garnet feather

So much insanity. I won't even talk about the bad shit.


Is it wrong to use crazy sex as a coping mechanism?



Nothing is wrong. Whatever, life is amazing.



Never thought i'd be somebody's mistress though.






....I've had some wine.

Weeeeeeeell it's August, and I've officially dicked around for most of the summer. Good things though... school starts in september, Rick is doing really well and got promoted to account manager at his investment job so we're way less stressed about money, I finally have the internet back after the worst month and a half ever, the garbage strike is over after 40 days of stinky hell, and my cat continues to be adorable. Oh, and yesterday I bought a new dress. That helps my life. I'm starting to feel sluggish from sitting at home all the time, but come september I know i'll be so busy that i will look back fondly on these days of boredom.

I couldn't sleep last night because I was too excited about the handfasting. And it's still a week away. But I just lay there with thoughts going top speed through my mind like this:

"what kind of presents should i get Kristy and Max I wonder if they'd like this or that, yadda yadda, I wonder if we'll spend more time on the beach or up near the cottage, are the speakers i have strong enough for a big party and how many batteries do i need to buy, where are those damn speakers anyway i haven't seen them since i moved, maybe i should adapt my cd player to channel my ipod, is such a thing even possible, do i need to buy an adaptor cord, dammit i am so broke, is my camera going to be good enough to take all the wedding pictures, damn i need batteries for that too and i can't find one of my four rechargable batteries, should i just buy a huge pack of regular double As, man how am i going to charge my ipod for four days without my computer, i hope i picked good songs for the handfasting mix and they aren't lame, oh shit i forgot to put on Adam and the Ants, if i get up to download it now will i wake up my boyfriend, that would be mean but then if i go to sleep will i forget to download the songs in the morning, goddammit".  Etcetera. Etcetera.

Yeah. Yeah. That's how I roll.

So... true story. I applied to U of T for my masters. And they were like, "no dice". and then I got a $17,500 research grant which I couldn't use. And then I emailed U of T and was like, "what gives, guys?" and they called me back and were all "oops, we mixed you up with somebody else, turns out we really want you to come to our school."

Yeah. True story.

Holy crap, lame lack of updates.

Ok. I live in Toronto now. With man and cat. Hurray!

Jobless. School-less (For now...)

I've been cooking a lot. Also, eating a lot of brunch with Steph and Martina. Which is pretty amazing.

I went to the zoo. Also, I avoided doing laundry. That's pretty much it....



More later. When I cease to be lazy.

So I woke up today, exhausted and full of worry. I got a full 2 hours sleep total before I had to get up and take Anansi in for his neuter operation, and when I got home I found out that Martina's dad died last night. So much sorrow. For a good hour I sat on the couch in a daze, feeling lost and uncertain. And without knowing any of this, without a word spoken to me, Rick posted this poem by Yeats on my wall:


When you are old and grey and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


So... again he has left me without recourse for response, because of all the things I could say to that, what I most want to say is, I am in love with you. I have known you, really, for less than a month, and I am in love with you and I feel like we have always known each other and somehow you see right into me and you know exactly what to say and what to do.
But how does one say that without risking... I don't know what... it would be like tearing down all of my defenses, breaking any semblance that I am in control of any of this.


Well, maybe I'm not.

Some thoughts:

Winter hasn't been too painful so far. The snow is irritating but also charming. We shall see.

Poor Anansi is getting his little operation on Thursday. Hopefully it goes smoothly and he quickly forgets he ever had these strange things called 'testicles'. He will soon be on his way to becoming a fat contented house-eunuch, which he well deserves after his harrowing first few months as an abandoned kitten.

I'm becoming more aware of the fact that my friends and I will be moving apart from one another come next spring/summer. I was talking to Nicky yesterday about her plans to move in with Flin in the summertime, and Kristy's possible plans of Newfoundland with Max, and it really hit me. It's going to be a shock when it happens. I'm so used to being within reach of the people I adore.

I have surprisingly little angst about this new relationship. Usually on the inside I'm a roiling storm of worry and anticipation and second-guessing and analysis, but this time very little of that has gone on. This is not to say that I have ceased to be neurotic, which is probably impossible, but rather that my neurosis has stayed at a manageable level. Which is funny because technically there are things I could be worrying about, like the fact that Rick has been offered a teaching job in Japan and still hasn't decided whether or not he wants to take it. One of the things I am the least worried about is the fact that he's 23 years older than me, honestly, we all know age has never really concerned me... the fact that he's a year younger than my stepmother is pretty funny, but otherwise it's not an issue. Sometimes people stare at us and I kinda like it.

