It’s a beautiful day in the… NOT!

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I was right, the office sucks. The biggest problem is that I love my job. I have ambition, drive, experience, a very good reputation in my field. My boss is an idiot, corrupt, has no drive and has been riding on my coattails since he hired me.

I deal with an assistant who no matter how many times I explain something will ask me about it the next day. Who instead of looking up the orders she puts in the computer will also write them down, each of them, on a piece of paper and try to trace them later. Who insists on transfering me a line when I’m already on one with 2 holding, who insists on giving me a message when I’m fucking kneeling in front of the photocopier, my hands stained with toner, torn sheets scattered on the floor.

I deal with ignorant sales reps, who think that the products they sell deliver to their customers on jet planes that burn water and that are driven by computers. They don’t understand that the freight is actually put on a trailer, pulled by a truck that burns fuel and that is driven by a human being. I asked for a phone number because the driver could not find the location, the coked up asshole went nuts, screamed for 5 minutes and finished by saying ” well, it looks like the driver is a fucking idiot anyways, all that’s left for him to do is to go and shoot himself in the head”.

I work in a business where screwing your customer is the norm, where importing exotic lumber that is bordering extinction is ok, even for customs and government agencies.

I’m a dispatcher. I love my job. It’s just going to kill me one day.

Back to life to life, back to reality

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back to life
the life I’ve known
the life I’ve thought of leaving behind
the life I know I belong in, to
the life that’s always been there
the life I need
the life I have to lead

back to reality
the fucking office.

Yé!

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Fuck I’m glad this one’s over with.

Besoin: urge

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Besoin: urge
all day
really
roughdirtyhardoutofbreathshakes kinda thing
the sea
the sun
sweat
sand
heat
handsandtonguesandmouths
j’ai besoinfaimenvie
je désireveuxriendemanderjusteprendre
just take me
i want to givetakehave you all over me

St-Jean-Baptiste 1976

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St-Jean-Baptiste here in Québec is like the 4th of July in the US or the 14th in France. Except that only us in the province celebrate it, the rest of the country has the 1st of July. Anyways, long story, boring, bottom line is St-Jean-Baptiste is huge.

1976 was the year my parents separated. I was 5. Don’t remember the exact date but school hadn’t started yet, so it must’ve been in August. And that night of June 24th 1976 probably had a bit to do with it.

It was going to be a huge party at the mountain, with great bands, tens of thousands of people… We got there my mom, dad and I by car, met up with their friends and started up the mountain to get to the park. Party’s on the way, sun is setting down. I remember topless girls, hairy guys with leather hats and indian sandals. I remember the usual smell of pot, hash and beedees (indian cigarettes). I could tell the difference already then. I vaguely remember music, but I can’t recall if it was from the show or just guys around us with guitars and tam tams.

It’s getting late, I need to pee. Badly. My mom is already stoned, but my dad insists she goes with me (he’s gone as well anyway). So we set out, with another girl (16 y.o. babysitter/mom’s friend who died of an heroin overdose at 19) to the restrooms (port-a-potty yessssss). We get there, get in line. I get in, do my thing, get out. L. goes in then out and heads back to the gang. My mom goes in, then out, then we head back.

Back to where? We can’t find them! There are thousands of people sprawled on the grass. I guess my mother didn’t look at where we were sitting before leaving, you know, to mark a spot or something… We’re lost! In an ocean of hippies, looking for a bunch of hippies, a hippy mom and her kid. She was getting frantic, I was trailing behind, looking everywhere for a familiar face. No luck.

So the only thing she could come up with was to head down the mountain, get a cab to her parents’ apartment and wait for my dad to come and get us (we lived up north at least 100 miles from there). We get down, a good 30 minutes walk I’m guessing. My mom looks into her purse… No cash! Not a fucking penny. We need money to get to my grand-parents, so my mom asks me to fucking sing! Sing for the strangers, I’ll ask for money… Ah shit, even at 5 I knew what embarrassment felt like. I don’t know how long it lasted, I burned that from my brain. We finally got some money, flagged a cab. We arrived at her parents, middle of the night… They took us in, no questions, as usual.

It’s very early in the morning, door bell rings… Dad is here! So pissed he can’t even talk. (to this day I haven’t asked him where he spent the night that time…) It turns out, my mom had the car keys in her purse… Could’ve, should’ve, shouts and screams. The ride home was another nightmare.

I never really got over that one. It still bothers me, still hurts me, I still see myself singing on the sidewalk. I can’t really see my mother’s face, I don’t think I looked at her much that night.

The only picture I have of June 24th 1976… She had half the party on her lap.

The pile

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Writing about my childhood really brought back a lot of stuff… Things I had buried deep under newer stuff, stuff I can deal with.

I’m thinking about putting it down here. But I don’t know if I want to let it surface, or just let it hover for a while, until it goes back under the pile of shit taking most of the space in my head right now.

Nice parallel with the wall.

I’m getting confused.

Sex, death and the wall.

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Sometimes, not every time but often enough, when I go to a funeral home, I get vaguely aroused. I feel so alive, so vibrant, so liquid. If not right in there, then later. The room is so grey, the gloom so overbearing, the people so sad. There’s this part of me that wants to defy death, to say fuck you, you ain’t got nothin’ on me.

Death is on my mind this time of year, and this year of course was something extraordinary. I know now that when I cry I do so because of my loss, because of the presence that is not there anymore. The person is gone, nothing I can do about it. I cry over my own inability to deal with the void. But I also know that by thinking about the ones that are gone, I keep them alive, I keep them in my heart.

