browns to go with my eggs in the morning- it's too much work for just one person.

There's no more smoking in the bedroom so hopefully my clothes will smell better- and my bedding.

Right now there is also no Internet. The Deng family across the street encrypted their Wi-Fi signal and now I am a recovering Facebook addict. One of my buddies is coming over to hack someone's signal this weekend- so hopefully I'll be blogging more frequently.

There's no one to water me or stop me from being too introspective- except occasionally Ron- who talks far too much and is completely uninterested in my internal drama.

But I still miss her- horribly.

Westmount Louise- St. Marie or whatever you cal dem der ridings.

In 1995 I was living two doors away from where I do now on Tupper street. I lived on the bad, poor end with my buddy Olaf in a 2 bedroom student sized dive. It soon turned out to be cockroach infested and we moved in the middle of the night one December evening- owing a good 2 months rent and pretty sick of the landlord's abusive yelling at his young tenants. (And his thinnly vieled attempts to sleep with our female neighbours in exchange for a break on the rent...)

When it was time that year for the referendum on Quebec soverignty I had to go on down to the old age home across from the children's hospital. Which was nice- the seniors living there had never seen so many people at once and were chatting up the voters as we invaded their communal hall. I hope we hadn't disrupted their bingo game or some such.

So I voted no, or yes- I forget how the question was phrased at the time- put my ballot in the box and am now convinced that it was one of the 20,000 ballots from the island of Montreal that were "spoiled" and not counted. Fun times. I still don't think anyone has gone to jail yet for that and I don't think anyone in Quebec is making a fuss about it anymore. It's gone quiet. I'd shoot the fucker who organized that rip off of democracy if they ever found them...

Anyway- this time- the seniors are very helpful- all of them trying to give instructions in French and English on how to get to the basement of the place to vote. And their help was needed- very needed. Not only was it in the back of the building, below the parking garage- but was down a wet and trecherous looking set of metal stairs that I'm sure many an octogenarian has slipped on and broken a hip or wrist.

Poor old sods.

Once in the basement storage room that has been converted into a poling station- I am greated by all manner of freshly scrubbed election workers- all between the ages of 20 and 25. The first girl there is brilliantly attractive- East Indian and wide eyed and tiny- she is helping someone in front of me and keeps glancing at me and lowering her eyes and talking softly to the other voter.

Is this flirtiing? I've forgotten.

But her partner comes and tells me which cardboard sign I should go to and motions me away from her before she is done. I go and vote for the Green Party of all things- I'm in the Westmount riding and the chances of anyone but a Liberal getting voted in seems negligible in my mind. I could be horribly wrong. But the Greens need to start somewhere and I've sat in a returnning office and been on the receiving end of getting less than 2% of the vote. It is not a good feeling, and I thought this Green candidate might be a bit happier knowing someone is thinking of him.

On my way out the girl takes a half step towards me and says thank you. I smile and say thanks. My stomach is rolling around wondering what the fuck I am going to do- what my competing urges are telling me to do. I half pause at the doorway.

My brain says, "No touching the twenty year olds. Stop it."

My bruised and battered ego wants to, though, and is sending a warm smile to my lips and to my eyes everytime someone very pretty acknowledges that I am, yes, a rather handsome looking man with good teeth and good posture. And great hair.

My emotional state is also SCREAMING to me that you are in no shape to do anything but harm to yourself and others by getting involved in anything but a platonic tumble in the sack with any female- and even that isn't is so safe. You don't have a therapist to talk this through with, but TRUST ME- go home, make another pot of coffee and read Something Happened again.

I turn my half pause into looking for the way out. I ask her if it is possible to leave "via the parking garage"- she is blushing (she was flirting- she is attracted) and says she thinks so and takes a step towards me and the door. Points a direction while leaning past me, half through the doorway- she can smell my cologne she is standing so close- I smell blossoms in her hair. Slight musky scent of her skin. And ginger? Her eyes are flashing secret messages to my soul.

