The Drivel Thread

Light Housework

useless eater
Transcript of this morning's Morning Pages.

Morrissey must have been the very young man I danced with in Montreal. Why else would I have meant so much to him. So much? Really? If I’d meant that much to him he’d have sent me an unmistakable, unf***upable invitation to meet him for tea, or f***ing water! He hasn’t used his imagination to do something so simple. He surprised me. How exciting. But if he really wanted to be with me, why couldn’t he simply send someone to give me his phone number, and, easy peasy, I call him, hear his voice, and we arrange to meet. Or if he’s afraid somehow we’ll be followed, well, he could tell me he’ll send someone with a note, of where and when to meet him. He could tell me the description of the messenger so there would be no missing him or her.

But no, he decided that his ideas for surprising me were absolute genius, and enough, more than enough, to offer me, unworthy materialistic, cock hungry whore. The fridge is purring. My head is still a little infected from the tooth radiating up, but it only hurts for a second every now and then so, it seems to be getting better on its own, without having to see a stupid doctor. Convid indeed. I don’t know what caused the dry cough. It’s still with me. There’s a rattling too, just a little, when I cough a certain way. Could this be the end, I wonder. Better than an old age home. A care home. What are they called? I’ve seen and heard what happens in those decrepitude ‘care' homes.

So, Morrissey, yes, he got the “very plain" message that I rejected him, but he misinterpreted what happened, each time I walked away from him. 1) the dance floor, 2) his band in the sewing class, and in the break room 3) Chinatown, and 4) on Broadway. Four times I walked away, but wasn’t rejecting HIM! I wasn’t rejecting HIM. I wasn’t REJECTING him. I wasn’t REJECTING him! I was just trying to preserve myself.

Sounds unromantic and selfish, but my life has been so traumatizing it made my mind come up with some weird explanations for why males, a certain male, Lawrence Langevin, whipped me with his guitar strap after playing Stairway to Heaven, and held me for ransom (a sexcapade with another girl). I had to explain why this happened, and so I developed the firm belief that males, couldn’t help it, that however much they like and love you in public, switches into the equivalent in hatred for the female, once in a private setting. So when Morrissey and I danced when I was 12 or 13, my god I was never so happy as I was then, but, after an hour or two of this, came my buddy, my temporary buddy, and he gave me the ultimatum “We’re leaving. Are you staying, or coming with us.?” and I believed wholeheartedly that if I stayed, my dance partner (Morrissey?) and I would have found ourselves alone together by the washrooms and that he’d strangle me to death, and, I didn’t find that idea satisfactory, so I left, but had I known how to find my way back to him, I would have made a beeline and with all my might.

But then, in he walks, in the Chinese restaurant, and what do I do! Sit there robotically eating! Out of fear of offending Ibrahim, when Ibrahim was only buying me dinner, and had bought a painting for $10. I was that traumatized, for having been “a whore", taunted and, hated, ostracized, for being a stripper, that I was walking on the eggshells in my own mind, that others had implanted there. Once a train gets moving, with a lifetime of baggage, it can put the breaks on when the conductor sees a deer, but the train doesn’t come to a quick stop.

That’s my life, stuck in a train, running over deer. Concrete Blonde made a song called Caroline and I think it might be about me. There was a woman who stripped with me in Iberville, who was kind, and not the type you’d expect to find stripping. Maybe she is the singer of Concrete Blonde. She made, she had a dream about a stripper stuck in a train, she sang. What can I do?
 

The.Truth.

Every.Single.Time.
paris-hilton-best-pet-award.gif
 

Light Housework

useless eater
This happened about two decades ago.

The sewing class at THEO was always full of women, but on this particular occasion, there were no women except the teacher, and there were about five guys going about their projects. When break time came, we were all in the kitchen, and I was sitting beside an older woman telling her about having been raped so many times I didn’t know how many times it was.

One of the guys from the sewing class spoke up and said to me that he played guitar or bass, for an Englishman. I didn’t register any interest in what he was saying, and turned back to the woman I was giving an earful to. Then it was time for classes to resume, and the teacher told me I was starting the internet class I had been on a wait list for, so I was done with sewing.

In one of the internet classes, eventually, I saw pictures of Morrissey’s band members. Internet was new to me, and so were the faces of the band members. I recognized Gary Day as the guy who’d spoken to me in the break room, and realized why there were no women in the class that day. Morrissey had arranged to borrow the class for his band, to surprise me, but I had been clueless. I hadn’t even realized that Morrissey was English. It just never registered.
 

Light Housework

useless eater
From my morning pages today:

I would feel defeated after screwing up with one of Morrissey’s surprises, and I’d decide that now he’d surely turn his back on me for good, and I would end up with another, yet another, man. Absolutely stupid of me. The times I stalked Russell back, I was very aggressive, yet the time I went to a Morrissey concert, I didn’t push my way to the stage. I respected Morrissey. When Russell and I were stalking each other, I didn’t respect Russell, so I would be aggressive. Morrissey just seemed too good to be handled that way.

Maybe if I’d had time to warm up to him, if it was him that time in his car on Commercial drive with fun music on, maybe if I’d had the self esteem to get into the passenger seat, I would have found him inviting me to be aggressive. He looked very chill and friendly in that little car, whoever he was. I think he was Morrissey, and he made eye contact with me and it seemed to say “It’s cool. Open the door and come in.” If only he would have opened it for me, I probably would have gotten in, but I would have been ashamed of having been chasing Russell.
 