I say cry, but they’re silent tears. I say cry, but they rarely get out. Rarely roll down my cheeks. My lack of empathy, my lack of interest in others, my avoidance of situations where feelings might get out of hand. That’s a burden, and a blessing. So much shit I dealt with as a kid, so many times I closed my eyes on situations I should not have gone through as a child.

In our house: junkies, thieves, dealers, dancers (hookers most likely, didn’t really question this), used syringes, empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, loud music at 4 in the morning, people sleeping or having sex in the living room at all hours of the day, no food in the fridge, mom’s weekly new boyfriends (and sometimes babysitters).

Me then: serving as DJ starting at 6 or 7 y.o., walking over bodies to get to the bathroom, having breakfast at the neighbour’s, stealing change in unconscious people’s pockets, spending weekends at my aunts’, grand mother’s (maternal and paternal) and sometimes at my dad’s (when he was not in jail), avoiding touchy-feely guests (surprising how many men are interested in prepubescent girls), waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of the unhooked phone, finding my “babysitter” stoned out of her mind, asleep, drooling, I couldn’t wake her up, I put down the phone and went back to bed (I was 5). I could go on, but it serves no purpose.

Me now: Cold sometimes, unaffected, indifferent. I don’t want to feel too much, don’t want things to get to me. A fucking wall, at which I’m clawing now. I’m not sure I want to tear it down, not sure how much I want to let in.

But I’ve felt so much in the last few months. I’ve felt. Hurt, loneliness, depression, hope, love, lust, friendship. I felt them each separately, individually, not in a mush of self absorption, not like usual, brushing it off as self pity. There is no such thing as too much awareness, I understand that now.

I’ve felt. I want to feel more. I can handle it, now.

À fête du mort

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3 heures plus tard, quand tout l’monde fût ben gris
J’me mis encore à s’mer la zizanie
Je pognai l’cul des grosses matantes
Du spanish fly dans’ crème de menthe
À’fête du mort, y avait jusse moé d’pas triste

Les pénis, les fesses, les vagins
S’exitèrent en un tour de main
Ce fut un bordel merveilleux
J’emmenai la veuve à’sauvette
Tirer une pipe dans les toilettes
À la mémoire… à la mémoire?
À la SANTÉ du vieux

À’fête du mort y avait jusse moé d’pas triste…
-Plume Latraverse

………………………………………………………

Y a des fois où je m’demande pourquoi je n’arrive pas à être triste pour les autres. Je peux être fâchée, en crisse, enragée même, envers quelqu’un. Éprouver de l’amour, de l’amitié, de la sympathie à la limite (très limite).

La misère des autres m’emmerde, j’en ai rien à foutre. Ça m’empêche pas d’avoir une conscience sociale, de donner aux pauvres, d’aider les vieux au centre d’achat, whatever. Mais fondamentalement, les problèmes des autres, ça ne me fait pas pleurer.

La mort c’est certain, c’est différent. La mort dans tous ses états, subite, lente, prématurée, anticipée. Celle de ma mère, que j’ai attendue en cachette, celle de ma grand-mère, que j’ai mal acceptée malgré son âge.

Maintenant celle de parents proches, de personnes aimées, jeunes. Une mère de famille, frappée par un cancer de merde, un père de famille, qui n’a jamais rouvert les yeux au matin. Un frère, une soeur.

La mort, qui chie sur noel. La mort qui nous fait un gros finger.

Et pourtant… Je vais me rendre au salon demain. Je vais embrasser et serrer dans mes bras ces 9 frères et soeurs, ces enfants, ce mari. Je vais compatir, leur offir des kleenex, les laisser pleurer sur mon épaule. Et je vais repartir chez moi, le linge un peu fripé, un peu humide. L’odeur écoeurante du salon impreignée dans mes cheveux. Mon maquillage aura même pas coulé.

J’m’excuse.

So sad

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Not the Christmas anyone expected…

On the 22nd we learned that my sister in law’s brother died in his sleep the previous night. He was in his early 40’s, with 2 kids. She had lost another brother 4 years ago. She is now an only child… Both parents are still alive.

This year it was her turn to have us over for the Christmas dinner. She decided she did not want to cancel and still have a party. And it was a great idea. Everyone had a great time, we drank a lot (me too, a big fucking lot), did karaoke, word games, the food was great, we hugged a lot, cried, laughed, said I love you… L. did a wonderful santa for the kids.

That was last night. Before leaving for the party I called my dad to ask what time he wanted us to be there tonight for dinner. He said well, we might have a change of plans… My step mom’s sister has been in the hospital for a few weeks now, terminal cancer. And S. was there all night (23 to 24th). The doctors told the family she only had a few hours left.

This morning I called again, and my father told me S.’s sister had died yesterday. They are 10 brothers and sisters in her family, both parents are dead (of cancer). They were all there with their sister when she passed. I spoke with S. a little bit, we cried together, and I tried to comfort her as best as I could.

So we came back here. It’s been a very strange Christmas. I wasn’t looking forward to it, yet it probably was one of the best party we’ve ever had.

Maybe we were celebrating life.

Joyeux Christmas! Merry Noël!

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It’s here again…
Let’s have some goddamn fun.
Have a good time with the ones you love 🙂

Encore une fois, encore une année…
Ayons du fun cibole.
Passez un bon moment avec ceux et celles que vous aimez 🙂