"Morin?"- her partner asking for her- (first or last name?) there are more people to herd into the room. She steps back- I wave a small thanks and head out through the parking garage into the morning rain, falling in sheets.

I survive another day.

Flashback

Day one in Saint John- dreams

I dreamt my love was married and living next door to me with her husband and daughter, Jessica. I, too, had had a child with her-a son, who lived alone with me.

Tracks in the snow of my front yard- a feeling of youth- boundless parental love for both the children.

Jessica is playing with her half brother in the sun room- hard winter light blazing in off the white drifts outside. I notice she has stolen one of my cigarettes and is mock smoking it, unlit. I confront her and she looks up from her crayons and doodles. Her face is painted like a model's- even though I sense in the dream that she is pehaps five. This scares me beyond any horror movie villian's mishapen form.

I wake up- my parents are are sitting in the computer room playing on-line word games- the room is choking with cigarette smoke. I want to get my laundry started but they won't let their thirty year old sonuse thier machines. I argue with my mother about what deteregent to use- she insists on using the powder with bleach in it- all my clothes are dark. And she is insisting I wash in warm water, not cold, as the hard country water does not "suds up".

We relive our teenage parent roles just long enough to make me feel powerless and her upset almost to the point of tears. Am I mad at her about the laundry?

No- I'm mad at them for wasting away. They remind me of my last three months of unemployment.

"What do you do all day?" my love asked. Screaming, crying- tearing my soul out- fingering the damaged spot inside of me so I have to look at. To acknowledge it.

My parents are waiting to die. I'm trying to wake up.

A few Condescending Spring Cleaning Tips for Students

I know, I know- why clean when your lease is up in May or July? Why sweep when your parents did it when they visited at Christmas? You could just leave the whole thing for the next tenant, or the landlord to clean up.

But, it is also exam time- and I know there are only so many movies and YouTube clips you can watch. What to do to avoid that final paper? Clean!

* At no point should there be a brown discoloration in the bottom of your kitchen sink. Although it is stainless steel, grime will accumulate on it. A little elbow grease and some Comet will clear that right up.

* Yes, you should clean on top of the fridge. Unless you plan on growing grass up there.

* Unlike your counter top, your stove does not have a "pattern" on it. That's grease- please clean it.

* Even though furniture doesn't move much, the dust bunnies under there are plotting to kill you in your sleep. Move the furniture aside and sweep under it.

* A quarter inch of ice wine, left uncorked for two months, is an excellent incubator for fruit flies, even in February. Rinse your bottles and recycle them.


Wow- this was way funnier in my head before I wrote it down...

4:10 AM

The wind is howling through the downtown core- whistling through alleys and gushing.

Reset.

No one out on the streets. Watching infrequent cars and taxis roll by my window while I sip an early morning/late night coffee- writing to-do lists for when I can make noise in the house.

Sanding, drilling- dusting. Sweep and mop floors. Wash walls, windows and mirrors.

Waiting.

Read that cat parasites can make men jealous and morose. (Consult CLSC next week)

Have my upstairs neighbours bang on the floor because I am watching The Transporter 2 too loud.

Read a dozen or more new blogs. (AND this made my day!)

No sweaty palms. No anxiety. I am home, alone, and okay, I guess.

Today at least.

Thursday- why always Thursday

Thursday is pretty much the last day you have to do your laundry before the weekend- especially if all your club clothes are dirty. Some men don't know what clubbing clothes are, let alone own any. They are clothes that you could neither wear to the office, nor to a sports bar. Clothes that smell particularly of spilt gin, cigarette smoke and cologne. Usually dark in color- with piping.

They usually have faint discoloration in the arm pit areas from excessive dance-sweat. No one will ever notice that, though, because the clubs are too dark 90% of the time to recognize people from further than 3 feet away.

