Sleep

Another shitty night of insomnia-driven self-reflection. Now I'm tired and depressed....I think I should make an effort to like pills a little more, but that just raises more issues of what I should be relying on, if anything. I passed the wee hours reading accounts of highly depressive people's suicide attempts on the internet--I was bored and really, it was either that or read all about celebrity eating disorders/drug abuse. I swear, it was a tough decision (I'm sure), but if I get to the point where I'm tired enough to start plastering celebrity-type images on my fridge, I think I'd rather just take the fucking sleep pill and pass out for a solid 8 hours. At least, if my mind starts giving me (what now appear to be expected) awful thoughts, said thoughts will be restrained within the confines of sleep and muscle relaxant (you know, to prevent any incidences of murder by somnabulism). It's a nice thought, actually. Sleep could provide me with (the apparently more) constructive habits, like regular dreaming, which would maybe (?--or am I just romanticizing the concept of dream--I should re-read Casteneda) help me not feel so fucking cynical and repulsed. I feel too young to be so bitter and it just isn't cool anymore.

Knowing me though, I'd probably have another nightmare.

I think I want to drink a bit tonight.

Dumb Mute

Everytime I try to write it just doesn't work out--Why--Only I can say why. And now here I sit and my vocabulary won't allow me to say what I want to say.

Today in class we talked about how literature and language is so closely connected as far as aboriginal stories are concerned. Because their tradition is oral, translation in English is, as my prof says, like kissing someone through a veil. Close, but too much is lost in the translation to actually like it, or get the meaning the story teller and those who understand his language, understands. I thought that was a pretty nice analogy, kissing someone through a veil. Being who I am, I immediately got off track and silently sat there thinking not of native literature, interesting as it is (it is!), but rather of the secrecy we all feel so compelled to keep from those closest to us.

Someone can know you, or think he/she does, and you can feel like they do too, but really, it's simply yet another case, like all previous such cases, of testing the limits. How close is just too damn close? How many hours can one actually spend in the company of just one other person before slinking out the door on potentially false pretenses? For someone with no connection to the mob, a secret lover on the side, or a job as a private investigator, this avoidance of actual time and intimacy in the closest of relationships, simply will not do. Stick to the surface. Please, don't be superficial, but can you make it quick?

I read this back and feel awful. But that's how I feel (awful?) and I guess i simply cannot have it any other way.

Really bad headache..Took a Nytol in the tub. Need to sleep. Listening to "A is for Accident" by the Dresden Dolls...

Contact

She slowly and carefully crossed her legs

All the while watching him from

the corner of her eye.

She grazed every inch of his body with

the tips her lashes

(You know how it goes).

Ernest and gawking she says,

"Friend come home with me,"

or

"I'll take the couch."

I'm tired of taking the bus and having nowhere to look and so, inevitably I watch people, looking quickly away when they watch me back. Yes. I practice human contact through the most awkward of gestures and I'm sure I've made many people nervous or at the very least, annoyed. This is the easiest way to observe others as very rarely do you ever need to actually speak to your targets (unless they're confrontational). I realize it's not always pleasant to be caught staring, but if you're good at what you do, you can generally manage to quickly blur your field of vision with a glassy, empty looking gaze, verging on the pretense of deep philosophical thought (or drugs). I look but do not see, say your eyes straining to avoid any focal point whatsoever. It may seem to some like yet another mundane daily occurence that everyone occupies themselves with from time to time--and to most extents it definitely is. However, try as I might to avoid some of the thoughts I have, it occurs to me often that we come into contact with enormous amounts of people every day...We pass countless individuals on the street, at school, in stores. They clog shopping centres, and congest hallways. They occupy the same space as me and sometimes, whether by circumstance or interest, eye contact will be made, just for a second. Most likely, I'll never see this person again. It seems only natural to me to study faces on the bus, you know, just in case. Future refence.

Day after day, I see the same people, older women with tired looks and clotted, black mascara on the 5 o'clock bus commuting home (I would assume). They read romance novels; their gaze intent on the page--truth is, they don't know where to put their eyes either.

I don't know what it is about women and romance novels...Personally, I've never bothered to take them seriously, rolling my eyes in dramatic gestures, smirking my cynical, judgemental little smirk (which even I begin to weary of), turning a deaf ear to reason at the mention of Danielle Steele. Lust I think, somewhat condescendingly as I see the paperbackcovers with their cheesy paintings of long haired, open shirted men.

