Upon arriving home to an empty house, I cracked open a pod of sweet garden peas and ate four tender, pale green balls from their crispy wet shell. Droplets of spring rain shone in my hair and for a moment, there was nothing but the juicy sweet crunch and the cool scent of freshly rained-on earth.

i discover that my mind does not stop even when it is supposedly at rest. there is no peace until i can understand. whatever it is, i must understand it and i struggle to find the answers. i am haunted, as orestes was, by the deed undone… i must know. today i found out how to turn a row into a column in excel. wierdly it is a function called transpose and so information can be transposed as notes on a staff.

transposed into the key everyone can sing. or the column anyone can understand. it will never be enough. i will never be satisfied with this. i yearn for more. this is why i was bored on whatever the pills were. because i was satisfied. and satisfaction leads us to nothingness to paris hiltonness to less-than-complete.

i am comforted by the idea that no one will read this and think of me as a manic one who must be stopped, cease and desist, calm thyself, tread softly, wait and see, be patient, be quiet.  i am comforted that my words enter the ether and remain shadowy echoes of radio in space.

i suppose there is a faint hope that sorting these thoughts here into some variant of linearity will lead to the ever elusive stroke – if not of genius then of bright light thought that is the one burst i search in text and truth and imagining.

i i i i am disinteresting to anyone but myself. this is the only comfort i have as i hide my ramblings amongst the billions of bloggers who post their ramblings as if the world will stand up and pay attention just because their hallowed hands wrote a single word. please there is nothing worse than false modesty. i know there is no genius here and if there was you could be sure i wouldn’t be posting it up for free i’d make the world pay for my thoughts if they were worth buying.

things i always wanted to be include but are not limited to: a musician. a dancer. a painter. a member of something, preferably something with a membership card (and no, neither my gym membership nor library card really counts and don’t even mention my frequent shopper card -the safeway club is not my ideal organization to join) and other proofs of purchase and belonging. I suppose people join clubs to feel like they have a community they’ve chosen. i dream of this, sitting in a group of people, drinking tea, maybe laughing at a joke most of us find funny that isn’t as anyone’s expense. Talking about something we have in common, pouring more tea, having ideas and plans and then enacting them with purpose.  even if the joke is at someone’s expense as long as they are there and laughing too it might be nice, not if they are laughing hollowly and noting sardonically that ‘mortified’ wierdly has a root like Mort, for death – like mortgage, or Mordor. Anyways if I could have a membership card that would be ideal, so there would be proof… and perhaps some kind of plaque as well that would show my contribution over the years in an appreciative and celebratory manner in a nice frame and on paper that looks and feels expensive.  something to pass down to a great grandchild who’ll never understand its personal importance anyways. but at least there was proof and my biographer will be glad for it even if coffee was spilled all over it and the ink ran.

my biographer was an important part of my self-concept until i realized i would likely never accomplish anything warranting a biography.  this realization came around age 24 when i realized i had not yet written a masterwork, invented a new genre of poetry or text, been discovered as a brilliant actress despite my crippling shyness – nor had i been identified as a child prodigy in any of the traditional fields.  Music was never a strong point due to a complete lack of dedication. Mathematics and science were my sworn enemies by grade 6. I never did take figure skating and really am too apathetic about prettiness to make it matter in a non-ironic manner.  I was entirely more interested in being a kid and playing outside. So, I did not become a child or youthful genius.

These have been enough ramblings for now. I shall be watching television until there is not a coherent thought left in my body.  More to come…

A couple women cocked hips eight-wheels waiting for pudgy fingers to finish

no matter what, furtado is on the radio. we don’t hear anything else but her wish to step on the small and powerless and those damnable dogs who whistle at the full moon and wait for the death-bringing song.

you may notice there’s not a lot of sense here-  partially the result of sleepiness and inattention – half my mind is turned to the tv where paul nadler wears strange white makeup and recovers from near fatal brain damage on the cbc; other half is caught in the Net of greek tragedy. The oresteia has taken over and there is nothing but the frustration of learning. he was in some car in egypt when he suffered a horrible accident and was left for dead, stripped naked inthe desert – in hospital 5 days coma with no hope of survival. Orestes runs through greece, the pus-eyed vendetta virgins nipping at his heels. They want to drink the spray of his blood, you know.  An argument that makes no sense frees him in a corrupt court.  He does performance art about his brain damage, something about discovering he is a worm amongst worms and no kind of king at all. Meanwhile clytemnestra cut agamemnon’s testicles off and tucked them under his armpit to be sure his ghost would not haunt her. Lot of good that did, she still had bad dreams. I wonder why.

Its late. i want to write poetry all over the walls of this place. I want to find the spark of somethingness hidden in the white paint. My mind makes no sense of these things, just piles them one on top of another and waits for me to find the time to sort it all out. I never have the time. I fear I have made a grave mistake.

It’s best to plant flowers at a time like this -and I have done so. Tonight planted a hanging basket. I realize that no one is interested in such madness, but I am tired of fragmentation. I am tired of separate selves for separate niches. I cannot cut up my body and fit it into this spot and that spot, parse myself out so the gardner is not the poet, the poet is not the historian, the dancer the writer the secretary the webmaster the fortune teller and all the nascent possibilities that do not fit in anywhere. I cannot and I willnot, even if it means to sacrifice the imaginary audience. (the truth of my loneliness is that no one will ever read this, no one other than my immediate family, and then it will be out of date and ancient and embarassing as an artefact of a single transitory sleepless moment while I struggle to find the mind I stored in a safe place until I could sit in the grove and speak clear thoughts)

on the subject of loneliness i wish to write in my facebook how much i hate the collection of friends like stickers for a stickerbook or stamps or strange ceramic bells.  I do not have enough contacts, I cannot keep up. how can people have 165 and dont tell me you don’t know them…. the fact is someone from the past wanted to be in touch. this doesn’t happen for me. i wonder if i frightened them. but what would i say if we were in touch. i hate how I can know how many people other people know, how many groups other people join so they can know more people’s names and add them and increase their list of so-called friends and collect human beings for ostentiatious display.  but i do appreciate seeing names i haven’t heard for a long time, despite my total lack of things to say.

damn i’m negative. time for bed. tomorrow will be another day.