Socks- black athletic socks that aren't too thick. Black sneakers that you can dance in for 12 hours that no doorman would dare point out while trying to enforce a "no runners" policy.

A secondary cell phone that you can slip your SIM card into that you wouldn't care if it got lost. That phone should fit easily into a good, expensive pair of jeans that makes your ass look OK and doesn't drag on the ground, getting under your feet while dancing.

A pair of lightly tinted sunglasses from the dollar store that will never get lost, and never break. The $80 pair you buy at the Sunglass Hut will get knocked off your head within the first hour of wearing them- so why bother.

One silver zippo you can find if you ever drop it on the dance floor. Black lighters, forget about it. (you can hear the zippo being kicked around and track it via sonar, too- even above the music. It has its own particular sound...)

One coat with interior, sealing pockets for the stuff you don't want to take into the club- like your driver's license/health card, maybe the cell phone, the travel tooth brush. If there is a good after party you may want to bring a messenger bag with extra shirt and socks and maybe some deodorant.

Hats- optional. But please- have some originality.

Drapes

My glaring inability yesterday to find any form of window coverings is a pretty good example of how non-functional I can be some days. Four hours and endless miles in malls from Guy all the way down to Place des Arts- where I nearly came to tears when I realized I should have just gone to the Zeller's near my house... that I hadn't eaten anything except toast for two days and that if I am having guests on St. Patrick's day I had best have some decent curtains up.

It has been what now? 6, 7 weeks? It is almost spring. I should clean and build that coffee table. I should paint a bit.

But all I ended up doing today was taking my dress shirts into the dry cleaners along with my new suit.

And eating pasta salad.

It is hard shopping for drapes. You have to measure your windows, then get rods that fit the brackets that are already up and will not come out. Then, most of the draperies look like something the Queen would have at her summer palace, too frilly and paisley for a young urban man like myself with a taste for hyper modern furniture.

And the expense! At the Bay I could have spent $300+ on drapes, just for what was on sale! Zeller's is not much better- so I guess I will have to go to Ikea. I may even get the exact same blinds that she took with her. They were fine and colorful and they're cheap.

But I bet I'll tear up for no reason on the long bus ride back into town.

Corporate whoring- 72 hours left

Until I sign on with another IT sales company, officially. I'm a bit frantic, a bit relieved and a bit skeptical about how much I will enjoy this.

Does anyone enjoy their jobs for ten years plus? Especially when they have to switch companies every year or two and accumulate very little vacation time?

Ahhh- people who believe the messenger

And defend them are a dangerous breed- here's an excerpt from the "discussion" Page attached to Dr. Dyer's Wikipedia page. The Dyer defender (who is obviously not a Wikipedia editor since they improperly tagged their comments) comments have been italicized for easier reading- but I have left their spelling mistakes intact:

I've just found this article and have not picked up anything, at least so far as the state it is in now, to rouse suspicion or warrant any lengthy haggle regarding the credibility of his PhD. I have read at least two biographies which list WSU and MSU as schools with which he has studied and earned doctorates (though of course, I suppose this is meaningless in terms of giving credence to them, since it is from me). Nonetheless, why is the neutrality box still listed? Maybe some subjective material was present in its past editions, but the article is obviously now free of any over-induldged opinion or weaseling. - C.J. 03:07, 10 March 2006 (UTC)

The article is disparriging - if there is such little information to offer, then why should an alcoholic father even be mentioned, for instance. The fact that it is so uneven and sparse in content is what makes the hostile undertone so prominent.

How is the article disparaging? The information that he had an alcoholic father is, I think, probably important: since I have read it was one of his primary reasons to do what he does (motivate). Other than the ugly neutrality box, it appears to me this article is in agreeable condition. If you're so intent on fixing 'disparaging' articles in Wikipedia then I would direct you to the Turkish Air Force page, where I think criticism of quality would be better directed. - C.J. 13:48, 10 March 2006 (UTC)


If you can by any means oppose to the peaceful solutions that Wayne Dyer's teachings explains in the most accurate and humble language, you are most likely to be a fanatic coming from a religious, scientific or intellectual ground who share in common to have forgotten that we all once lived in the spirit of a smiling child.

