Green girls

Green, awkward girls,

Send little yellow envelopes,

With purple lined pages,

Covered in scratchy blue printing,

That ask for little white dates,

Sent in red mail boxes,

Delivered by black shoed postworkers,

To navy front doors,

Slid through golden mail slots,

And land on beige front carpets,

Picked up by pink manicured fingers,

Of mothers in teal tanktops,

Which are placed on grey granite counters.

Curious striped socks wander,

On dark hardwood floors,

Brown eyes scan,

The little yellow envelope,

And the scratchy blue printing,

From one green, awkward girl

To another.

Growing pains.

At the end of a party,

A girl told a younger girl

"You can't like me because you are too young,

You are too naive, too new,

Too awkward."

"But I like you," she said.

"Too bad," the older one replied back.

And walked away.

The younger girl grew up

In the middle of the street,

She told an even younger girl

"You can't like me because you are too young,

You are too naive, too new,

Too awkward."

"But I like you," the even younger girl said. "I really like you."

"Too bad," she said.

She too walked away.

The even younger girl grew up.

At the end of the night,

She told a younger than her girl

"You can't like me because you are too young,

You are too naive, too new

Too awkward."

"But I like you," the younger than her girl said. "I really really like you."

"Too bad," she said.

She walked away just like the others did.

The even younger than her girl grew up.

I don't even have to tell you what she said to the girl who was younger than her

In the middle of a field at night.

Everything happened just like it happened before.

On days when

On days when:

Your aunt can't remember that your mom drives a blue car,

Your aunt looks at you with a confused, distant look,

Your course supervisor sends you a stern "I'm disappointed in you" email at 8:00am,

On days when:

You call said course supervisor, leave a message, and miss the return call,

You call again and leave a message but you can't remember your cellphone number because you are so shaken up,

You actually leave a message that goes:

"its alyson, I'm returning your call, my phone number is 905 716- shit. I forgot my phone number right now. Sorry, just call me back."

On days when:

You are asked a hundred times how your project is going,

You you get a dual sympathetic/stern get-your-shit-done email from Liss Platt,

You drink so much coffee you might throw up,

You run into the only other student in your course (who you never want to see again),

On days when:

You feel like the world is against you,

Your mother yells at you for doing "nothing" at school all day,

Your sister sides with your professors instead of you,

On days when:

Your find time sensitive forms you should have mailed in three weeks ago,

Your older friend asks you what you should do with your life,

Your dinner plans start at 8:30 instead of 7:30pm because they're running late,

On days when:

You don't bring the key to John's apartment

You can't grab a glass of water or go in even though he said you could because you have no key,

You spend said hour in Jackson square

On days when:

You are too scared to check your email,

You can't go to sleep

You just have to laugh.

Because its been so terrible,

It's actually funny.

Dear universe,

Dear universe,

What do I do on nights like these? I cannot bother sleeping bodies, I cannot find waking bodies to talk to. I can talk to paper, talk to air, talk to nothing, talk to the nothingness, le néant. I could send e-mails, send text messages, write letters to send in the daylight, but no one is here to talk to. In all honesty, what the fuck am I supposed to do?

I made art, I made art, yet I am supposed to be making a website. All I want to do is make everything right. I don't feel ok. I am so far from ok, I forgot what ok is supposed to feel like when you actually feel ok, and aren't lying about it.

My aunt is dying. I ate the pasta she cooked for us a few days ago. That will probably be the last time she makes it. Fuck. I need a hug, I need a hug like an addict needs their fix. I am an addict though, so I guess that simile doesn't work as well as it ought to.

I can't stop shaking, universe. I can't stop crying. I can't stop feeling like nobody cares. I see my mom in the morning, I say hi. She goes out, then I go out. I come home and she is watching television (this is around 8pm). I watch some tv with her even though I don't care to. I go into my room, later I will say goodnight. We repeat this night after night, not really connecting.

My sister will not let me touch her. I can't even tap her on the shoulder. She freaks out. I asked her for another hug today, and she said she doesn't give hugs. I asked again, and she said she would. One arm rested at her side, her hand clutching the bag she calls her best friend, and the other embraces me.