Somehow, over the past year, I have become firmly entrenched in a zone of body positivity. I credit all the size-positive blogs, Health at Every Size and fatshionista  in part for it. I also realize I have no idea how much I weigh anymore... during the time when I was working hard on body positivity, I forbade myself from stepping on a scale as it still could have been triggering for me. Now I think I can safely do it without any inherent judgment, so maybe I will out of curiosity. I know for a fact that I've been relatively the same size for about 5 years, since my grad dress still fits me like a gorgeous glove. Rick got upset when I referred to myself as fat the other day and I realized that not everyone has been as steeped in the size-acceptance movement as I have, thus the reclaimation of the word fat isn't in everyone's consciousness. I had to explain to him that i wasn't using the word in a self-denigrating way, just in a descriptive way. It's true, I have a lot of fat on my body, I'm fat, but I in no way connect that word to any negative connotations re: health or lifestyle.

Anyway, that sure was a random jumble of a journal entry. Now I'm off to get ready for work.


That is all... for now.

I don't really know how to talk about what's going on without sounding like a total fool. Prosaic constructions only cheapen it. Poetry minimizes it, reduces it to something quantifiable. Something I think I can explain.

Well, I can't explain this.

Instead I sit here, bleary morning eyes and wet hair sending a chill across my skin, listening to the snowplows outside and wondering why it isn't tomorrow yet.

That's the problem with beginnings, once you have seen them enough times... you know how they end.

First there were those glorious moments of mutual affection, clumsy explorations, basking in the reality of one another's presence. The long, drawn-out and painful love of two adolescents whose inexperienced attempts at a relationship were bound to be exiled to the heap of lessons learned. Then, as you got older, there were bolder forays into the expression of mutual admiration. Freely you held hands, you touched in public, you used him as an escape. Further along there was dinner and wandering the city, wine and parties and you felt so grown up and wanted and important, tipsy you would go home and fall into bed and you would call it love.

You believed in it.

And of course you hurt and were hurt. You learned and you were a tool of learning for others. You loved and then quickly fell out of it, cursing yourself for believing that it was true.

Well, maybe it was true. And maybe hindsight clouded your eyes each time, made you forget, allowed you to start fresh, and maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Maybe it allowed you to be happy, and god knows you needed to be happy.

One thing's for sure, you loved. You loved with all your heart because you love to love. You loved your friends and lovers with a great intensity, always. You were disappointed by losses, but you kept yourself afloat by shoring pieces of yourself up and around you like a raft. Eventually you began to feel more together, more like a whole than a series of parts discarded. You looked back on love and you learned. Perhaps in your hindsight you even devalued where you should have reflected.

So nothing prepared you for this, in the end, the sudden wave breaking over you. You tried to remember other beginnings, the way you basked in those little allowances new lovers make for one another- the touch of the hand, the kiss. Yes, yes, it was like that. Yes, and this is something new still, despite the familiar gestures.

You were a day with him and now you are apart, and already your molecules reach across the distance back to him, in his glory and his pain. You want to run back and bury yourself in his arms and make love all day and never eat and never sleep and just be, pulling him closer as if you could pull yourself inside of his body completely so no part of you was seperate. Like somehow you knew even before you saw him in the parting crowds that this was the man you would marry. Like how you spoke ever so briefly and everything was changed, and you started considering things that would not have even crossed your mind days before.



Like those hours you spent skirting around the words because it would seem so ridiculous to say them now, and when you told him for the hundredth time how much you liked him, he said, "let's not even talk about it... we both know that right now we love each other more than anyone ever has".

I am fluctuating between dead calm and abject terror.

I know I haven't updated in forever, and it's quite unforgivable of me. I haven't had a lot of time to stop and write.

Anyway, here are some things:


- My mom is in the hospital. For good. We need to find her a permanent care facility, but first she's got to get over the horrid hospital bug she's got and get out of quarantine. There's question as to whether she will walk at all after all of this. It really fucking sucks.

- Ok, better news. I graduated, Honors BA Anthropology with distinctions. FINALLY.

- Even better news: PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA!!!!!!!!!!

- I handed in my grant proposal. Many tears were shed in the process. It was very nearly the ultimate disaster.

- I got another tattoo. Shhhhhh, it's a secret... sort of.

- My lame Torontonian actor ex-boyfriend shunned me on the Facepage, which is funny because... (see next point)

- ...I think I'm in love. With another actor. from Toronto. WHY GOD?!?!!?



anyway, that's it for now.

