The Drivel Thread

[Light Housework]

At 18, I was in a record shop in a big expensive mall where I could afford very little in the way of making purchases though I vaguely recall that somehow I had a little dough to buy a few things. Charlie was only my adult night high school buddy back then, as I was loyal to Mike unwaveringly at the time. I’d moved into a cockroach infested apartment on Pru d’Homme near Sherbrooke street in NDG, or Notre Dame de Grace, an English neighbourhood, with Mike and his roommate Craig. Mike didn’t have my back at all. Not even one dust particle worth of loyalty or appreciation did he harbour, he would eventually prove. I was just a chess piece to him. “Rape me. Rape me my friend. Rape me. Rape me again.” That Nirvana song was made for people like Mike.

I was on lunch break with my buddy Charlie and we were standing near an album Charlie pointed to as he tried to seduce me with the question “Feel like making love?"


Then I think he said something about The Yardbirds and I don’t remember him,…oh never mind…I don’t want to strain myself trying to make sense right now. The last thing I want to do is go into a deep cerebral check up to see if I’m making sense or not. I just don’t want to care whether I make sense right now or not. I feel I need a break from the pressure to not appear to be losing my grip on reality. I’m deeply happy and that is what I need to celebrate right now. Not, fitting the description recommended by a checklist of clinical questions…I just need to let the blood reach everywhere I need it to reach, and that won’t happen if my circulatory system is poisoned by too much pressure to conform to other people’s standards of what sanity is. I feel I deserve enough credit to have my phone silenced, to…oh I just remembered a dream I had. Someone, a man I guessed, was dressed in a bear costume, from head to toe, and tried to enter my apartment and I knew it was not to make love to me. It was out of malice and I made sure my front door was locked, then the back door, then the windows, and I was bracing for a potential breach of security. I’m glad to be awake and feeling very safe in my ample cocoon, but I am aware that the people who think that being happily sensitively expressive is a sign of mental illness requiring ‘medication’, are the ones to feel most sorry for, because, well I looked at my psychiatrist’s hand, as it could not even begin to grasp a word of body language when I tried to make him respond to me with a fist bump. I guess I scared the shit out of him by insisting that he pretend I was a fruit fly and to try not to crush me. So I guess I will try to speak his language next time I see him. Otherwise I alienate him. I’ll bring him some of the friendly cards I’ve glued together from prints, that please the eye easily with no pressure to love a fruit fly. And maybe I’ll bring my laptop and play a song from the jamming session last Thursday, to show him that my passion is not going manic. It’s going musical, and social, and logical, as the dust bunnies disappear, the grime gets scrubbed down the toilet or sink, bathtub, or into the compost on a crumpled, used tissue paper, order develops, self respect and respect for other sentient beings emerges from a lifetime of hibernation, and, I’ve had enough of being a defense lawyer here in this comfy and beautiful recliner I was given by Homestart years ago, a charity that will furnish your home if you are poor and need help. At least they did help me a couple of times. Maybe I’ll look them up. Curious about that organization now. Wrags gave me my bed years ago. I remember two men delivered it with a smile when I lived on E. 5th Ave, where the air always smelled musty and the floor always had a grey dust no matter how I tried to keep it clean…but have I ever tried to keep a floor clean I wonder now…too many questions and I don’t want to get bogged down trying to answer them as if I were being interrogated so, I’m now going to watch the three music videos that I’m including in this post, and be relieved that the man in the bear suit trying to get into my apartment to harm me was only a dream. I will make sure I’m cautious but within fruit fly reason, and if you think I need to be medicated and locked away in a psych ward because I identify as a fruit fly, then I feel sorry for you, because I’ve never been happier and wish I could turn you on too, not sexually but emotionally. I’m learning to relax about the resistance against invitation to be sensitive. “Home of the free, exists, nowhere! Then our creator had to, stumble and stall. Then our creator made, the biggest mistake of all! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!"

 

[Light Housework]

Going to run a bath to get the green ink off my fingers so it will stop getting all over my finger food. It’s not vegetable based ink. I’m glad I just found out that the new Beethoven Was Deaf album is accessible through YouTube, so I can enjoy bathing while hearing it.