"It's not really a hug unless you use both arms," I say. She smirks, then walks past me.

Universe, I do not know if I am strong enough for camp this year. Every year I've always stopped cutting about a month before I go. I never cut in the summer, never at camp. I have scabs, I have newly healing scars. I have desire and compulsion. I am so scared of being discovered.

Universe, I have been cutting for 5, maybe 6 years now. I have yet to really get better. I have yet to stop cutting for good. I have yet to love myself enough to stop.

And these nights seem to just get worse and worse. What am I supposed to do when they get worse than this? What am I supposed to do? At best, anything this late is an annoyance to anyone. An annoyance, and for what? So I can stop feeling sad for a bit? So I don't cut myself? Big fucking deal. I'm supposed to know how to deal with things on my own, aren't I?

I read the wikipedia on a book that there are currently no requestable copies of at the library. It states nothing matters as much as we think it does. In fact, it barely matters at all. I don't know if this idea makes me feel better or worse right now.

It's 4:00am.

I am sorry universe for putting you through this. I feel like you can handle anything I tell you because you are so large. Large enough for the earth and all its problems.

Goodnight.

-A,L.

Easy

I am not easy.

I am not easy to like. I am not easy to understand. I am not easy to love.

I can't take it easy.

We're all complicated,

But I wish I wasn't so complicated.

It is not easy for me to sleep, to get things done, to feel appreciated.

All I want is to get some sleep, get things done, and feel appreciated.

It is not easy for me to read a lot. It is easy for me to read, but when I read, I over think. I over think, so I have learned to be careful of how much I read.

Cutting is easy. Apathy is easy. Boredom is easy. Silence is easy.

It is not easy to wake up in the morning.

It is not easy to wake up.

It is not easy to live, to keep living.

It is not easy to be alone so much,

To be alone almost all the time,

To be alone

Boring

When I hang out with you,

Sometimes I feel so boring.

Like I am boring you.

I try to talk about things, and I just spew words.

You don't just tell me things, or relate anecdotes.

When you are with them, the words seem to come so much more easily for you.

You tell them stories, they laugh.

You have a good time.

I am boring.

Fight boring

With drinks and goodtimes.

Cheers.

Point is?

Too much coffee.

Not enough sleep.

Jittery, jittery, illogical.

I would pay for a hug

That I didn't ask for.

I asked my sister today for a hug.

She smiled at me,

Lightly patted my shoulder.

I don't come from a family of huggers.

Human contact,

Is that something you ought to ask for?

Everything feels shaky.

No one should trust anything I say today.

I'm not making sense.

Today will probably be the day of a thousand posts.

High functioning, this is high functioning.

Asterisk

You say you want a girl who's a, b, c.

That it doesn't matter what else,

You just want someone who's a, b, c.

Everyone believes you when you say

"Y'know, in life I just want an a, b, c kinda person. That's it."

It would serve you well to add an asterisk after c,

And when you are done, to footnote the conversation.

It would look something like this

____________________________

*I really want the whole alphabet.

I am not happy with three letters.

I say that's the only criteria for

happiness in my life,

but I really want so much more,

that it's impossible to fully describe.

There's nothing wrong with that.

It's just that she thinks you only want a, b, c.

That you are happy with her because she's a, b, c.

She doesn't know.

Granted, she could just look at your past.

Collect the fragments and figure it out,

But she really likes you.

So this blinds her to your complexities.

She thinks you really like her.

She's a, b, c, and even d, f, g to me.

I shouldn't have to tell her.

Shouldn't have to allude to anything.

She's just your a, b, c.

And when you find an a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, k,

You're going to break her.

Breaking a beautiful girl

Ought to bring more bad luck

Than breaking a mirror.

They do not shatter like glass,

They rip like flower petals,

Slowly, and softly.

There is no echoing noise as shards scatter across the ground,

Just a soft tearing sound,

Then a whispering brush,

As all the things she felt falls to the ground.

They shrivel and dry.

God, boys are dumb.

XXX1-9

XXX 1

"I don't like her."

My sister says this as we walk down the street.

