Thursday, March 31, 2005

Books, Plays and Dog Poop

I received this game of tag from a fellow Montreal blogger and have modified it to suit my own personal needs. I read plays far more than I read books. This is a good explanation for why my life seems so scripted sometimes...

How many books do you read a year?
I read about five last year. I read more plays than I can count though.

What is the last book you bought?
"Villa Incognito". Gotta love blunt, sarcastic wit. The last play I bought was Edward Albee's "The Goat... or who is Sylvia". I am Albee obsessed. I want to direct every play he has ever written.

What is the last book you read?
"Orlando" by Virginia Woolf. The book appears to be quite the inside joke between her and another writer friend of hers. Reading it made me feel like I am part of their world, whatever the world might have been. The last play I read was "White Biting Dog" by Judith Thompson. I just got cast in a role from that play and dammit it is the role I was born to play. Cliché? Very.

List 5 books that mean a lot to you or that you particularly enjoyed.
- "Oryx and Crake" by Margaret Atwood.
- "Life of Pi" by Yann Martel.
- "The Bonfire of the Vanities" by Tom Wolfe.
- "Matilda" by Roald Dahl.
- "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" by Milan Kundera.
...
- "The Zoo Story" by Edward Albee.
- "The Respectable Wedding" by Bertolt Brecht.
- "Departures and Arrivals" by Carol Shields.
- "The Invisibility of Eileen" by Kit Brennan.
- "Wit" by Margaret Edson. When I am older, I must play the lead role. I must.

Who will you pass this on to? (3 bloggers)
Uhm... do I have to? I hate these games. I'm too selfish. I want to keep this for myself.

On a side note... Everyone in Montreal seems to be blogging about the stench of dog poo that defines the beginning of spring time. Well noone has the right to complain anymore because I live on a huge motherfucking hill. The dog shit must have slid down with the melting snow because the bottom of my hill is vomit inducing. Beat that.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

How do you Google a song lyric when it looks like this:
ho som-ma do-da cmon a hey-a

Then, how do you look sane as you walk downtown singing that to yourself?

How can you look a "psychotherapist" in the eye and not laugh as she asks you:
Is the lamp talking to you?

How do you take the metro holding a ghettoblaster and not cry out:
Wheres muh b-girlz at niggah?!

After my walk and after my meeting with my "therapist" I went to the Concordia residence in an attempt to feel less crazy. That decision, in and of itself, should be enough evidence that I do need professional help. Hey, at least I scored a dexedrine tablet from that little venture. I sure as hell will need the babyspeed to compile my self-revelatory performance that must be presented to a bunch of near strangers tomorrow afternoon.

At least my "therapist", who I have named Penny the Cow, gave me some freudian bullshit to use in my performance. It will consist of me having a boxing match with an imaginary opponent who spews out irrelevant proverbs and theories about my father. I truly am destined to be a crazy performance artist found on the corner peeling beets while screaming bloody murder at passerbys.

Folks, I have just given true meaning to the title of my blog... I really do try to plead sanity in the midst of my chaotic mess that has become my Life.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

And now it's time for wonderful MSN quotes, brought to you by two of my friends.
--
You know one of my long-term goals is to write a collection of plays. A pretty big collection at that. Have a nice little 30-40 pieces under my belt. And I know, that somewhere in there, is a play dedicated to you.
I don't know why. But... yeah. It's there.
You're alive.
Very.
So alive.
You can take much of it in without collapsing. That's admirable.
You know, the reason it freaks me out with you is because MANY people can take life in while not intoxicated and stay cool and under control of what they have.
But if I understand drugs well enough, they give you a bit more... more of a rush.. more things to take in. And you take those in also. And don't succomb under the weight.
It's... for lack of better words... awesome.
And that is the only nice thing I will ever say about drugs.
----
C'est que je sais que les hommes sont généralement des gros con comme moi donc je suis le premier a encouragé les filles a resté entre elle.

Saturday, March 19, 2005

uhoh
i realized i have dipped into the land of pretension
this lower-case-only kick i have been on
is coming to an end
i have always hated those poets who spell their name in lowercase
in an attempt to fight convention
what about
the

po et s
who
think
that writing
like this is really fucking
cool
?????

i must end this insanity.