Then I think that lust, as riduculous as romance novels seem to me, is rather an addiction for the lonely who feed their hearts with remnants of romantic possibility. Minds charged with painful desires and memories of intense embrace. Lame, I think. The fact that my hostile, antisocial little mind thinks this depresses me most, however. I'm not sure I've ever felt a great deal of want for anybody. Admiration for certain people, their appearance, mannerisms, and such have not gone unrealized, true, but never quite so that I feel a need to let said person into my world, make a habit of letting them share my bed, or use up my toothpaste. Certainly not. Maybe 'I just don't want to feel anything anymore'. --Is this a phrase coined for people who have actually felt?--or am I also eligible to utter such an atrocity? In some of my more worried moments I wonder whether I've simply fallen for the appeal of loneliness and the sad sort of freedom it offers...("in love with my sadness?"--SP), like, me against a world that's paired off and are sitting on the couch, making out.

Ugh. Quite simply, ugh.

I am so sick and tired of the same old things over and over again. This city is getting me down. Highly lacking. I refuse to go out and "enjoy" Ottawa nightlife anymore and people think there's something definitely wrong with my social skills--Perhaps those who judge my character are deluded, but given the intense annoyance I feel for most strangers from the get-go these days, I'll leave the question open for further speculation. It's like how in almost all North American cities, there'll be a strip of megastores (Loblaws, McDonald's Chapters, Payless, Shopper's DrugMart, Second Cup). You drive for 10 minutes before the eerie notion occurs that you've arrived in your place of departure. Except, instead of Second Cup and McDonald's, there'll be a conveninetly located Starbucks and Burger King, respectively, to serve all your caffeine and meat/garbage related needs. This, is what Ottawa's nightlife is like.

Clubs, with the same god awful, 'please-molest-me-as-I grind-up-against-some-stranger's-hip,' "music" deafen and upset the inexperienced, while girls sometimes pretend to make out with their best friends in order to attract guys who are so programmed by the media to think that because Maxim tells them so, 'Hot girl-on-girl" action is desirable to x percentage of men. Ergo, not becoming aroused and a) Copping a feel or b) Making conversation with the alleged lesbians in the hope they'll be accepting of a third, male companion, ultimately threatens their identities as good, heterosexual, predominately college males wearing over-priced hip-hop apparel.-- Because a) They have no sense of personal fashion, or b) It coincides with the aesthetic of barely there tank-tops laced with J-Lo inspired sequins, and ass-cleavage revealing parasucos that so charmingly allow hip pudge to spill over the sides, like an awkwardly made vase/kiln explosion.

It makes me miserable that the world is drowning in fluff (mostly pink). And being wholly repulsed by this (and hopefully, therefore, immune to it), I refuse to be here when the last of us get sucked in. But where, really, can I go....?

Expectations

MSN bugged out on me, so now, hours later and realizing that anyone who was still awake at 1:30am is most certainly asleep, I've decided once more to blog.

I'm a little concerned about the whole idea of keeping a sort of journal online. I know that it doesn't really matter, I certainly don't mind who reads it, it's really more the fact that I'm definitely the sort of diarist who writes inconsistently and generally while in the thralls of some sort of maudlin--worse is that said maudlin worms its way, coil by repulsive coil into my brain, shape-shifting beyond my control into nostalgic sentimentalities and cliches beyond even my extremely low level of tolerance as far as 'annoying' goes. If anyone reads this...know that you've been warned..I fear, for the most part that this journal is going to then end up a sort of compilation of late night ramblings soaked in self-pity and reeking of exhaustion, if of course it smelled (see, unclever wordplay about how my blog stinks). Whatever, I guess I just feel the bruising pressure of expectation staring to creep in on me and am currently engaged in a sort of mad scramble to "Fix it!", make things a bit easier, more organized, before I realize to my horror, that I've simply run out of time, that there are no more available hours and that the 78 minutes I spent staring at a hangnail (or something equally inane) is non-refundable.

It is not really a wish of mine to merely do nothing. That would seem pointless. I know people who've achieved their goals, and seem alright, satisfied. A job that pays the rent, food, pot, beer, cable. 'Nicegreattvisfunnyohnonotanotherrealityshowhahaahah'....I get almost manic, have a drink and cut my visits short, fearing what come to pass if I don't sober up and return to my apartment and read my textbooks from midnight to 6 in the morning...like a sort of gasping sprint to make up for time lost in blatant procrastination...