"Why?" I ask. "She seems nice."

"I just don't like her," she states again, firm in her belief.

I realize why she doesn't like her. She's "that kind of girl."

Intimidatingly beautiful, she seems to give off an innate confidence that can translate to "bitch" or for lack of a better word, "intimidating" just because of how she looks.

This is something that I think Girl Love really stands for.

Not getting intimidated or stereotyping girls negatively because you don't know them well, and because you think they are a specific "type" of person. Really, we should just like or dislike people on an individual basis when we've had a chance to meet them.

XXX 2

I used to think that I was the most agreeable person when it came to photography. That there was little that annoyed me. Even typical macro flower shots, or nature I didn't mind because some people just like to photograph flowers, and some people just like to paint flowers even though I think they are boring as subject matter. I mean I take shots of flowers and sometimes I'll paint flowers too, but in general, I don't like to.

Then I came across HDR photos.

I realized that I hate these kinds of photos, and the intense praise they seem to attract.

Comments include:

"Stunning shot!"

"Exquisite!"

It looks like something out of a fantasy novel. It's too gaudy, and I don't see the big deal.

I like this photo so much more. Maybe its because I've followed this girl's photos for awhile, and I know that this photo means something. Maybe I'm boring, but I can relate to this a hundred times more than HDR.

XXX 3

Ah, I'm trying to make this a comprehensive post. Aka long, and about everything so I don't have to do three hundred posts in the little time that's left of today.

Today I tried to teach a girl about feminism. I really think that feminism is something that you get, or you don't get. She was studying for her women's studies exam that got deferred. The girl went to my high school, and I had been friends with her sister. Her sister was awkward and nerdy like me, and this girl always struck me as kind of a bitch (but I am trying this girl love thing, so I thought maybe she's not as dense or as mean as I thought!).

Besides, I like teaching people things. She was impressed by the fact that I was making zines.

"Who's paying you to do that?" She asked me kind of shocked.

"No one," I replied.

She was all excited that I was making zines because she read an article on zines! And I thought, "Who the fuck writes academic articles on zines anyways?" Full of my new feminist identity, I tried to explain some major points on articles she didn't understand. I never read the articles, I kind of just skimmed them and gathered the major points. I've done this a lot helping my sister write papers, and if its not for my class, I can gather the main argument rather quickly.

"I've never felt oppressed in my life before as a woman. I've never felt like I didn't get something because I was a woman, so it's hard for me to understand these issues," she admits to me.

I didn't know what to say to help her "get it"(now I'm assuming that she needs to understand women's studies to live a better life, but I think I'm just going to stop over-over-analyzing the things I say). I think a lot of people write off women's studies as a legitimate discipline. You either get it, or you don't, and if you're not going to take the time to understand it, and step out of your way of thinking, then its not going to work for you. You're going to dismiss it, and listen to youtube videos about cats and accept the world as being as perfect as you think it is.

I probably should have tried harder, but I'm not Judith Butler, and I wanted to make sure she understood something in the one hour she had before her exam.

"Ha ha, just so long as you don't capitalize bell hook's name, you'll be fine!" I joked. She'd read one or two articles by her in the term.

"What? You don't capitalize her name?"

"No, you don't... But don't worry, you'll do fine anyways!"

Before she left, I asked her if she wouldn't mind if I cut out the article from her course reader on zines. She let me have it, and I read it after she left. I was glad it was written in 2009, not 1999.

For the history of zines, it says its mainly believed to be a white, middle class, educated thing. You know, grrls and punk rock and 3rd wave feminism. And I understand that a lot of people who make zines are white, middle class, educated women who have access to the internet. The article thought that I didn't know how white zine making is.

Thing is, I know I'm privileged. I know I'm white. I know I'm middle class. I know there are poor girls, coloured girls, native girls, girls on welfare with babies who can't make zines. Who can't say what they want to say, who don't even know they can make something like zines. And it makes me feel guilty that they can't make zines in Africa and distribute them like I can, and that I can't read zines from Israel and Pakistan about women's issues. But what am I supposed to do?

