the shake. the agnus dei

I am listening to noise. I'm shaking like a leaf.

I am tired. I haven't eaten enough. I just sang my lungs out for a couple of hours.

Caffiene is getting to me.

I've left the windows of my place open. It's cold.

Yesterday I was playing with a piece of glass and I cut the first finger of my right hand. My mouse finger. My writing hand. There are three tiny slices in the fingertip. One is deep and hurts a bit whenever I touch this keyboard. I didn't notice that the finger was bleeding for ten or fifteen minutes after I cut it.

Praying. Still shaking. My teeth are chattering. Thinking about sex. They're tangled in my mind sometimes. Two kinds of intimacy. Two consummations. This is not so much heresy as a recognition of a place beyond words. Prayer is something visceral.

There is a beautiful film by Roberto Rosselini called "Stromboli", Ingrid Bergman plays a woman named Karen, in a tiny isolated village on a volcanic island. At the end of the film Bergman's character is overcome. She stands at the top of a mountain, a volcano, and screams "Dio! Dio!" It's the encounter with the "too much, too much, too great for me" that is her scream. This is the visceral.

Too much. Too much. Too great for me. My prayer is the shaking. The consummation. The noise. My own wordlessness. The notes of "Agnus Dei" are in the ache of my muscles, in the sting in the first finger of my right hand as I write this.

george street wakes up.

george street in the fifties

I'm up before six, I feel rested and I can't go back to sleep. I could never understand the early risers who'd wake up and then that was it. They'd make a cup of coffee and stay awake.

I've known a few. Hell, I've lived with a few. Frighteningly productive people they are. They have showered, caffienated and started their days a good three hours before I stir.

I've pulled more than my fair share of all-nighters over the past couple of months. I've watched George Street wake up. I haven't really woken up with George Street in a long time.

The man who I presume to be Pete, is in Pete's Subs, just sitting behind the counter, maybe counting his change. Now he's wiping tables.

Alfred, my mysterious neighbour across the street is at his computer. Someday I'm just going to wave at him, silhouetted at his window. I must look similar, with my face bathed in blue computer light. I must keep similar hours to Alfred, since see him all the time.

The bank on Brock Street just switched a light on. I can see a man in a white shirt going through and flipping the switches. The bank lights up east to west. The security guard just showed for work. He's early, the man in white just let him in.

A girl with a knapsack just walked by. She looked in my window and saw me seeing her.

I fell asleep last night at dinnertime. I've slept for something like thirteen hours.
Good morning George Street.

My dinner. Better than your dinner.

Because the flying spaghetti monster clearly says so.

I had whole spelt spaghetti with tomato sauce from scratch.
That's right, it had olive oil, tomatoes, onions, loads of lovely red pepper, rosemary and about fifteen cloves of garlic. Seriously kids, let's not kid around about garlic. It tastes good. For protein I threw in some pressed firm tofu from Minh's Chinese Grocer downtown.

Spelt spaghetti is great. It's dark brown, and has a lot more substance than the white-flour variety. It made my tummy happy.

I topped it all off with some nutritional yeast for a shot of B vitamins.
Mmmm, B vitamins...

where do you hold your hands when we talk on the phone?

I am tired and sore dear friends, tired and sore. And I got a sunburn, and a windburn, and maybe even some frostbite. I can't tell.

Today went a little like this
- up early, did some reading, showered.
- went for coffee with Dahn and Jesse.
- sped to campus to vote in the referendum
- operated the Booth of Truth outside for five hours. It was cold. It was windy. It was sunny. But I got the students to tell the truth on the radio. I also got a bunch of them to vote.
- sped to Trent Radio for a Board Meeting.
- Dahn's for an avocado sandwich
-Lifedrawing modelling. Thus the soreness. It'll be the last time I model until I hook myself up with other places around town. I worked hard. The artists like me more than a friend.
- Trent Radio again for my show. Got home just before midnight.
- Late night errand! Just got in.

Bah, I'm exausted. I'm getting my hair cut off tomorrow. I'm sick of it. I want a cute short cut again. A la Breathless. No more combs!

The tyranny of combs is ended, as has my energy. Goodnight.
Good luck, friend.
Good night.

break my heart and break my bones.

(photo by desiree)

These commandments that I give you today are to be upon
your hearts.
Impress them on your children.
Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road,
when you lie down
and when you get up.

- Deuteronomy 6:6-7

the neglected blog. my sexy radio voice.




Why is it that killing a blog feels a bit like some sort of internet homicide? I dont really feel like killing the blog, but I guess I've been letting it hibernate for a while. It's not that there's nothing happening in my life. Quite the opposite. There's a fair amount going on, most of which I don't feel like sharing with the internet at the end of the day.

I just got back from the radio. I closed up the place. Illiadis-the-operator mostly lets me and the Thursday night noise-boy, Grenon do our shows and close up solo. We are the late night kids. I am late night community radio.

I did a quick speech for the levy commitee tonight at Traill college. Trent Radio needs a raise, as our levy hasn't been changed since 1989. I was the last person to present, after candidates and other referendum presentations. I went up and introduced myself, gave the little talk and took questions. Then we ate cookies and people came up to talk to me. One guy (running to be on the board of Governors) says to me "So... as soon as you opened your mouth I was like Oh my God listen to her radio voice! So smooth!-"
" - so sultry!" interrupted a stunning redhead, amid nods from others around.

Dear god, I can sound sultry while saying "adjusted annually to the consumer price index"? SULTRY?

I think that calls for a martini!