When she told me her doctor was putting her in palliative care at Notre-Dame, I knew it was over. She acted like it was a temporary thing, just to get some strenght back. I never asked her if she really believed that. I could hardly deal with it myself. All it meant, all I heard was “I’m going to the 5th floor, to die”. Because that’s all it meant really. I had been looking at the cancer killing her for six years. Looking at death making it’s way, drying her skin, rotting her teeth, pulling her hair, eating her flesh, taking away her life so slowly I almost wanted to help her go sometimes. For some years she did good, but the last 9 months were a complete waste of life. For everyone. I mean, how many times can you say goodbye, how many times can you prepare for death, how many times can you go over the paperwork to make sure everything is in order? Six years is a long time. Nine months is an eternity.

Before she was sent to the fifth floor, she was at the long term care unit, with the crazies, homeless, kinless, lifeless. People strapped to their chairs, sitting in their shit all day. People screaming all night, not able to get sleep. We couldn’t have her at home, not with two small children. For us, but mostly for her. I could see she was going. She needed medical care everyday. So that day, when I came to see her, and she told me she was moving up, she seemed almost happy, relieved.

She sat in a wheelchair and a nurse brought us to the fifth floor. Exit the shit smell and the screams. The elevator door opens to carpeted floors and classical music coming out of nowhere, paintings hanging on the walls. A volunteer greeted us and took us to her room. Private, huge, filled with sunlight. He asked her if she wanted anything, she asked for a glass of juice. He brought it in a wine glass on a platter. And yet everything spelled death. I couldn’t even talk, it was surrounding me, hitting me, killing me. I helped her settle in her room, we visited the music room next door, the smoking room across the hall, the kitchen where she could keep her energy drinks and stuff. Then I left. The following day I came back and put some christmas decorations up in her room, it was the 9th of December. On the 10th I brought her home with me to have a small dinner and put up the christmas tree with the kids, we sang some carols and I took her back to the hospital. She threw up in the elevator, even though she barely ate at home. She was really weak. The following morning, the 11th, my birthday, the hospital called me at work.

“Your mother had an embolism last night. She’s a DNR, so we could only help her breath. Unfortunatelly she lost consciousness, and probably has only a few hours left.” I have no brothers or sisters, nor did she. No immediate family either. For the next 24 hours it was me and her in that room. Me and a body I could not touch at first. A face trapped in pain, invisible, silent. The nurses would give her morphine when we thought she was in pain. Slowly, I started to stroke her face, wash her mouth, massage her hands, I sang to her I think, told her secrets, stories. Told her I was there for her, that I loved her.

Around 2 o’clock on the 12th, I saw she was getting agitated. I was sitting next to the bed, a volunteer from the cancer support group standing next to me. In the music room next door a pianist was playing Suzanne, and I held her hand and told her it was ok, let go Mom, it’s ok, I’m here, I love you, but you have to let go now ok? it’s all right, her pain was pulsing, trying to rip through her, but I think that she was trying to talk, and I like to think that in her last few breaths I heard her say I love you. One last tiny breath, and she just stopped fighting.

And I held her hand for a while longer, talking nonsense to her stomach where I had lain my head, hearing the soft melody coming from the piano and then the slience. Only my breath against the blanket, my blood in my ears. And then nothing at all.

bad bad bad

A very bad cold, nyquil and PMS do NOT mix well. I don’t think I’ve ever been this confused, depressed, lonely, impatient, sad, psychotic in my life. I feel like I’m the end of my rope. For no fucking reason. If only it had a purpose. If only it inspired me. If only I had the strenght to hold a book or watch a good movie… I managed to make sense of an old CSI episode, fell asleep on the second one (it was actually a Miami and my god David Caruso is such a fucking bad actor). I should go to bed right now, wipe the drool off my lips, put out that cigarette (yes, even if my throat is killing me), turn off the cumputer. Turn off my head. Lights out.

J’attends toujours

All these people drinking lover’s spit
Swallowing words while giving head
They listen to teeth to learn how to quit
tied to a night they never met
-Broken Social Scene

j’espère encore que ça revienne. j’espère encore.
y a jamais personne qui m’a parlé comme ça. jamais, personne.
je comprends maintenant, parce que je viens d’atterir.
je n’en peux plus d’attendre que le passé passe.
j’aurais pu y trouver encore du plaisir. mais pas au prix de mon nom.
j’attends toujours.
ta véritable identité.
la mienne est éventrée, en pleine rue, et les voitures roulent dessus, et les piétons s’enfargent dedans.
et tu y as jeté à peine un coup d’oeil.
c’était assez.
j’attends toujours.