I just watched the movie 'Waitress', and while it was quirky and adorable and all that junk, it served as a reminder of how hard it is to escape conventional morality in entertainment. Even Waitress, an independent film which was lauded for its underdog charm and uniqueness that supposedly catered to a more sophisticated demographic than standard Hollywood fare, ended up bowing to the demands of Middle American moral dichotomies. I had it pointed out to me that the message of Waitress was this: Keri Russell's character realized she didn't need a man in order to live her life. Ok, I can accept that. I think that's a great message. Unfortunately, the package it came wrapped up in included: the unquestioned assumption that a pregnant woman must keep her baby, since it is the right thing to do, AND the inherent moral degeneracy of marital infidelity, regardless of the life situations of either participant.

Ok, this bothers me for obvious reasons. Moral judgments are repeatedly made on various characters throughout the film for carrying on affairs. This includes a woman whose husband is incontinent and mentally challenged, and of course the title character whose husband is abusive and controlling. It is the main character herself, and her eventual saviour the Crotchety but Kindly Old Man, who make these judgments, and the message is clear: infidelity of any kind is inherently wrong. No exceptions. Combined with pointed remarks during the title character's ultrasound about how the baby's heart is beating at a few weeks even though it doesn't look like a baby (subtext: so it's clearly a sentient human being and abortion is murder neener neener neener) and the title character's assertion that she 'respects her baby's rights', it is hard to overlook how utterly conventional and stale this message really is.

I know it sounds like I'm nit-picking. But really, take any other movie where a pregnancy is involved. What happens? If the woman keeps it, she is rewarded with a life of happiness and the ultimate fulfillment of motherhood. Recently, adoption has also yielded favourable results (a la Juno). But if she has an abortion? Ruin. Look at poor Sally Bowles in Cabaret. Abortion is a well-used device to mark the moral turpitude of the wanton women who choose it.

As for infidelity, the vast majority of films portraying it end one of these ways: Murder, ruin, suicide, punishment, or the lovers breaking up because it's 'the right thing to do'. Don't get me wrong, I'm not waving the flag for infidelity here. But in real life, relationships are complicated. There are an infinite number of reasons for and reactions to infidelity. Hollywood chooses to portray a limited number of these, for the purpose of imparting a moral message to viewers.

This moral message does not take into account the vibrancy and variation of human experience and action. Instead, it draws on retrogressive beliefs about the virtues of men and women that are inherently sexist, puritanical and restrictive. The most irritating thing about this message? Having it thrust at me in the guise of uniqueness and creative expression. Hollywood, no thank you.

< / rant >

I wrote something the other night that I am hesitant to put here.
It was a quick and brutal exploration of my ongoing flirtation with darkness, hammered out in the space of five minutes as my brain buzzed with information.
It came out on paper because I met a man who exemplified all of the horror and eroticism that marked my obsession with so-called 'sinister men'. Wolves, if you will.
I fear to talk about it at too great a length, as I don't want to scare anybody or cross some line I've drawn regarding how explicitly I write. But I thought it should exist because of the rarity of the situation - actually interacting with one of these men, where before I had never even entertained the idea of speaking to them.
I told him about it, and he said I was creating these men, making them into something I secretly wanted, something inside myself. As he said that I knew it was true, just as I knew that he was for real. Not a construction based on an image. Really a sinister, sly, perverted and in all likelihood dangerous being.

All I can say is he is a wolf, a devil, a frightened boy, an angry beast. I doubt I will ever speak to him again. He wanted too much from me anyway. Though he asked to see me, what he really wanted I fear was everything. He wished to take my life. And I think he would have, had I let him in.

What a strange, horrific, wonderful, glorious, disturbing feeling.

Today I will make history. For the first time, this morning on Friday the 13th of June, I, Emily, am wearing shorts.

No, I know what you're thinking. Not capris. Not bermuda shorts that end at the knee. Not clamdiggers or culottes or whatever.


No, my friends. These are shorts. They start a good foot away from my knee, and they are denim, and cutoffs, and show off every inch of my chubby, pasty, stumpy, bug-bitten and bruised legs. And you know what? I feel awesome.



That is all.

1) The quest to get sterilized continues... things are looking up and I have an appointment at the KW Planned Parenthood on monday! Hoo-rah! I was also given the name of a childfree tubal-friendly doc in the area, courtesy of one of the lovely ladies over at childfree, in case PP lets me down. Childfreedom here I come!

