The well

Vernissage

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I had the weirdest dream last night. I was in a huge room, high ceilings, my footsteps echoing. The room was filled with easels, all occupied by large canvases. On the canvases were my posts, written in black paint, still wet, dripping at places.

And as I was walking, trying to make out the words, a guy was walking behind me, saying

-This has to go, this has to go, you can’t keep these
-No, no, I want to keep them all
-But you can’t, you have to get rid of them, it’s too many

I was feeling threatened, dread was mounting. I was looking, trying to read, but I couldn’t get close enough to any of the pieces. Everything was blurry, because I didn’t have my glasses. And the guy was getting closer. I wasn’t looking behind me, I couldn’t see his face. But I could feel his nervousness, hear his breath, smell his clothes.

-This room HAS to be empty by tomorrow
-But what am I gonna do?
-I don’t care, just get rid of them
-No I won’t!

And I started running towards the center of the room, smelling the paint, the rust from the pipes on the walls. And I woke up. I don’t remember having smelt in my dreams before.

Hello! My name is:

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Once I was in a NFB (National Film Board: a government owned film production agency) movie. They threw a post production party and invited all the participants to a viewing and cheap buffet.

When I saw myself on the screen it was the biggest shock of my life. I started crying. Everything, everything. My face 20 feet tall showed everything. All the things I was working so hard to hide were there. And all I could think of was, when the lights come up, people will look at me. Because they have seen. I couldn’t follow the movie. A loop, playing. They see me, they see me, they see me. Of course they didn’t see.

My layers, through the years, have grown thicker. Have melded. Made a heavy coat that at some point I thought was comfortable enough to wear all the time. I could run, jump, dance, fuck and never break a sweat.

Everything gets done slower now. My shoulders are bent and my knees are about to give. My name tag flew off at some point. I’m not even sure that coat belongs to me.

Individuality is a bad excuse for disguise.

I rock… sink to the bottom

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1400 people at the Montreal Traffic Club’s Lobster party tonight. That’s alot of toupees and cheap suits. That’s my world. That’s people I’ve worked for/with/against for ten years. That’s also alot of eyes on me. For the first time. In a long time. Eyes like hands. Eating. Drinking from my fountain. And I gave free refills. Cleavage, tight black pants, heels, leather coat. My hair like an aura. Eyes trying to see through mine. Smiles hard to contain. Both sides.

-They look at you like you’re a piece of meat!
-And?…

-My God, you look FAN-TAS-TIC!
-Why, thank you!

-Wow, the older you get, the better you look!
-Oh, that’s so kind, thank you!

-Hey! You lost weight! You look amazing!
-Thank you! Yes, 30 pounds!

-Swan, you are beautiful tonight, wow!
-Thanks Ex-Boss!

-Haven’t we met before? Don’t I know you? Oh, wow, I can’t believe it’s you!
-Awww, come on! (keep it coming)

Level 1 000 568 on the ego scale.

Home. I’m invisible. No hands. Crash. Back to square one.

Let them in

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It seems like I’ll never be what I wish I was. What I know I can be actually. Cause it’s right there, I feel the two (three, four?) trying to become one. The change could be emminent. If only I could let it happen. I try. In the silence of words written to be told.

Let’s use another word. Change is worth shit. Become? Evolve? Ah fuck… I got it. Mature. No, no, no, does it have to be that one? It means way too much. Aren’t I done with this? I don’t want to be mature. About anything. It shows the way to so many things I know I do wrong. That I enjoy doing wrong.

It’s not about responsability. I’ve been responsible all my damn life. It’s about me and the others. So many blogs I read, so many people saying they are not a people’s person, they are not sociable, they actually hate people. And I can totally identify. But at some point, doesn’t it affect my whole way of being, my ability to mature, to be part of life?

Nothing relates to me in the outside world. I can’t relate to anything or anyone. Yet here everything is about me. And it’s so easy to believe that this is the truth. I mean every word I write, yet I can’t communicate my needs out loud. I can verbalize my anger, my despair, my insecurities, yet I can’t bow my head and cry in my living room.

There was a time when I didn’t exist. When all I could do to survive was to come here and write. Because I was the ghost of someone wanting to be. Now I’m too big, too real. And I’m getting smaller and smaller as each day passes. I know what I have to do. I know what my words mean. Each and everyone of them. I love them, embrace them, make love to them. I have to let them back in.

Sunday

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It’s beautiful outside… So what the fuck am I doing sitting here? Oh, yeah… Avoiding. Waiting. This is not healthy at all.

Well, just writing it makes me feel guilty enough. Waiting for what? Avoiding what?

Answers I’d rather not hear. Not from me, not from anyone.

Even thinking about the anwers, the possibility of their meaning makes me sick.

I’m going outside. Fuck the anwers.

I’ll come back with new questions. Or none.

I’m formatting this whole thing.

On a fresh tape. None of that overlapping shit, no echoes, no ghosts.