There is no I in gone

I was all
I was the new
I was the unknown
I was the high
I was only, not true

I am nothing
I am the used
I am the uncomfortable comfort
I am the weight
I am only, just, real

Abandoned places

Billie Holiday’s voice, only

In my solitude you haunt me
With reveries of days gone by
In my solitude you taunt me
With memories that never die

I sit in my chair
Filled with despair
Nobody could be so sad
With gloom everywhere
I sit and I stare
I know that I’ll soon go mad
-Eddie Delange, Irving Mills, Duke Ellington

And it’s back, so HERE, blinding.
I can’t breath.
So fucking lonely, it fills the space.
Inhabited by absence, lack, void.
Surrounded, abandoned, up to capacity.
There’s no escape from an abyss.
No exit from outside.
I think about here. I am there.
I think about there. I am here.
I want to go back forever. Live in your space.
Never will I escape the absence.

Here is nothing, here is the whole hole.


A few things…

I’m going to kill the stupid fucking bitch I work with before tomorrow. I swear, I’ll tear her fucking head off. She’s stupid, ignorant, arrogant, petty, she lies… FUCK. I hate it when I can’t deal with someone. And she’s the kind of person that talks ALL THE FUCKING TIME. She can’t shut up. She thinks out loud, that’s the worst. Always mumbling something, asking questions, answering herself. Arrrrrghhhhhh!!!

She’s sitting in front of me. Right now. And she’s typing something, and she’s fucking TALKING, actually saying out loud what she’s typing… Get me out of here please…

Oh, that’s another thing… I’m at work. Never posted from here before. But that’s how quiet it’s been. It sucks, I hate it when there’s nothing to do. The less I do then the less I want to do when the volume picks up…

It’s the first time I work for such a big company (1/2 a bil in revenue last year…) and I can honestly say that security and proximity were the two major reasons I came to work here. But it’s been 2 years, and I realize that I don’t belong in this place. I’ll never socialize, I’ll never make friends, I’ll never eat in the cafeteria, I’ll never change my attitude (something that they actually HIRED me for, and pay me big bucks for) and never fucking pretend I like someone because I have to work with him/her. I want to be able to say fuck off, shut up, get the fuck out of here, don’t bother me with your shit… I used to be able to, the other companies I worked for, but here NO. They want me to be pleasant, smiling and shit. No way. That’s not me, just do your job properly, I’ll do mine and see you tomorrow. Clock watchers… all of them.

Well, gotta do some work now, the crazy bitch is gone for lunch. I hope she fucking chokes on someting and DIES.


-Tu s’ras jamais heureuse, parce que t’as jamais appris à l’être

Ben coudonc, venant de mon boss, ça doit être vrai! J’déconne là, mais il a touché un point. Peut-être. Peut-être pas. Il me semble que ça s’apprend pas. Mais je sais aussi que j’ai passé de grandes périodes sans avoir aucune idée de ce qui se passait autour de moi. Pourtant je sais que j’ai déjà été très heureuse, et que je le suis encore des fois. C’est pas obligé d’être permanent. J’aime ça avoir le feu au cul, ou les blues aussi. Ici ça sort, ça dégouline, ça s’écoule lentement ou ça éclate. Je pense que je fais exprès d’être déprimée des fois, juste parce que j’aime l’état dans lequel ça me met devant l’écran. C’est toujours honnête, mais toujours temporaire. En tous cas maintenant. Les choses ont changées, elles changent, elles ne seront plus jamais les mêmes. Je m’en fout de la déprime, du noir, de la détresse. J’ai pris le dessus. Mais j’aime bien me vautrer dedans une fois de temps en temps.

Election night…

Interesting (read scary) quotes from our next Prime Sinister (who should be confirmed in less than 2 hours):

“Human rights commissions, as they are evolving, are an attack o­n our fundamental freedoms and the basic existence of a democratic society…It is in fact totalitarianism. I find this is very scary stuff.” (BC Report Newsmagazine, January 11, 1999)

“These proposals included cries for billions of new money for social assistance in the name of “child poverty” and for more business subsidies in the name of “cultural identity”. In both cases I was sought out as a rare public figure to oppose such projects.” (The Bulldog, National Citizens Coalition, February 1997)

“After all, enforced national bilingualism in this country isn’t mere policy. It has attained the status of a religion. It’s a dogma which o­ne is supposed to accept without question. … [M]ake no mistake. Canada is not a bilingual country. In fact it is less bilingual today than it has ever been…As a religion, bilingualism is the god that failed. It has led to no fairness, produced no unity, and cost Canadian taxpayers untold millions.” (Calgary Sun, May 6, 2001)

Êtes-vous allés voter? C’est triste.