2) Kristy's cottage was fantastic and wonderful and I wish I could have stayed forever. We had countless adventures and a huge bonfire on the beach and we summoned Papa Legba who gave us clear skies and a burst of sun amidst the foggy cloudiness of the day. We also saw loons, deer, a chipmunk with huge balls, and an assortment of other amazing things.

3) I am very irritated with my roommate who feels the need to lie to me about things rather than just telling me I'm not invited. LAME. I am also slightly disconcerted at the fact that her friends seem to be afraid of me. Am I really that scary? Really?

4) I sent in my stupid broken ipod to get fixed, decided to go with the diagnostic rather than just purchasing the service I though it needed, and ended up with a bill that's 30 bucks more than it should be because they decided I needed a new battery too. Fuck. I think I might email them and tell them that my battery is just fine, thank you. I hate sneaky servicepeople.

5) I have a date tomorrow. I am shockingly not freaking out, which is really weird for me. Hmmmmm. Maybe it'll all hit me tomorrow morning.

6) I have reached a crossroads in my own thinking about myself. It used to be that the spunky, confident Emily was the fake one, while the self-loathing awkward Emily was the real me struggling daily to keep up the aforementioned facade of spunky confidence. Last night, however, as I was lying in the bunkbed at K's cottage trying to sleep, I realized something: the spunky outspoken fat n' sassy Emily is the real one now. That other Emily, the one who is never good enough and who looks in the mirror and sees only flaws, is the false visage that exists because of twisted standards that say she should. That Emily is still around, but since she's fake she can't hold on for very long before she is dismissed by the kickass crazy Emily who is comfy in her own skin and feels no need to apologize for it. Man did that realization ever hit me like a ton of joyous bricks.

7) Obama '08, woot woot!

So up until today, as it stood: She had wandered the city, weaved in and out of buildings tall and glistening. She strolled through the halls of undeserved luxury and shrugged off the sting with a joyful heart. She let the music wash over her time and again, and afterwards she carried it with her. She took in the smell of the air and felt the hot weight of the sun on her pale shoulders. 
She wore her red mantle that nobody else could see, but they sensed it in her smile and the swish of her hips. The candy man sensed it and gave her a wink and a smile that lit up her afternoon. The music man sensed it and he cracked a crude joke as he held her hand. Her friends sensed it in her easy banter and her enthusiasm. Her lady companions shared it with her in the sunny court, as they traded tales of lascivious exploits and passed opportunities for love and lust. 
They alone counseled her cheerfully, as she left to head for her grandmother's house: you know what happens to little girls on the way to their grandmothers', they cackled, they winked and nudged. She laughed, I'm banking on it, she said. That's what I'm banking on.
So she walked to the corner, with token in hand, and as she waited she saw him. Across the road and at the high metal gates that bordered the park, he was playing hypnotic riffs on an electric guitar plugged into a cheap portable amplifier. He caught her eye the moment she stepped into the sun in front of the bus shelter. Held her eye as he played to her, smiling, shaping his music to call her, beckon her. Come on little girl. Cross the street. Take the detour away from your destination, far away into my world, into my arms, into my insatiable yearning. 
And though she had an undeniable fondness for wolves and the promises they held, she stood defiant and beautiful with hand to hip, holding his eye for the full ten minutes before the streetcar pulled ahead, and as she stepped from the curb he took his hands off his black guitar and beckoned to her, motioning, cajoling, welcoming her again, as if to ask: why aren't you on my side of the road, little girl, come over to the other side little girl, come with me and god you will see a different world and it will be glorious and good and evil and everything in between, all red, all the time.
And she smiled, as it was good enough to know that her inner heat was shining so bright that it would tempt a wolf to ask her all those things, silently, and it was good enough to know that she would carry it with her as a new shining facet that would glisten every once in a while, and he, well, he wouldn't likely forget her for a very long time.

So I was browsing the shelves at the local gourmet shop yesterday (because I am an idiot and it hasn't hit me yet that I am a jobless hobo who should only be shopping at value mart but whatever) and I stumbled across this bag of brownie mix. I was intrigued by the 'just add yogurt' guarantee on the front of the package, and picked it up thinking "Gee, brownies would be a great way to get rid of that tub of plain yogurt I've had sitting in my fridge for god knows how long... plus if I don't use it soon, I'm going to have to chuck it".