I used to be much more diligent, "A conscientious student." I organized everything by date, handed things in weeks early, suffered crippling send-me-home headaches if I failed to be the best...I really didn't have a lot else. So it seemed to make sense at the time. I have no idea when indifference fogged my perfectionist vision. Somewhere between CEGEP and University? I can't remember the last time I worked more than 2 days on an essay due in (precisely) 2 days. Not to say that I haven't done well, but even comments from profs exclaiming in block letters and bad writing that I've clearly put a lot of time into something, does not send me into a fit of self-satisfied and yet, so, so sneakily self contained glee in my ability to bullshit my way through school...I feel lately like I am being deceptive, but people see me as some sort of thing or another and who am I to ruin their fucking expectations...? I wouldn't want to say something out of character...Perhaps I've gotten myself in too far. Any alteration from the expected would result in me, having to explain myself to people I don't want to talk to in the first place, but being easily embarrassed and inarticulate in stressful social situations, I usually mutter something about being tired, clutch my scribbled on cardboard coffee cup liner a bit tighter and skip outside for a breath of smoggy air and nicotine...This is, essentially, so Aletha...so much Aletha all at once, I've overloaded their pathetic little linear thinking minds and they become confused as to why they ever thought I was acting out of the norm-- garrulous, optimistic, wistful, flirty even. A trick the mind plays. A full moon (lunatics can't resist). Something in the water. 'Buy bottled. Not Dasani.'

And so, repulsed with myself for being influenced by others, but consoled by the fact that 'they' appreciate and wish for a static me, I often end up in ironic situations where I contemplate self-love and self-hate, and wonder which would be preferable, or if they're even that, that different in the first place. And so, with a little annoyance, I remain myself (because though it's far too tiring, I don't tend to find a lot of other options--unless of course I start developing personae, speaking in tongues, and hushing up when the mental health officials pay me a house call)...Yes, I remain myself, it's true...But to what end?!

Yes, people expect too much. People expect you to smile when you work, which seems strange, very strange to me..People at work tell me all the time I look miserable, a little unwell. Can't I smile a bit..? This makes me uncomfortable. I hardly regard the disturbingly frequent amounts of ice cream people consume year round human and when one of the said purchasers of 21oz of cheesecake flavored dairy sludge ($4.82) tells me I look ill and yet, still wants me to bare my teeth in a show of compliance, acceptance of society's obsession with gratification by any means, I feel incredibly digusted by said request. A circus side show expected to perform. My lower lip quivers out of sync with the twitch in my left eyeball. It's the best I can offer. I generally remain stony-faced, tell them I've had a 7 hour shift and haven't yet managed to take my 15 minute break and would they like a bag or a second spoon? If they leave a tip I feel like a charity case beggar with her legs lopped off (scooting around on a plank with rollerskate wheels, rusty, no less) by some freak occurence or injustice...I hate my job and I hate working with people who want. I wrote my letter of resignation a couple of days ago, after (not really) trying for 2 full years to imitate the chipper intonations ("HIiiiiii therrrrre....Can I help youuuu?) of my pony-tail wearing coworkers...My last day is October 6th...

I hope that with all the free-time, this feeling, the void, willl be filled, that I can write, draw, socialize on my own time, not rush. I want to feel conscientious again. Creative. I miss the feeling of (and this sounds incredibly dorky, but it's true) textbooks at school that are simply too hard to put down until they are read, complete with immaculate handwritten notes. Maybe this is an avoidance of some other more pertinent issues, regression at a certain level, but it seems like a highly compelling if a little obsessive place to be right now.

I expect the sky to stay the same, a constant in an uncertain world, which is sort of strange considering its lack of order, its polar flare-ups, its manic depressiveness. I felt sick today because I had a headache and didn't want to go to work. As I was walking to the bus stop, I felt like I might pass out from the pressure on my temples and the edges of my vison kept changing--shrinking, growing--as I looked upward. It was tilted and far too wide, the rain didn't help. It seemed unpredictable as hell and my doubts made me open my book on the bus and try not to be carsick.