I'm just one girl, who makes zines. I mean I can say, "This issue of Gender Fuck What is going to be all about race and gender, this issue is going to be all about gender in Iran." But that wouldn't be good enough for bell hooks, that wouldn't be good enough for Judith Bulter. I'm still fucking white. I'm still educated. I'm still privileged.

For the sake of my story, let's say I found an indigenous girl who couldn't afford to make zines, didn't know what they were, but wanted to express herself in a way that would work well for a zine. Ok, so we get together, and I show her my zines and bring some supplies that I have that she doesn't. She makes it, I pay for the copying because she doesn't really have the money to make zines. I mean, I spend enough money on coffee, I could probably actually do this.

I'm still some white patron figure. Judith Butler would say something extraordinary about me using my privileged whiteness as a sort of phallic symbol that is probably colonial in nature.

Well, aly, who gives a fuck what JB thinks of you if you're helping a girl make zines, and adding her voice to a mainly North American/white/middle class dominated art form?

Sometimes it just makes me want to scream. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I know I'm white. Everything I make is white, everyone I try to help will be influenced by my white culture, and white ideals even if I try to be more diverse, even if I try to be objective. I wish I wasn't white and queer. I wish I wasn't white and queer and middle class and caucasian.

I know I feel entitled. I know I'm lucky I'm writing a blog right now in a house that protects me from the elements and keeps my freshly copied and stitched zines dry. I'm lucky I can read academic articles for fun, read books when I want to, buy and make zines, go for coffee. I can walk with my sister at sunset without fear that I'm going to get shot in the back of my head, raped, or murdered because of my body, race, or sexuality. My body will not be fucked, then dismembered and thrown into an alley.

I'm so fucking lucky. I'm even lucky I'm so depressed. Life is so fucking great! I can even be depressed! I mean I don't have to worry about feeding children, having AIDS, and I never have to worry that someone is going to find out I like girls and hang me as my father nods in approval. I can cut myself if I want to, I can find some street drugs, smoke, drink until I vomit. Some people just get cut by other people and get drugged. I'm lucky, because I can do it all to myself if and when I want to.

I'm ranting, but I just really don't get what I'm supposed to do.

XXX 4

Today when I was walking to the bus, I cut across a parking lot. A group of guys in a car drove slowly past me and started waving at me and smirking, one of them was laughing. And I thought "Is it because I look more masculine today?" "Is it because I'm fat?" "Is it because I don't look like someone they'd fuck, so they think I'm funny?" They could have just been nice, but I've gotten enough things shouted at me and thrown at me from behind car windows to know that it probably wasn't.

XXX 5

Plans for late late August/early September:

1. Go to Montreal for a few days/a weekend and take no prisoners. Whether this is alone or with my sister or with anyone else, I am going to Montreal. I will have to remind myself of this often. I am going to Montreal.

2. Start a queer/feminist/grrl band. I've wanted to start a band for so long, so why not? I'm going to ask everyone I know, and possible venture to craigslist and the sketchy underbelly of the internet. I feel like a band would bring some sort of regular socialization to my life.

XXX 6

I ran into Leah today, and I realized that I was kind of unwilling to learn alternative methods of things that I do i.e. stitching zines. I dunno why I care so much that zines have to be stitched in a particular way even though sometimes I'm annoyed I can't get the knots right. It's not the first time its happened where someone's made a suggestion to do something slightly different. It's not like she said, "Fuck, aly. Weak zines." It was the same when my dad tried to teach me how to change things that I'm doing which are slightly wrong on the guitar, and in Quebec when people would correct every second word I said. Well, both are different from stitching zines, but maybe I feel like when I learn how to do something, especially on my own, that there is something that will make it less personal if someone else shows me how to do it. I should be more willing to try old things in new ways, I just get defensive sometimes.

XXX 7

I am sick of being asked questions. I think I love this art project for it the way it deals with this. Basically the idea is that trans or genderqueer people are photographed with signs of things friends, family members, peers or colleagues have asked them. Link is here. It's probably old, but I wish I could paint some signs and ask people shit they ask me and see how they feel. I know people just want to know, and they are naturally curious. I know I've asked some bad questions in my day, but unless you're on the receiving end, you don't know how badly questions can hurt.