I am reclaiming my capital letters.
I am using punctuation.
Hell, I might even start using titles again.
But I might continue to post creepy naked pictures that I take of myself.
They attract a lot of readers. Everyone loves narcissism right?

moi

I thought so.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

publishing my poem did have profound effects.

to "anonymous":

who the hell are you?
how did my garbage receptacle
this little lonely corner of the internet
my place for things with no other home
become yours as well?

why
why why why why
did this make you hate?
how does my trivial shit
win over yours
how is it that individual expression
things that are so unique to each and every one of us
get so personal?

and why
why why why why
do i take pictures and
why do i write?
how come i have this desire to get up
onstage
and yell and scream and
force
people like YOU
to feel whatever i want you to?
how and when did i become
powerful enough
to think that i can make you
think
for a second
about your life
about mine
about every one else's?

and why
why why why why
are you so special
that i have to pay attention to you
that i want to get under your skin
that i want to change your life
change your paradigm
in every single goddamn way i know how

when did my selfish
self-indulgent tendencies
begin to revolve around
you?

and why
why why why why
is this beautiful?

Sunday, March 13, 2005

publishing my poem had some profound effects
i learned that i never did tell a boy i loved him
i said it to myself so many times
it became real
i had many chances to speak
and never did
which is heartbreaking because i always did love him
and still do
i just never told him when it would matter most
i don't want another chance
to make it matter
it is far too messy for either of our lives to handle
i just would like him to know
that i wish i said
i love you

i love you

i always will

a lil poem i wrote a couple of years ago

this may be irrelevant,
my blueberry elephant,
but i can be rather eloquent
when i speak of the truth,
in this telephone booth.
im hanging like a bloody loose tooth,
waiting for the reason for my existence.
please, listen to my persistence
in this first (but not final) instance:
"baby, my love for you is hardcore.
if you asked, i would go from rich to poor.
i love you so much, youre all i live for."
why does this sound so clinical?
it should be love's existential pinnacle
but your lack of response makes me cynical.
you should tell me im your best lady
instead your silence does nothing but deflate me.
answer me, please, i think im going crazy.
wait, this is not an obsession
merely a tiny, little confession.
all i ask is to not mistake my intention
to make a simple telephonic connection.

[for all you smart asses out there
yes i did rip off the first few lines from buck 65
but dammit he inspired this crap
he should be flattered]

Saturday, March 12, 2005

my father warned me about men and booze
but he never said anything about women and cocaine

my motto, courtesy of tallulah bankhead
who is more wildly divine and wickedly outrageous
than [most of] the girls i know

i have had my ups and downs
but wotthehell wotthehell
yesterday sceptres and crowns
fried oysters and velvet gowns
and today i herd with bums
but wotthelhell wotthehell
i wake the world from sleep
as i caper and sing and leap
when i sing my wild free tune
wotthehell wotthehell
under the blear eyed moon
i am pelted with cast off shoon
but wotthehell wotthehell

my epitaph, by a certain don marquis
excerpted from mehitabel's song
mehitabel is an elitist little cat
who insists she once was cleopatra

does anyone find it odd that
i connect with a cat
who befriended a cockroach with a typewriter?

a cockroach named archy
who dove onto each key
headfirst
to satisfy his need
that desperate need to tell
the stories of his life

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

artyparty

i feel so pretty oh so pretty

i would like to thank my whole world

thank you for all the beauty

thank you for permitting freedom

thank you for reflecting another piece of me

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

i shoulda made like hunter s. and killed myself before the oscars
instead i hucked down to ottawa and it almost didn't let me leave
nothing scarier than being trapped in your hometown
on oscar night.

heroin chic in ottawa
heroin chic
nothin better to do

people ask me what i want to be when i grow up
when i tell them i want to be an actress
they all assume i want to be like julia roberts
i then have to explain that she is not an actress
and that even at age twenty i am better than she is
(as are most of my peers)
then i have to remind them that i live in canada
that i study theatre not celebrity stalking.

maybe these people need to get out more
realize that there are many more actors
and many wonderful theatres to go see
live
canadian
theatre!

or not. just go back to your movie. can't blame me for trying...