Introitus

I don't know why I'm blogging. Maybe I'm lonely. Maybe one day something will happen to me and they'll say I never made an effort to reach out to humanity, but then, the few people I've allowed to read this journal will inform them that no, I kept a blog, and the officials will immediately unroll their eyes and see me in a whole new light. I don't care who reads this. Very few people know me anyway. It's almost funny (and I say almost, because my laughter would be kind of forced and you'd know it) that by reading things I have to say here, people I'll never see will know me better than people I converse with in the day to day existence I occassionally call my life (if grudgingly so).

I'm kind of down today. My dog (a Bernese Mountain dog named Buddah) just died of bone cancer at age 6...He went to sleep under the apple tree and my mother has hired a backhoe to dig a hole big enough for his massive body in the rocky land (too hard to dig by hand) where he died. I despise myself for thinking that this is almost picturesque. Kind of like, it's better than a hospital bed. He went without warning, no one crowded him in his final days, he died by himself, left alone to do his thing like he always wanted to do. I think I have terribly romantic notions about death. Images of falling apple blossoms were coming to mind while my mother was telling me what happened, through tears, on the phone today...I hate to hear her cry. I hate to hear anyone cry. I don't think it's any sort of weakness in people, but when it comes to myself, I'm more harsh, I think. I just never know what to say. I think, truthfully though, the problem is that people are sometimes comfortable enough with their emotions to allow me to see them at an unpleasant time..I can never allow for this in myself. A lot of people must think I lack compassion. I don't, not really. I just don't think I've ever allowed for anyone to return the favor..

I think I’ve become far too inward lately, and for someone like myself, who is primarily introspective, more silent self-examination, criticism and neurosis isn’t necessarily a good thing.

I think I am too often surrounded by negativity…my family is generally miserable, far too shrill or far too quiet, nitpicking, analytic. My friends from high school who are still in my home town keep killing themselves or hurting themselves and going home is far too horrible for me to deal with--I don’t think I’ll do it again. I am not strong enough to spend my vacation visiting psych wards or eating disorder clinics. I do not need the threat of restraining orders being broken and the potential for personal violence being inflicted upon me. I guess I kind of just got to thinking--it occurs to me that it seems each and every one of us (those of us who are aware that a problem exists, those who admit to being sad, although not without a sense of shame, as the case often tends to be) is thoroughly aware of the infinitude of possibilities existent on this planet and yet that nothing would come of this endlessness but just that—more leeway; more endlessness. With this armor; this bearing of sublime futility, we carry on in our day-to-day lives. Reasonably, what else could we ever hoped to accomplish?

This is what is getting me down--but it doesn’t really seem like anything else is even possible, you know? There is no alternative. I decided a week ago, exactly, after amiably calling off my joke of a relationship, to unintentionally (at least on a conscious level) correct the numbing void in my heart with a wide spectrum of righteously defended yet highly disruptive distractions. I’ve decided to try at least to appreciate little things that I generally bypass or sometimes roll my eyes at--It might not make me feel better, but I’ll feel a bit more whole knowing that my observation of a moment where I otherwise would have overlooked it, makes the moment more complete. That I was in the moment, causes more potential for personal definition: This girl was here when the old man’s dog gave him a look that said, “I can run and break my leash whenever I wish, but I won’t because you’re frail now, and I love you.” All this as opposed to: “This is a girl. An old man walked by with a dog.” It is strange how an awakening can be both beautiful and horrible at the same time. Sort of funny, but the knee-slapping, side-splitting existential humor that we are all privileged enough as human beings to have limitless access to is not always easy to handle, at least for me.

I often do not like to speak. I never really have. I wonder if my silence is offensive? Maybe people think I'm just really shy or out of the loop, or drunk and stupid. It just feels like I’ve wasted lots of things I might have said to so many people. And the thought of all the sentences I might have said makes me tired. It’s like there’s a swarm of wasted words--like insects--perched on my shoulderblades, dragging them down to the desk where I‘m sitting. I wanted to know why I've got to be this way. Other people seem so ..so..ok. Or maybe they're just better at seeming that way. I smoke too many cigarettes sometimes. I’m probably too thin. I care very very little for what people tell me though. More silent listening. I very rarely pay heed. If I do, no one gets any credit--There doesn’t seem like there’d be much of a point in giving someone credit in fixing me a bit--because I am not a possession. I doubt I’d be very satisfying, if I were. Probably depress the hell out of the other toys in the chest. Make them cut themselves or something….(this is where I laugh).

Anyway, big fucking day at the DQ tomorrow.