Baker Baker

Baking a cake

Make me a day

Make me whole again

And I wonder

What's in a day

What's in you cake this time

-T. Amos

I feel that I am in a period of transition, as though I'm being torn between multiple dimensions. I'm not overtly depressed but I'm certainly not content either and yet I seem to lack the motivation to affect anything. It's this constant cycle of doing one thing that I don't want to do to another to another to another until the end of all time and I die. Well, not really. There will hopefully be little to no death involved. I see myself becoming more and more insolent lately, and just incapable of putting up with things and moreso people. It seems everyone and their dog is pissing me off, and not because they're acting any differently than how they normally do, but all their little isms are just irking me so. Things that I thought were so solid are showing cracks. Specifically friendships are beginning to appear less flawless than before. Not when we are in each others presence, but rather when I am standing back looking at one of them with others or even by themselves, I'm finding myself asking, "How real are we?"

If we're being honest, there's something within me that feels the need to be important to everyone I know, to matter, to be special. This is not said in the hopes of getting overly sentimental e-mails from friends confirming their commitment to our relationship, though I wouldn't hate you for it. It's more to do with how sick it is that I resent the fact that were I not here, life would go on. I don't mean "not here" as in death, just that there would not be a global shift were I to not be here all of a sudden. In keeping with my existentialism, it really wouldn't matter (cause I wouldn't be here), but it's not exactly a fuzzy thing to think about.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. Probably not a good place. So I'm stopping. Just...guh, people.

*sigh* I'm back at work.

They've missed me. It's obvious by their grey, unemoting faces, that clearly my presence was missed during the four months since I left them. I've not actually worked since the first week of August and while I'm glad to start making up for the aproximate two grand that I've spent since then, I'm not looking forward to the endless numbers and filing. This is the joy that is working for the gov.

I know this will come as a suprise, but I really feel that I was meant to be independantly wealthy. I'd still work for the Fringe and have a music career and all that jazz, but worrying about finances is just such a waste of time. It's not as though I want material items for the sake of having material items. I simply enjoy being esthetically pleased, truly taking advantage of life's beauty via fashion and design.

I just simply must bear in mind that it is a mere four hours until Rockin' In The Free World.

Yesterday started out as the best day ever. I went to a couple classes, during which I spent most of my time sitting on my ass, not really thinking. Then J and I went and undulated in the sickness that is Foody Goody. Kids, it's worth it alone for the ice cream bar; there's 16 different types of hard ice cream! Having completely stuffed ourselves, we went to the village to do some errands: I got some new buttons for my bag including one that I'm kinda nervous about (it's black with a big red stop sign that says "STOP...using Jesus as an excuse for your narrow-minded bigotry"), and I made U the world's best custom-made shirt EVER with a gold insignia of David Bowie circa Ziggy Stardust. Then we sat outside on a patio for an hour and laughed hysterically.
In the evening I got together with U and gave her the shirt, which she loved (SO glad). Best person to give presents to ever. We proceeded to Second Cup where I noticed a boy named K that I went to lunch with once this summer. We got along just fine, but despite his considerable intelligence, there was a snarkiness and a Desire-esque pretty-boy quality which kinda didn't do it for me, so I didn't really pursue it and he obviously didn't feel a strong connection as he didn't really follow it either. We still chat every once and a while and whatever, it's all good. Now, we momentarily locked eyes when U and I were in line but I was on the phone, and then afterwards when he walked by and I said "Hey, how's it going?" and he kept walking, I'm just going to assume that he thought I was talking to someone else. Whatever. Not a big deal, out we went to sit on the patio.

U and I spend an uprorious hour outside and as we get up, who should come strolling down the street than Mr. The-Oddest-Non-Date-Of-My-Life (scroll down a couple months), who in the end turned out to be rather cheesy and flakey. It was clearly too late to ignore him so we both tersely said hello in a fake-friendly way, inquiring as to the other one's summer, etc. "Oh, I love Montreal," he said, having been told I had been there, "but I'm meeting someone inside, so I've gotta go."

Oh, you know they were totally meeting each other.

And you know that somehow, in my sick little mind, I had been envisioning this EXACT situation for months now. It seems so perfect: two pretty, snarky, young, generic guys meeting at a generic location for generic conversation mostly concerning their fake Armani belts and occasionally attempting pseudo-intellectualism. It's moment like this that I just really feel the urge to look heavenly and I say, "Um, are you fucking kidding me?!"