Light Housework

useless eater
Transcribed from more morning pages written today:

Just had a pretty solid dump. Ready to write Morning Pages properly. “Good and proper, forever!” I’ve been writing very personally and posting it on solow, but, or, and, it’s better late than never.

That time at the Astoria, when I walked away from Russell, comes to mind. How he looked at me as if he were a mere animal testing scientist, one who is sadistic. I didn’t want to be with him THAT badly. So out onto the bleary street and hum drum home I went.

The time at the bus stop on Hastings comes to mind. I escaped him by getting on the bus, because he moved in such a way, as to remind me of a man who had tortured me, on Victoria drive in that house where two men would torture me whenever I was ‘home'. Russell had his back to me, and bent in such a way, as if he were deliberately giving me a flashback, of the same physical pose I saw one of the torturers make, in the living room on Victoria Drive. I think that house is now boarded up or under renovation or something. I daren’t have a good look.

Back to the bus stop on Hastings. Russell had crept over to me as if he were stalking prey but it was playful. I watched, amused. I thought, now we would be united, but as he gets close he veers off behind me instead of to me, and I watch him, and he strikes that horrible pose that gives me a flashback, and just then I see the bus coming, and I hail it down and board it, to get away from the image now seared freshly in my mind’s eye, of the torturer, via Russell’s pose. Maybe he did it deliberately.

The bus door closed and I looked through the glass, at Russell’s crooked nose profile, and I thought he looked so noble, and had had nothing to do with the torture I’d been through, and so was an innocent lamb, and I felt dreadful taking off on him, but it was too late. The bus was moving and the world didn’t revolve around my whims so I wasn’t going to even try to stop it and get back out.

I resolved to go where I’d initially intended to that morning, to go buy a French press, at Army & Navy. I bought it, and looked forlornly at that bus stop on my way home as I passed by it. I got home, and my inner forearms ached with grief. Love was dying. “Oh mother, I can feel, the soil falling over my” arms. The coffee was little consolation but I went through the motions of making and drinking it. It looked like I’d sacrificed love, for a French press, to make coffee, so I vowed to give up coffee. As if that would cure my affliction.

Russell, was a real person but the man I was in love with, was projection. Underneath, I was in love with The Dancer, and is he Morrissey? Was I and am I in love with Morrissey? But underneath, was like winter’s underneath, dormant, for now, at least, and, flexible, in that it can be platonic, but true.

I just took a break from writing, to go check to see if my book from Verso has arrived, but now I remember I gave him my Post Office address. I was told that we have a new postman, an Englishman. Now, when I hear the word English, I wonder if it is a sign, but what am I going to do, be Pavlov’s dog every time the word English is used to describe a man?

I’ve lost my train of thought. I was saying that underneath my sexually infused love for a projection on Russell, was my at least platonic love for Morrissey, and he must be The Dancer, or made of the same viscera, because, come on, out of the blue, in he walks at that Chinese restaurant and immediately I think “He is The Dancer!!!” before the next thought, “He is Morrissey!” Now Elton John’s song plays in my head “It’s sad. So sad. It’s a sad sad situation, and it’s getting more and more absurd.”

So when I hear Morrissey sing about the pain in his arms, in the Tomorrow song, I think I understand. I don’t understand the pain in his legs, as of yet, and it’s getting late. An English guy is delivering our mail now. I’m so crazy, I can’t help but think, maybe, but no, it can’t be, Morrissey. I’d want a personal invite that’s unmistakable, but beggars can’t be choosers. I won’t be Pavlov’s dog just because I hear that the new postman is English. But I can go down and check to see if, I might bump into him, and see for myself, this Englishman, if the timing is right.

Of course, it won’t be Morrissey, and I’ll feel silly, but I’ll go check the mail, anyway, shortly. I was glad no one, or not many people I came across this morning were wearing masks. Having gotten rid of my TV, I’m not so frightened about wearing one, unless I’m getting on the bus or going into a store.
 

Light Housework

useless eater
The torturers. They used radiation and holographic imaging. In late 2011 and early 2012. And I think Russell hired them. They can see through walls and ceilings. They beamed it on me. It's a wonder I haven't died from it yet. They sizzled my ovaries and fallopian tubes. They poached my frontal lobe. They didn't let me sleep. My thighs made the motions of boiling water. The only safe place was the swimming pool.

They changed to mere psychological torture, off and on, from late 2012 until late 2016.

But would you believe someone labeled with schizophrenia?
 

rifke

bodhisattva
The torturers. They used radiation and holographic imaging. In late 2011 and early 2012. And I think Russell hired them. They can see through walls and ceilings. They beamed it on me. It's a wonder I haven't died from it yet. They sizzled my ovaries and fallopian tubes. They poached my frontal lobe. They didn't let me sleep. My thighs made the motions of boiling water. The only safe place was the swimming pool.

They changed to mere psychological torture, off and on, from late 2012 until late 2016.

But would you believe someone labeled with schizophrenia?
No. But I can see from reading this that having schizophrenia must be hell on earth. It seems horrific and shows an unacceptable flaw in nature's design that a person's own brain should be able to turn on them like this.
 

Light Housework

useless eater
No. But I can see from reading this that having schizophrenia must be hell on earth. It seems horrific and shows an unacceptable flaw in nature's design that a person's own brain should be able to turn on them like this.
You believe what you believe.
 
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