Childrens do not care or mind about diplomas or the credibility of the thousands of spiritual Schools born on earth from man's mind.They care only to regain their inner state of joy each time something happen that takes it away from them.

That's my interpretation of what Wayne Dyer is try to tell us.

The above comment is beautiful smiling nonsense. Gareth E Kegg 00:21, 12 March 2006 (UTC)

Thank you, but I do not see how any of that is actually relevant to the issue of the neutrality of this article. - C.J. 20:52, 12 March 2006 (UTC)

Nonsense for the heartless like you, not for those who understand the meaning of a smiling kid !!

Thank you, but I do not see how that is actually relevant to the issue of the neutrality of this article. Gareth E Kegg 12:15, 13 March 2006 (UTC)

and some new thinking about "fucking"

hooks later in the book quotes from Robert Jensen, about how men falsely believe that their self hood and their patriarchal sexual identity are "one and the same"- leading men to fear sex with an intensity that females often do:

I am afraid of sex as sex is defined by the dominant culture, as practiced all around me, and projected onto magazine pages, billboards, and movie screens. I am afraid of sex because I am afraid of domination, cruelty, violence and death. I am afraid of sex because sex has hurt me and hurt lots of people I know, and because I have hurt others with sex in the past. I know that there are people out there who have been hurt by sex in ways that are beyond words, who have experienced a depth of pain that I will never fully understand...

Yes, I am afraid of sex. How could I not be?

Not a sense of victim-hood, but a desire to do no harm, to not visit violence by "fucking." That to "fuck someone" and to "fuck someone up" are not that dissimilar.
That in our society, women who consider themselves sexually empowered still wish to "be fucked", that they consider acting towards their sexuality as men have been engendered to do is a healthy feminist goal--it visits a horrible crime on themselves and their very "liberated, empowered" sexuality is then sold back to men as a desirable commodity? And all we are left with is men and women playing out patriarchal sexual roles and a bunch of people "fucking" each other [over].

bell hooks

As part of my coping with this latest (and most traumatic) failed relationship I've been doing some soul searching that involves a lot of talking and lots of reading. The first book suggested to me was, unfortunately, a flaky spiritual text by one "Dr." Wayne Dyer, called The Sacred Self. (Note to readers of self-help books, if the copyright notice doesn't have their title in it, then they probably aren't a doctor except maybe in their publishers' minds...)

UPDATE- Dr. Dyer does have an Ed.D from Wayne State University. His "people" emailed me from the Emirates Bank International- I'm sure their lawyers would have followed if I didn't correct my oversight. Snarky comments will not be published, BTW.

Not being a fan of dualism (or of books laced with whole sections in point form)- I was steered towards The Will to Change- Men, Masculinity, and Love by bell hooks. If you read the link, hooks is an African-American feminist with some real teeth. She thinks feminism has become too academic, that the movement hasn't gotten back out to the community- go have a read.

In Will to Change she talks about the patriarchy and how it affects men. How it robs us of our emotional lives and sets us against the women in our lives. One of the striking sections that hit me like a hammer was this one, about a former partner of hers that had changed from a loving partner into an emotional abusive and foreign male- and (as she perceives it) the reasons behind it:

In the early years of our relationship he was extremely critical of male domination of women and children. Although he did not use the word "patriarchy," he understood its meaning and he opposed it. His gentle, quiet manner often lead folks to ignore him, counting him among the weak and powerless. By the age of thirty he began to assume a more macho persona, embracing the dominator model that he had once critiqued. Donning the mantle of patriarch, he gained greater respect and visibility. More women were drawn to him. He was noticed more in public spheres...