 

[Light Housework]

I had no idea life could be this good before now. I'm discovering that I'm a blue collar baby at heart. I appreciate my luxuries, like having a private bathroom, as much watermelon as I want, and freshly ground dark roast coffee beans to fight bitterness with the bitter taste of the warm unsweetened black coffee. I've been reading Kurt's handwritten suicide note for the first time, and believe he was gaslit to death, having internalized Courtney's chronic disapproval and rejection in depth while basking in the false facade of a glorious union blessed by the fruit of their loins. Stupid bitch.

 

[Light Housework]

Snooping on David Tseng’s Facebook I found my way to this band. Wonderful!

 

[Light Housework]

I am a projection screen to most people. Not everyone is satisfied with that way of using me though.

 

[Light Housework]

Almost finished taking a break from watching the movie at the bottom of this post with Richard Gere playing a homeless man who alienated his only child (a fully grown daughter), but now wants to build a relationship with her. Guess I’ll prepare a snack and settle in to watch the remainder of it. I have my phone silenced sometimes lately, which is a new concept to me when I’m not in a theatre or meeting. It’s a form of privacy that feels relieving when I need to lock everyone out of my personal bubble so I can get around to licking my wounds and preventing any more from having to be sustained in the first place. I hear the voice of a boy in a backyard nearby, sounding free and excited to be alive. Someone loves him I guess. I know more and more that someone loves me so I don’t feel jealous any more. There are so many projects large and small that I want to do now, but I’m learning to pace myself gently so I don’t crash or burn out. I go to bed and sleep when I need to, and wake feeling ready to work. I’m finally a person who works hard, in my own way but with my heart, brain, and body fully engaged. I’m so glad I never was ‘privileged’ enough to try heroin or train to be a ballerina or gymnast or to have kids with some old queen or other. I’m glad my sister never got to meet Sleepy and hurt him like she did our canary. I’m glad Richard K believed I cheated on him and dumped me like a hot potato instead of confronting me with an accusation I could defend myself from. I’m glad I never became anybody’s sugar baby. There was a guy who was addicted to vodka who would be generous to me with cash for two or three weeks. I would do light housework for him and sell him acrylic paintings I made; one of Morrissey perched on a round coffee table and one of a nude Kylie Minogue bleached by sunlight on her skin, but I ditched him as soon as I heard him call Kylie a slut after he heard her make animalistic sounds like she was getting laid during a song with Fischerspooner. Suddenly his cash became poisonous. I remember telling him over the telephone that I didn’t want anything to do with him any more and he said “What about me?”, and I don’t know what my answer was. I like him. He’s a good guy. Gentle, but I was paranoid about getting punished for being discovered to be like Kylie, a ‘slut’, because that is a war word. Calling a female a ‘slut’ is a declaration of war, in most cases. There is malice in that label usually. If the word is applied to a male, it’s just to indicate that he’s into non monogamous activity, but when a female is called that, it’s to say she should be thrown into the incinerator for everyone’s sake. That guy used to tell me that I had a butt like Jeff Beck. He really was a good guy at heart. He never pressured me to get physically affectionate or go through the motions or to tolerate being used like a doll, and he was cool with Sleepy laying on his couch beside him. Insult Kylie without debate though and I go running for the hills never to return. Morrissey insulted her and I ran for the hills but eventually the pain in his expressions drew me back to him, and I hope he’s developing a soft spot for poor old Kylie and the newcomer Katy Perry, who has a new horrible song called Woman’s World. Let’s dare to watch it and critique it. I’m going to take the dare anyway, after I make a snack and more coffee for the rest of the movie after downing a shot of Kylie the slut, and then a shot of Katy the slut. Then I’ll watch Richard Gere playing a homeless slut.

 

[Light Housework]

I wasn’t expecting to laugh my head off watching Katy’s new song. What a hilarious music video. Holy shit.

I'm not going to risk ruining my lightened mood by giving another of her new videos a watch. I'm scared I'll start feeling sorry for her again. What's with all the fussing with makeup techniques on social media? How can she stand to direct young females to put all that goop on? Confusing, in combination with the sense of humour she clearly has in the Women's World video. I guess she's fine. Okay then, back to Cobain and Morrissey, etcetera, after this Richard Gere movie.