I have a 4 CD player in my car. Lots of burning to do.

The road most travelled

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The problem is that I’m heading down that road again. The one I was able to get off from and avoid for 8 months now. The one where I know exactly what’s up ahead, no maps required. It’s not exactly autopilot this time. I’m tired. I’m slowly giving up. My personal goals. I’m starting to eat shit again. Nowhere as much as I used to, but I can feel my resolve eluding me. Although there was a box of Krispy Kremes in the office today and I didn’t have one. It wasn’t hard, but it could have been easy too. The food is only a cover for everything else.

Ahat road is a big ass downhill. For each time I tell myself I have to get off my ass, it’s a weight I put on myself. Put myself down for every easy excuse I make. I don’t want to go back there. I do not want to go back. Period. I don’t want to hate myself. I want to look in the mirror and see what others have seen. It hurts even to think about how I was, felt, lived. Inside my head, it was so ugly.

But the travelling alone thing, it’s hard. I understand, I work on myself, I can’t expect anyone to do the work for me. And I don’t. I just need a little rest. It’s been a fucking ride. I’m totally drained. Status quo? An option, but that is still too close to the past. I wanted to change. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to be filled. I changed. I came close to being happy. But I still have a leak I guess, because I’m nowhere close to being filled. It was all hot air. Bullshit. Words. Comfort.

The easy road is calling me. Or am I just contemplating it? Am I that lazy that I’m willing to go back? I hope not.

To pretend

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I have the distance on my side. And against me. There are miles, hours, days or seconds between the time you ask and I say yes. You as one, I as a black background. I have no light to shed, no path that you can follow. I walk outside. Rules are not for me.

As I think of all the helping hands, I don’t see mine. They’re all streched and eager. Eyes on their fingers, hungry for a reaction. Teeth hidden, ready to rip our resolve apart. There is no help in their touch. Only an appetite for our weakest moments.

Outside. Beyond. Here. I want to be somewhere with you. Looking at the ones still on the path. I cannot reach out this time. Because ultimately, I want to be reached, I want to be the goal. As I run, in your crosshairs still.

I can pretend. Intent. In all your wants. And get caught. In all of mine. I’m not even hiding.

Into the parts… unblurred

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There it is
Opened again, wide
For your eyes to do what your hands cannot

Asleep was comfortable
Awake is painful
Opened is blistering
But necessary

I offered, gave, pushed, fed
I now sacrifice what’s left
A foetus of a woman
In a hostile womb

Born from sins and cries
Raised on lips and hands and hair and thighs and
The milk taken out of my mouth
I now scavenge the depths of my memories for food

To see
In the mirror
The real image
Of my new skin

Suspended

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It was a new home
A new space
Unknown unfamiliar
That I seeked

What does my soul look like?

Some days are just not meant to be
Some place I wish I hadn’t gone to
Some words I hoped I’d never hear
For fear of never hearing them again

There is no place for me to run to
No direction that won’t take me back to here
deal. deal. deal.
All day, even on the ones not meant to be

Drowned in my indecisions
deal for fuck’s sake
deal I can, it’s not final
Just a place with a chair for me

I sit I deal I live for the moment after
Fresh start or clean slate
The moment after is dealt with
It’s the past, the past, the

deal
let
me
go

Du mauvais bord

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Depuis ce matin j’ai le motton. J’ai juste envie de chialer, brailler. J’ai de la misère à avaler. J’arrive pas à me concentrer. Je suis au bureau, et j’ai pas envie d’y être. Je sais où j’ai envie d’être, mais je ne peux pas y aller. Je connais la moitié des raisons de cette humeur misérable.

J’ai le motton. J’ai les larmes aux yeux. Pis je ne peux rien faire maintenant, right now. Ma collègue est parti chez elle en coup de vent ce matin, son chum la trompe ben raide, et il lui a envoyé un email destiné à son amante par erreur… C. est enceinte de 3 mois. Elle devait se faire avorter, mais finalment ils ont décidé de garder le bébé… pour plein de raisons. Mais ce matin son univers s’est écroulé. Son couple est mort.

Il mouille, vente, fait pas beau. J’attend des mots, j’attend, j’attend trop. Je danse sur la ligne et je la perd de vue des fois. Dans ce temps là j’attend et ça fait mal. De l’autre côté de la ligne, je sais qu’il n’y a rien à obtenir de mon attente. Mais je suis du mauvais bord aujourd’hui.

J’aurais envie de te/vous/lui dire la vérité. Tout ce qu’il y a dire, tout ce que je rêve de dire. Pis de rien regretter. La vérité de mes pensée. La vérité de ma vie elle est out there. Mes pensées me hantent, me détruisent, me poussent, m’enlisent. J’étouffe avec mon crisse de motton.

Je ne te/vous/lui demande rien du tout. Je ne demande jamais rien. Mais une caresse ce matin, ça ferait du bien. Un sourire. Un mot. Une pensée.

Ensuite de retour à notre programmation régulière.