These changes in his thinking and behavior were triggered by his desire to be accepted and affirmed in a patriarchal workplace and rationalized by his desire to get ahead. His story is not unusual. Boys brutalized and victimized by patriarchy more often than not become patriarchal, embodying the abusive patriarchal masculinity that they once clearly recognized as evil. Few men brutally abused as boys in the name of patriarchal maleness courageously resist the brainwashing and remain true to themselves. Most males conform to patriarchy in one way or another.

While I was home my parents gave me a large copy of my graduation photo that they had made for me. As an eighteen year old there was a soft warmness in my eyes, an openness across my shoulders- relaxed. Now there is sarcastic hardness written across my face, I hold my body rigid and defensive. Afraid of someone taunting the gentle little loving boy that I miss so much- I hold up this barrier that is suffocating the things I used to hold dear about myself.

My intellect is a weapon instead of a strength. I'm physically repulsed by males i view as stronger or bigger than me- I typecast them as meatheads and make no effort to be nice to them. Somewhere inside I fear they will hit me. I flirt to gain constant reinforcement of my own desirability- but I fear being successful.

As I was leaving my dad gave me a big hug, teary eyed as he always is when I leave- and told me to go find that loving boy again- that he can be my ally and my strength. And I cried, too- and I will.

The double standard

If a male teacher was accused of having sex with a 17 year old student I would be furious- but for some reason I thought it okay back in the day, but this story did creep me out.

And how come all these older female teachers always get pregnant with their boy-toys? Is that why they do it? Are they preying on boys from wealthy families? Inquiring minds want to know!

So- I'm back

After 2 years :)- why you may ask.

I guess the main reason was I was dating someone who had a stalker ex-boyfriend. He knew who both of us were online and someone had tried to hack into her blog at one point- so we both seriously curtailed our online blogging to a certain extent. I also thought that the blog may become a liability in my pursuit of employment in my field and took it completely off-line for a while.

I missed it. I think she missed it more. I bought her a journal to write in but never saw her use it except maybe when we were fighting, or broken up. I liked her blog a lot. I liked mine, too- it was one of my last creative hobbies that I had time to do, that didn't cost anything.

A new acquaintance of mine asked me the other night, "Why put your diary on-line? What do you write about?" Well, anything- everything- Why?- posterity? LOL A hope to light some candle of "me"-ness in the vast hinterland of the internet? I don't really know why.

For those of you that are back, it's going to be a lot different, I think, this time around. My life is a lot different.

And yes, I will stop posting song lyrics. When your heart is broken, every pop song will seem to be about you- kinda like Billy Bragg says in...there I go again.

Thanks

A family tragedy

When I was in high school one of my close friends was in a terrible motorcycle accident. Jason was young, a member of the stage crew for my theatrical production of No Exit and was in my communications class. He was a bit of an "outsider" at school, just like me- not a preppy nor a jock. But he had lots of friends and was pretty happy go lucky.

The motorcycle accident happened on the way to Westfield, on the old two lane highway. His motorcycle (which he had begged his parents for since he turned 16) was a bit much for someone of his slight frame. Too big, too powerful- and one spring night on a dewy road he lost control and slid into an oncoming 18-wheeler.

Jason's best friend- riding as a passenger, was decapitated and killed instantly. Jason lie on the highway, conscious, his left arm and leg crushed and mangled beyond repair.

Driving home and coming upon the horrific accident minutes later was Jason's mother, a nurse at the regional hospital. Stopping to give aid, she had no idea she would find her own son- weeping and screaming, staring in stark horror at his friend's head lying two feet in front of him, unable to get away nor look away.

Jason survived the accident and I visited him the hospital as he was slowly and painfully healing. He was in constant pain for the first month and sometimes delirious from his pain killers. But he would often joke in the dark, dramatic manner of teens of the day.

"This hospital is great, but it costs an arm and a leg!"