Dad would be proud of me if he could be with me now. I guess he was proud of me when he took me horseback riding and died "of a sudden heart attack" when I was 8. He would have dug Morrissey, and Kurt Cobain. His eyes would have lit up. Taboo in our 'family'. You're only allowed to be excited about hockey on TV. Nothing else really.

 

[Light Housework]

A fun day so far. I even saw an SUV I liked, just in case I ever decide I need one. I walked back from the park this morning the same way I went to it, so that I might snap a pic of the vehicle, but it was not there.

 

[Light Housework]

Haven’t heard you sing this lately. I wonder if you could now.

 

[Light Housework]

I took this selfish oh so extremely selfish and vain as vain can be selfie yesterday morning and see that I am much happier nowadays than I was as a naive infant thrilled that someone was taking my picture. Giving me attention. I wonder how long that lasted. Just a transaction like getting cash out of a bank machine. "And here's Sharon!", (for the record)."

I know many have had it unimaginably worse than I did, but I gotta start from my own awareness or the ground I stand on is false. So if I sound like "Poor me, listen to what I've been through and here's how I feel about it and here's what I want to do about it.", well then that's just the best I can do and I'm not a spoiled brat as Mum always repeated. I'm a nutcase fruit fly gone bananas on free bananas, watermelon, black coffee, water in a thin glass goblet, almond milk to drown my sorrows in, and beautiful toys to play with given to me out of love not condemnation and confirmation that I was born to use others like a succubus if trusted, with my blonde, blue eyed and naked model barbie doll and the worn out teddy bear I called Batman while sis insisted his name was Sleepy because he had a yawning face like a sleepy dwarf from that fairy tale about the pretty girl who ate a poisoned apple and was awoken by a kiss after the seven male dwarfs kept her safe while she was in a coma and the witch who gave her the apple would look in the mirror and say "Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?". Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

 

[Light Housework]

Empty Egg Shell

 

[Light Housework]

 

[Light Housework]

Why skinheads?

I once kind of shaved my head and was fired from my job and told to come back when my hair had grown back.

 

[karenina]

I once kind of shaved my head and was fired from my job and told to come back when my hair had grown back.

Don't know whether to laugh or cry.

But I must ask what is 'kind of shaved'?

 

[Light Housework]

Don't know whether to laugh or cry.

But I must ask what is 'kind of shaved'?

I had fleas in my long hair and went crazy dealing with it so at first shaved stripes I think, and then shaved it all, I vaguely recall. I don't think I only imagined going to such extremes.

 

[Light Housework]

I took in a skeletal stray whippet, fed her for about three weeks and then was tricked into giving her to the SPCA that I thought would let me keep her after I told them she had no skin on her four elbows when I found her she was so starved and didn't know to keep on the sidewalk. I taught her. It was a cinch.

The SPCA head didn't give a damn when I complained after seeing the dog handed back to its owner without any questions. The head honcho sat lazily behind his desk probably looking forward to a BBQ.

Turned out the dog who I named Cindy left an army of fleas behind which my fellow strippers got bitten by too because they got into the Cheaters gentleman's club's dressing room via good old Sharon aka Samantha.

The good old days eh?

 

[Light Housework]

I woke up from dreaming that I went to a huge grassy school yard at night, using my howling to let some native men know I was looking for them. I just hoped I wouldn’t be attacked by any vicious dogs all the while. I had nothing on me. No money, no lighter, no keys.

 

[Light Housework]