Now what do I find when I turn over the package to read the back? Well, first I see that they're fat-free. Ok, I can deal with that. Then underneath that claim and a little picture of a pig with one of those stupid measuring tapes squeezing its waist, is this little blurb presumably written by the lady who founded the company. It was basically along the lines of: "Do you hate fat? I sure do. In my brownies, and on my hips! Now all you fellow fat-haters can join me in devouring some GUILT-FREE delicious fudge brownies without worrying about turning into a slovenly cow!" (Ok I added the cow part but it was totally implied).

Now, a few years ago I probably wouldn't have bat an eye (aside from internalizing some guilt and shame) and might have bought the brownie mix. But yesterday I knew better. "Fuck you, brownie mix!" I said aloud, and placed it resolutely back on the shelf. As I walked away, I thought about these things:

1) Bodies have fat. Fat hate = body hate. Hate will never get us anywhere, including to a healthy state of being. How can you be healthy if you hate your body? COUNTER-INTUITIVE!!!!!

2) You don't like any fat on your hips eh? Are you sure you're a woman? Enjoy regular menstrual periods and all those other bonuses that usually come alongside being a person with some body fat? Hmmm, counter-intuitive again... also, as Steph so kindly pointed out, that hip fat you so loathe could be protecting you from TEH DIABEETUS!!!!

3) Who else here HATES the phrase "guilt-free"??!?!? Seriously. Applying value judgments to food is ludicrous. It's FOOD people. Do you think it helps people be healthier to obsess over how guilty they're going to be after each meal? Um, no. Again, counter-intuitive.

After I thought all of those things in quick succession, I smiled and allowed myself to appreciate the fact that I'm strong and confident enough these days to believe in these things without being crushed by guilt or thwarted by diet talk. Health at every size is real, people. I've seen it in action. I feel better these days, physically and emotionally, than I ever have. I've been eating well, going for nice walks, dabbling in yoga and cycling for the fun of it. Have a hot date on Saturday too. But most importantly, I don't hate my body. And guess what? STILL FAT! :D

Emily: 1. Brownie Mix: 0.

So I've found that it is only when I stop worrying and accept the changeability and unpredictability of the world, take a moment to accept strangeness, that's when things resolve themselves and open new avenues to joy.

I'm very annoyed today. I feel like it's too much to expect that people be trustworthy and honest with me. I feel like I may be in big trouble. We'll see how this goes.

Also, I have been talking to a new boy and I'm not sure if I should let it go any further... conflicteeeeed!

Why so many things at once?!?!

No updates in a while. Busy. Now siiiiiiick.

Am in the midst of a feverish moment. Must sleep.

Move soon - April 28th. Updates to follow!




That is all.

So I have this thing. This thing for sinister men.

I don't quite know how to describe the type, because it is a very particular kind of sinister, though it doesn't always look the same (a good non-real-world example would be the villain from No Country For Old Men, although there is no real prototype). It's just a feeling I get from people sometimes. They're usually odd-looking, not handsome, strange in some particular way. Thy give me this... sense, something other people don't seem to pick up on.

And something in me reacts to it, a guttural reaction, something between arousal and horror.

And I feel like they represent something dark that lurks just below the surface of my everyday self, something which in that moment becomes accessible.

It can happen anywhere and anytime. It's happened on the street, the bus, the subway, classrooms, malls, synagogues. It happened a few months ago when I was shopping for CDs with Jody, and there was a man with thinning wispy hair wearing a woman's skirt, shoes and jacket, pacing worriedly up and down the aisles looking lost. It happened later that day on the bus, there was an older man with shaggy layered blond hair and a strange face, and every time I looked at both of these men I got this horrible feeling that made my knees weak, and I couldn't distinguish between fear and pity and desire.

When I look at people like this (whenever I happen to encounter them, which is rarely) I get the feeling that a little door is being opened for me through which I could slip, if I wanted to cross that line, to really find out what's on the other side.

But I never do. I don't know if I ever will. I'm not sure if I want to confront what lurks there, whether it is a genuine assessment of the characters of these men, or if it's projection of something dark inside of me.

I decided to write this down, because I've been thinking about it on and off since my early teens. I've only told one person about it, and that was very recently. My writing cannot properly describe the deep-down, primordial sexual horror that I feel. It is the same feeling that caused me to be attracted to such figures in my childhood, like the phantom of the opera and other such mutant-romantic characters.

I don't know if anyone shares this feeling. This hot, ugly, magnificent and horrific feeling. I also don't know if I will ever cross the sinister line that it creates. My psyche has strayed across it many times. Time will tell if my body will do the same.

I both fear and desire what may lurk there.