I don't have super short hair, I don't identify as trans. It's not even "are you gay?" questions that bother me. It's the subtle ones, the ones where you think the questioner should know better, but they don't.

XXX 8

I told him my plan, and he's not going to stop me. This is liberating. This is frightening. This is life. I say this squeezed at the end of what feels like a thousand thoughts. It's not a bad plan, or that kind of plan. It's just a plan.

When I sit on the floor half-dressed some mornings, I know I am having a bad start to a day. I can't even finish putting on clothes. I sit on the floor and think, "what if life stopped now?" Who does that other than me? Maybe everyone does, and we are too afraid to tell each other we sit and think about our own mortality in our underwear.

Around the age of 14 I used to play a game where I would go in my room after dinner, and instead of watching tv I would lie on my bed completely still and pretend I was dead. I would close my eyes and listen to my breathing and count the time that passed. I was dead, and I was waiting for my mother, my sister, or my brother or anyone to come and find me. Most of the time no one did after a long time, and I got bored and went to watch tv.

I don't like the idea of being forgotten. I like to think that I mean something, that my life and my thoughts mean something. Yet, I always feel forgotten, forgettable. Disposed, disposable. Like I am continuously fading to white. Just before my grandmother went into the hospital for the second time, for the last time, we were sitting on her couch in the living room. She was really weak, and she turned to me and said, "Alyson, I just want you to know that even though it feels like it sometimes, no one will ever forget you."

Remembered by dead people. Do dead people remember? Does my grandmother remember me? Will my aunt remember me? My words never evoke the exact emotions I feel.

(I am a lazy writer because I use too many words to say such few things. I need to make my writing flow better, cut out the filler. This takes time and energy. I just write and don't look back at the messes I make. I'm not trying to be, "Oh look at me, I'm so sad." I'm just trying to collect my thoughts into something that I can look at later. Something to make sense of later.)

xxx 9

"You'll find someone if you stop looking."

I know this is true because that's what happened last time.

But I can't stop looking, I can't stop that looking feeling.

I'm glad I'm so believable.

x: How long do you think you will live for?

z: Until 3001

x: You don't think you will ever try to kill yourself again,

Right?

z: Maybe.

x: What do you mean by maybe?

z: Never can tell the future.

x: Right now, do you think you're on the side of maybe not, or maybe yea?

z: I don't want to kill myself right now.

x: You would tell me if you wanted to though, right?

z: I would.

x: That makes me feel better. You know I would tell you, right? Because I would.

z: I do know. Because you have. And I'm sorry when I haven't been there for you. I really am.

x: It's not like I'm going to shoot myself when I'm done this conversation.

z: Good.

x: I'm glad I'm so believable.

(I should probably make this private soon for good because it's getting too angsty to share and I pump out prose and rants like I think it means something. Enjoy it while you can, assuming you can find value in any of it)

Feeling guilty, feeling infinite

(I made this and sent it to post secret france about a year ago. It made it on the website, and I got really excited. Translates to: It's hard to be free like you.
I know I write too much. Regardless of how many amazing people have told me I don't write too much, I am still going to think it. So I'll say it again. I write too much. )

tonight all these out of order thoughts came to me.

I felt infinite.

the last time I felt infinite,

it was two years ago,

maybe three.

I texted the girl I had.

I said

"I feel infinite"

I didn't have to explain

what infinite felt like.

tonight,

I walked in a field,

at night,

wearing a blue skirt,

without tights and socks or shoes.

I felt infinite.

mosquito bites and long grasses,

setting sun.

it felt like a movie,

one where the main character is an awkward girl

who makes zines and lives in her head.

like Amelie and the Science Of Sleep,

but gayer and lonelier.

but still beautiful.

well, the cinematography would be beautiful.

the girl, just so so.

I want to go swimming.

I want to go to the beach.

I want to wear a bathing suit,

one without shorts and say,

"I am scarred, I am scared, but I am here."

I am here.