Weeks later we were informed that Jason had died of complications from his injuries. People closer to his family told some of us the horrible truth. Unable to bear the pain and unwilling to face adapting to life without his left limbs, Jason tied a sheet around his bedpost and hung himself by rolling out of his hospital bed.

Jason's parents were mortified. Their house became a shrine to their youngest son, who had died on the motorcycle they had given to him. They never forgave themselves and their marriage faded away- and they became emotionally distant to their elder son, Eric, who had returned from university to be a grip for local production companies and the CBC.

I met Eric years after high school through my friends in the local theater. He was just like us, in his early twenties, still reading comic books and living in the artsy South End of the city. He maybe drank too much, but that was a common complaint of young people in the Maritimes. Eric seemed distant sometimes, and as I got to know him better, a bit manic. I had not made the connection between the two brothers yet.

One labour day our group of friends was invited to a house warming party for Eric and his girlfriend. In retrospect, I guess, no one went. Two weeks later we all had received late night calls or voice mails from Eric. And the next day we were told, he too had taken his life.

Buried next to his brother, his parents had treated him as a painful reminder of the departed son, and he withered into a shadow of himself. Unable to get the attention he needed, he choose to die, too, to earn the endless love of his mourning parents; to get his share.

Thinking of loss

Since November there's been a lot of loss surrounding my family and I. In November, just after I had left my non-lucrative sales job, my Aunt Judy died of breast cancer that she had been fighting for 2 years. Due to my financial situation, I couldn't go be with my mother for the funeral. But I talked to her almost every second night on the phone.

She was very shaken by Judy's death. She was my mom's kid sister- and they had been very close while growing up. But there were years where they did not talk, due, mostly, to the manipulations of their step mother and their younger half sister.

Mom has been very concerned that my brothers and I aren't very close. We aren't. I'm not much like my older brother; my younger brother, too. They are both very happy, warm, loving fathers to my 2 nieces and nephews- but their families and wives and in-laws keep them pretty busy in the Maritimes, while my studies and work and play have kept me in Montreal most of my adult life.

When we do see each other- I do have so much to tell them- if I can get them alone for a moment. I want to hear them talk about their daily joys with their families, the fierce passions that lead them to wed their wives, their satisfaction in their jobs. The softness of their mornings together. I want to be convinced that if my life became like theirs that I, too, could be happy. Could be peacefully contented.

I want to hear it so badly. I want something akin to their lives for myself- I want to have a home and be loved unconditionally, to have and be an ally to my wife, to have security and raise beautiful, smart children who love themselves and their friends.

But they never say it. When I do try to evoke the discussion, I get nothing but the Disney tour of their lives. We tour from one posed photo to the next.

So, I leave- distant, I fill in the details of their lives with cliches I've seen on sitcoms. I don't call them often when I'm away, and I don't send them birthday cards very often.

My mom had a heart attack last year, followed just recently with my father's cancer scare. I went to be with them for a month. And I saw that my parents are just as distant with my brothers as I am. They try, they try so hard, but my brothers are oblivious to the pain this is causing them.

My mom and dad are worried that once they are gone that we brothers will all end up as strangers- that there will be nothing left of our family- in any real sense. That we will be diminished without the loving, close relationship like she had with her sister.

I wonder if we have all lost out on something already.

Nick Cave- master lyricist

She Fell Away

Once she lay open like a road
Carved apart the madness that I stumbled from
But she fell away
She fell away
Shed me like a skin
She fell away
Left me holding everything

Once the road lay open like a girl
And we drank and laughed and threw the bottle over
But she fell away
She fell away
I did not see the cracks form
As I knelt to pray
I did not see the crevice yawn, no

Sometimes
At night i feel the end it is at hand
My pistol going crazy in my hand
For she fell away
O she fell away
Walked me to the brink
She fell away
I did not see her fall
To better days
Sometimes i wonder was she ever really there at all
She fell away
She fell away
She fell away

Can't sleep

It wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't been so in love with her.