Had another nap and dreamt you were among quite a number of people in my apartment when I got home and you were wiping down a table. You were fully dressed and on your bottom you had dress slacks on and I reached out to cup your genitals or your balls at least. I gave them a slight squeeze and released them so you could resume wiping the table. It was my way of making fun of you being the little guy or girl or whatever sentient being wipes tables. There had been a leak, coming down a crevasse from the ceiling. My apartment was on the top floor and the rain was filtering into my couch and I was screeching at the building manager’s cell phone line, to a man who was not the building manager and couldn’t have cared less at my alarm. After I discovered that you and your gang had infiltrated my apartment and put things in there like an entertainment system that spread out into three screens to portray one film or video, so to watch the show I had to alternate between screens trying to piece them together to make the video whole in my mind. Just like you to play silly games. There were many animals that wandered into my attention span, like a baby black bear who seemed to react defensively toward two small dogs who play growled at it, so I growled at the baby bear and tried to teach it by gently biting its mouth how to play fight. Then there was a tiny dog outside a house and as I carried it home, a rust coloured dog, I wondered if I was messing with its relationship with its home, if it had a good home, but I brought it to my home, and then I realized I had it in a small container it may suffocate and overheat in, so I opened the container and I don’t remember any more interactions with it. Only that it didn’t seem traumatized. Jesse was in the dream and in my apartment when you were wiping a table, and he had a friendly vibe too. I’ve been meeting friendly people lately, though there are many who are very closed off and just looking to win at hockey or something like that. My foster brother Guy, who I adore, busted his knee playing that game. He worked in a steel mill called ‘something’ Bridge I think. His dad worked there too. They’re both survived by their wives and children. I felt I had to walk away from them after I started stripping because I knew they were now not allowed to like or approve of me because I was officially taboo now to like, as a “sex worker”. One of ‘them’. Trash. Pin the tail on the donkey. I was now a donkey for the entertainment of shaming sluts. My foster sister used to have her sex partner climb in through our bedroom window and have sex beside me in the double bed. They never pushed the sex on me so I had no problem and it went without saying I would never say anything to her siblings or parents about it, all the while she maintained the right to tell her mum that I only found work because I was my bosses’ moll. Her mom took me aside to have a talk with me. She didn’t educate me about a thing. She just wanted to find out if I’d had sex with my bosses. I hadn’t, I had only told my foster sister that my boss had told me he had a gold mine or something like that as he had me sit on his lap. He was a sleeze, but he didn’t physically penetrate me. Of course I lost heart about working under him though and never returned. I’d told my foster sister about it and she squealed not out of concern for my well being but because I made her look lazy because I went out looking for a way to earn a living as I was going to age out of the foster system funding soon. So when I found her and her mum still alive decades later posting on Facebook I didn’t reach out to either, because it never went deeper than fork and knife, being a stray cat taken in and pretty much ignored by mum and being a sidekick/plaything/prop for sis. I looked at her facebook and saw she posts those guilt trips that say “If you’re a real friend you will repost this blah blah blah” and so no, I don’t want to be her sidekick. She picked a fight with me because she was jealous that I washed dishes with care. She said I used too much soap. It was a dramatic fight and I think it did get a little physical. There was never any affection I could sense from her. Just lust to use me as entertainment. She never hurt me really, but neither did she appreciate me. I’ve had many foster sisters and some foster brothers. Guy was the only brother I connected with and then I turned into a stripper with thick black eyeliner like a raccoon when I went to visit and he and his father were sitting at the big solid oak table the father made in his garage. I delivered the news and their jaws dropped, their eyes grew wide, and they were too afraid to say anything. I knew the heat would be on them if they had anything to do with a stripper so I dropped out of sight for many years and decades later I wanted to show them my paintings of the last four years and found out the father had long ago died, and that Guy was also dead. He died a few years ago I think. Damn. I remember us play fighting in the kitchen when no one was around. We both sensed the sexual excitement and left off out of respect for the family dynamics. We liked each other. Trusted each others’ good natures. But it was taboo to go deep, sexually or otherwise. So I ended up back with Mike, who never loved me, never truly trusted me, Mike who I believe killed his black labrador puppy he named Max, who looked up at me as he died, seeming happy to see me as he took his last breath. I never got to know that pup until he was at death’s door looking up at me from the concrete sidewalk outside the building Mike and I rented an apartment in, with his buddy Craig. I wonder how Mike is coping now. He said he was regularly made to give the janitor in Weredale boys’ home blow jobs. Maybe it was the only true thing he ever said to me, or maybe it was just another of his millions of lies. Something messed up his connection to his own sensitivity. He couldn’t recognize that I was absolutely his friend, and anything else I could be that he needed. He treated me like a doll.

Here is one of my dolls and myself who can be a doll if I want to.

 

[Light Housework]

Sandra gave me a good deal on a pair of portraits she made.

 

[Light Housework]

I don't remember why, but for some reason I pictured a plus sign on my wrist. Taking this picture to remind me. At the time there was meaning behind the idea. Maybe it'll make sense sometime. I have the song in my head called Don't Look At Sean.