I am here, and being here

is really fucking hard a lot of the time.

sitting on the bench,

the field surrounded me,

and I felt like my life was a lot like this field.

a field with little white flowers, with no one there.

two years ago,

I think of what happened on that night.

I realized that right now I am two thirds the same person,

one third different.

two thirds the same problems:

parents, body, self-perception, fear, cutting,

the one third difference is the fact that I'm working on it.

that I've changed,

gotten better in some regards,

worse in others.

when I die,

wherever I go when I stop breathing,

it will be like the field.

I love the field, so it won't be a bad thing.

past, present, everything comes together in the field,

and I think and watch the seagulls.

no one yells at me.

there is no pressure to be anything

but myself.

there's always a cool breeze.

I feel guilty

for sifting through the past.

I sift non-linearly, when I have time at night,

your past, his past, her past.

reading all the words that you wrote,

reading them,

even though they are there to be read.

gosh,

you've changed.

I am happy.

I am alone.

I am not lonely anymore.

Images, father's day, names.

I can't seem to find the right image that captures what I need for a header on this blog/writing/whatever this is thing. It's important that its a reflection of me, but for right now, I can't come up with anything, I don't feel like making anything either. The last image was too dull, the one before too random, the one before too girly.

Today was father's day. Uneventful I guess. Hung out with my dad. Because I'm a multimedia major, I'm going to be forever roped into being tech support, whether or not I know what I'm actually doing. Today I helped my dad make a blog, and I helped my brother help his friend burn movies to a DVD, instructions delivered by text. I think my dad will be the only one who genuinely misses me after next week because who will he be able to call when he can't figure out how to connect to the internet?

I'm trying to name my new zine. I can't name it, and for me, naming drives the passion of the project. I have to have a good name, or else I can't see it happening. I can't really begin. Songs don't need to be named until they are finished, but things like zines, blogs, or those half-novella piece of shit, unfinished writings I have lying around need to be named before I begin.

Fifty Million Billion

She Got Soul

Gender Fuck What

Dear Girl,

It's Oblivion!

Red White Grey

They all needed names. They didn't exist without names. I like their names. I don't like any of the naming ideas I've had so far:

La Dee Dah

Granny Panties

Call me aly

My lack of brilliance is annoying. Names are really important to me, so it can't just be some fake hipster trashy thing that I come up with. I have to love it for twenty plus issues and infinity.

Today online I came across treatments like creams and sheets you can stick on your skin to reduce the appearance of scars. I keep getting awkward glances from my mother when she looks at the scars on my left shoulder. The ones that I made when I forgot to care about body location. I have to keep reminding myself the story that I told her. "Light kit broke, fell, and cut me by accident." Real story is, "I cut my arm."

It's good practice for camp.

"What happened to your arm?"

"Light kit broke, fell, and cut me by accident."

"Ok."

There's no way to explain the scars on my legs though. "I fell into some barbed wire that cut my legs in perfect lines," "I usually sit on my couch in my underwear, and my cat used to continuously scratch me," "I'm deep into S&M". (Ha ha. Could you imagine? I like that answer the best though)

All and all, I think I'll just live with them. I've been somewhere, come back from it, and no one needs to know unless they need to know. I should just focus on not adding anymore to think, worry about or hide.

Also, it's fucking hot.

Also, I'm somewhat happy, just sweaty.

Also, I'm going to stop thinking about, chasing, worrying, wanting someone because the last time I did this, stopped thinking, the sky opened up, and something happened.

Too gay for me.

I'm too gay for me.

Too queer for me.

I feel kind of like when you used to get a new toy when you were younger.

You would play with it, until you lost interest.

This queer identity,

Actually having a fucking identity,

instead of being afraid, lying, and hiding...

Is so new to me.

I've been super gay and self-accepting for a few months.

Super super queer in the past few weeks.

I just want to shake myself and say,

"Listen, get over it!"

I haven't been able to.

It's consuming me.

I remember in elementary school, when girls would experiment with makeup. They would put on so much, cake on the eyeliner and blue eyeshadow. Eventually when they got to high school, they toned down their look accordingly.

Wore less mascara, traded blues for pale pinks, outrageous lipsticks became pink lip gloss. Well, unless you were my sister, but generally speaking.