PS- by james

You're a weapon of devotion
Keep the faithful entertained
You're a lover of attention
Found a way to pawn the soul
Disposition may be fetching
But the world moves on and leaves you far behind

I hear you, I hear you, whispering such gorgeous stories
I see you, I see you, trying to break free
You liar, you liar, you can't live the dreams you're spinning
You liar, love to be deceived

You're falling, you're falling, falling from your god-like distance
You're fashion, just fashion, fashion doesn't keep
You're sour, so sour, all this hope and trust is misplaced
You're sour, now you are alone

Walking on fire, feel the way the world's inclining
Walking on fire, hate to deceive
Walking on fire, now the world will keep its distance
Walking on fire, you rather than me

My son says, dear father, what did you do when the world turned over
Keep spinning, keep spinning, send us off to sleep
You liar, you liar, all your words are just dust in moonshine
You liar, love to be deceived

Walking on fire, found a place away from humans
Walking on fire, hate to deceive
Walking on fire, now the world will keep its distance
Walking on fire, you rather than me

Dear Heather, (or a McGill Ghetto Love Story)

Since I met you whilst we were both moving into our respective flats I have yet to have run into you at the dep-nor have we seen each other while taking out the Thursday morning trash...

I thought it might have been my aversion to your spider plant, which I helped you carry to your flat; one hand on the pot, one on my ethanol and OJ- oops- that may have been a turn off right there... but it seems you are co-habitating with a fairly rotund person- who I assume may be your slightly mental retarded brother...

But to see you locked in some sort of affectionate embrace this morning with this below 30% guy!!!!- this morning on my way to my Fortune 500 job at a fashionable, executive, and totally sleeping in because I did too much K last night,10:30 AM, ---I see YOU!! -tongue wrestling with a man who out-weighs you 2 to 1... well....


-well-

...I think it's over-

I mean, I've watched for you, every night when I come home from work and go into the kitchen, and you don't have blinds yet, and look if you are making martinis and searching about for olives-

I have some, and would have rung your bell---but no-


I see your slightly mentally disadvantaged brother all the time- pretending to barbecue in his garish shorts, hanging out his linens (are those really his boxers??? I have some diet supplements he might want to try! I thought they were part of a bed-set...)

Anyways- despite your bad choices in incest, I am still here next door- pining as it were- your red hair forever flowing across my chest, my hands caressing the birthmark on your neck.

Oh- and your mother thinks he's a dork- she told me last night- so call me...

J

On the raising of teenage girls...

Overheard on St. Laurent and Duluth:
"So- I don't know if it's related...but I keep breaking out in zits after I sucked his dick...so I stopped..."

Stopping may not help, BTW...

Parents of the world- please read on. Your teenage girls are a holy terror and are in desperate need of guidance. And so are you.

Teach your children to bend down at the knees, please- not at the waist. This will greatly improve their appearance when picking up change, their handbags, and other items at ground level.

If you are going to allow them to dress as sluts-in-training, and they are of Greek, Armenian or other Baltic heritage please wax their backs and/or navel regions. This is a highly disturbing sight.

"So young, so trashy, and soooo hairy.."

And if they want to go an "all ages" concert at La Tulipe and get super wasted because the bartender will serve them anyways, please write their age across their forehead in permament ink, and their address on their hand, so the cops will know where to drop them off.

Just because they want to dress like Christina Aguilera or Marilyn Manson doesn't mean you have to let them wear hotpants or get peices of metal shot through their toungues. They are still, mostly- I hope, children, and deserve a childhood of some sort before becoming some sort of twisted palette for MTV, the fashion industry, and Dow Corning Silicones.

When the Qur'an isn't a Qur'an

When it is not held by a believer, it is just a book. Only when one who holds faith reads it is it a sacred text.

How many people have used their motel room bible to cut coke on? Or prop open the window, much to the overall disabuse of the book as a whole?