“Genius is unavailable for the song ‘Sail’ by AWOLNATION.”
Well, fuck you too, iTunes.
I’ve been on a little mental breather lately after losing my shit at the end of August. Not literally losing my shit but like, low-on-what-I-assumed-was-iron, depressed-before-waking-up shit of the lost variety. You know? I didn’t quite understand it except in the way I always explain it, which is, “the end of August makes my head explode.”
You thought I was going to say something really meaningful there, didn’t you?
I’ve been making the Puddle of Disappointment a permanent residence lately.
Seriously though – I was on a speeding wagon to Panic-town for a while there. Anxiety-rama. Except it was mostly for (and about) nothing. Just some sort of mental trick that my mind thought it would be funny to play on myself. Just to keep my middle-class life all interesting and shit, I guess.
This year I’m settling into my privileged little existence quite comfily, until it continues to exist and I finish school and realize the room beside my family’s living room is not considered “being independent.” Until then, denial – denial – denial!
Because that’s just better than worry – worry – worry, which is what I do for a good portion of the time I occupy in my head. I wrote a whole post about Jack Layton dying and other sad world newsy things a week ago and never published it because I sound like a preaching hipster, and we all know that the hipsters already have a God(dess). And her name is KREAYUSHUN. Actually, nobody knows how to spell it, so you might be better off just typing “Gucci Gucci Prada Prada fuck me I’m a hipster” into Google and clicking “I’m Feeling Lucky” – cause at the end of the day, if you’re not lucky, well – there is still nobody who gives a shit.
Recently I’ve pared my responsibilities down to a prioritized and manageable list of things that very barely include getting paid and mainly focus on expanding my mental glandules and working up a sweat with my writerly muscles. I’m pretty excited about this, and also about my impending (like Doomsday 2012) trip to Russia with the Boy in October 2011. I will be showing him all sorts of heritage-soaked things like subway stations, dachas and the bottoms of alcohol bottles. Also, perhaps Russian street whores.
I am über-stoked about this trip, even if it’s only a week and a bit long (in my head). I mean, it’s also actually going to start coming together “on paper” (or “by email” in modern-times) but right now it’s all in my head, mainly because I haven’t been able to get in touch with the Russian consulate to ask them pretty darn important questions. During working hours or late at night. In fact, I don’t even think they exist in reality. It’s like that stupid Descartes thing about if a tree falls in a forest and nobody hears it fall, did it actually make a sound?
Well, the Russian consulate is kind of like that. Except, it only exists if you can see it with your eyes and press the number 8 elevator button in the correct building on Bloor St. If you try to contact them indirectly (without seeing real people working and documents being shuffled), then they must not exist – they only exist in the “idea” form, like, “wouldn’t it be a great idea to have representatives present in a prominent North American country to speak for another country which these said North Americans might some day, hypothetically, want to visit?” Hypothetically, yes.
Visa-related existentialism. Welcome to the life inside my head.
Everything else has been all interviews and writing and reading and Hippocampus is so great and reading Canadian authors (Zoe Whittall, you rocked my brain with Holding Still For As Long As Possible) and watching lots of Iron Chef. Camp ended amiably and I am going to be helping out with some art classes during the year, which might barely pay for my self-indulgent (and self-made) gifts of lattes to myself after torturous 3-hour lectures about English Romantics.
School starts in 2 days and I am trying to use up all this oh-so-free time wisely. Smartly, Canada’s weather knew that school was starting and decided to lower the bunsen burners under the Great Lakes down about 10 degrees (from a humid, drench-y weekend to a “let’s wear the warmer sweater Monday”) to prove to us that, in fact, it is still down with the normal progression of seasons and “FUCK YOU GLOBAL WARMING, I AM ON TIME, NO TYPHOON BABIES HAPPENING IN THE GREAT WHITE NORTH – BI-ATTTCH.”
I think I speak for all Canadians when I say that every single one of us has personified our weather into a very vivacious personality.
Overall, I’m a bit calmer than I was a few weeks ago. My headspace is now all clear and organized and full of Ingrid Michaelson and Laura Marling and Zoe Whittall, saying things like “Billy holds her breath as if it’s an accessory”; and happy things like art lessons and spontaneous poetry breaks.
Back to being grounded.