After that I decided to go home and watch Before Sunset, hoping beyond hope that it's duelling cynicism and idealism about modern love would convince me that I was destined for something far greater than cookie-cutter homo boys in their fake leather jackets from Le Chateau Warehouse, that I was destined for a far more grandiose, real suede from Winner's life.

It only kind of helped. I fell asleep in bed with my clothes on. I'm not sure why. I've never done it before. I guess it just seemed like in that moment of lying in bed, I didn't want to remove any more layers, lest they correspond to emotional layers à la "Ogres are like onions".

In any case, I woke up with one hell of a wedgie.

Let's all stop playing the Noble Blogger game. Let's stop pretending that we're all just writing so we can get our thoughts down and really be more self-aware because of it. Certainly this is a factor, but I'm gonna stop lying: I blog because I want people to fucking read it. Yes, it's cathartic to right down my inner thoughts and dreams, but really, the only way that would work would be if I didn't take into consideration that other people might be reading it and therefore censoring myself, which I certainly do. So, having admitted all of this, I debated treating the blog more like a column, à la Sex in the City, but that seemed far too self-serving and arrogant. So I'm going to continue more or less what I've been doing, but without hesitating to reference past posts.

Whatever.

So in one of my initial rants I was discussing the joys of being a slave to public transportation, specifically the decorum regarding proper seating protocol. I saw a couple on the bus on Friday who were not going ga-ga with PDAs (which, you know, I love), but they were holding hands, and that's nice, and not frowned upon at all by society, so whatever, good for them. Anyway, all of a sudden, out of the periphery of my vision, I noticed some irregular twitching in the general area where their hands were so lovingly interlaced. She was picking the dirt out from underneath his nails.

That is so, just, - NAH - not cool. I mean that is a level of comfort far beyond anything I can even comprehend. I can't even get a boy to return a text message, and this guy is having his boogers picked out from under his pinky by his significant other.

I applaud you, sir.

Da bitch is back wit a summer recap

Now that the summer is nearly over, I need some time to reflect on the past couple months and how so much of it went horribly, horribly wrong. 'Wrong' not being necessarily negative, just not as planned.

The Fringe went off very well as far as the staff was concerned. If any of you S of M-ers remember Michael and Andrew's acquaintance, H, with her voice 'loud and strident', well, I had the supreme pleasure of working with her this summer. As in the past, I found myself once again on the divine end of an angel-devil spectrum. Our supervisor LOVES me (note present tense - we're doing coffee this week) and would regularily bring me into her little office space to bitch about how ineffectual our coworker was. While I was happy to be well-liked (as I'm sure most people are), I was by no means pleased by H's lack of work ethic as it just meant more sheehat for us to pick up. Whatever. It's over. I'll be back next year. She won't.

Otherwise the Fringe was same-old-same-old: senior citizens bitching the Starbucks brewed the (free!) coffee too strong, careworkers for our developmentally delayed volunteers dicking off, a constant struggle to explain why our volunteers only got X amount of benefits and not X+amillionotherthings, etc, etc. *sigh* I love it. And I'm so part of the team now; lsat year I was kind of the student who didn't know that much, and while everyone seemed to like me, I still felt like I was working for them. This year it fel like I was working with them, which made all the difference in the world.

Folklorama started the day after Fringe ended which, pour moi, meant getting out of the last show at 12:45am and being at the site of the Israeli pavillion nay 10 hours later for an all day rehearsal the bled into performances at 6:45, 8:15, and 9:45. The entire week was kind of one big pain in the ass with personal and political tensions running high for me. The artistic director also informed me that I'm in the budget for next year which translates into a co-director position, something I've been gunning for for quite some time now but not for the normal reasons. For most, a senior position is a symbol of the work they have put in, their experience, and the fact that they are the post qualified for the position. I acknowledge that I may count these among the reasons I'm happy for the post but they by no means comprise the overall satisfaction. That would be the chance to take a group that has so much potential that it's leaking out of their asses and actually make music with said anal leakage. So instead of simply immitating what we hear on a tape, I'm going to try to turn us into a group of musicians, as far as I can with 4 hours of rehearsal time a week. I just hope that political tensions will subside once this is all announced and that we can get on with being more than we are.

I'm tired, so let's call this Part I to the summer recap, shall we?