I haven't quite figured how to tone this down yet.

I feel like a fifteen year old boy. Even my sister rolls her eyes at me, when my own eyes so unsubtly wander and betray my thoughts. I want to be laid back and cool, not so hyper tense, not so girls girls girls (this is more like GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS).

In a way I'm impressed by older queer women, older lesbians who seem to be comfortable in their own selves. Most notably the dyke who works at the city dump who probably doesn't lose her mind when a girl walks by her. She rocks the short hair, the cool gaze, and the smirky nod.

Because she's the smirky nod, I'm the awkward hug.

The I'm not sure if I'm going to hug you,

but you're leaning in like we're going to hug, so I'll open my arms like this and back away a bit. Oh but we're really going to hug, so I'll hug you but I'm not sure if this is right.

Story of my life. I can't stop thinking about everything as it happens, making all my movements, thoughts, and actions even more awkward.

I can't stop thinking about how cool smirky nods, and confident girl eye contact are.

I feel like everyday is pride parade in my head. All I need is some fucking rainbows or something.

I'm too gay for me.

(Photo 1:Amadika)

(Photo 2:lost the url)

(Photo 3: Rawr-Roar)

It's better when I'm gone.

Leaving for camp in exactly a week.

No one will worry about being bothered with my late night thoughts, and Jeremy and John will not have to worry that I'll sleep on their couch too many times and use the wrong sheets. My mom won't be bothered by someone talking back to her, and my sister won't be bothered by my asking to hang out with her. As of late, she always responds with anger and frustration.

My brother will get to spend all the time he wants with my dad, by himself watching sports. Everyone else will meet their friends, make art, make plans, and do things without me there to be awkward, depressed, or antisocial.

Away from everyone, I'll feel needed, wanted, and like people care and rely on me and my opinions.

When I come back, I never feel missed. I know I'm not memorable or missable to the people here. I only have to look at the summers as evidence. Three summers of being gone, and never once did I feel missed when I came home.

On days when I come back, I feel like I should be gone. I used to think that because I was gone all summer, that people would want to see me when I came back.

Last summer I was playing a set at an art-a-thon. I was so excited about it. I told everyone beforehand at camp that I was going to hang out with my friends. I told everyone I knew about it in advance. I texted them when I was coming home, I told my sister I was going. Then I went, and no one came. People were busy, already made plans.

Already made plans, and most of them couldn't text me back when I asked, "Are you coming?"

I took the stage alone. I set up my guitar, started singing for no one. After, I was going to go to a movie by myself, but got yelled at for being out alone by my mother.

I'm sick of trying to figure out why people don't want to hang out with me. I'm sick of trying to figure out why the only way I can get someone to hang out with me is if I plan it three weeks in advance, and even then they'll cancel on me. I'm sick of feeling inadequate, too shy, and not beautiful enough to be seen with.

It's rare when someone says, "hey aly, let's hang out on such and such a day and do something," where such and such a day is tomorrow, or some spontaneous time.

That's why I'm better gone, which makes me think I'm better gone gone in the long run.

This is going to be the summer of singletude. I am going to do what I want to do, and fuck everyone else. I am going to make plans every day and every night that I am home. Even if the plans are going to the movies every night alone, fuck it. I'm going to be too busy for everyone else, like they are too busy for me.

I said, I got it.

y: You ok?

x: Not really.

y: Well, at least you're being honest about it.

x: I..

y: I know.

x: You know?

y: Yea.

x: oh.

y: Do you want to talk about it?

x: Not really.

y: You sure?

x: Do you think there's something really wrong with me?

y: Like?

x: I dunno, like those mood/personality disorders.

y: Maybe.

x: You said "maybe" instead of "no".

y: Yea. I meant "possibly". I'm not a doctor.

x: So you think that there's something wrong with me?

y: Well obviously if you'r------------------------------

x: Ok. I get it.

y: How do you think I'm supposed to react when you ask me if there's something wrong with you?

x: I said, I got it.

y: You're not ok.

x: I get it.

y: You don't get it.

x: Drop it. Forget I even asked you anything.

Girl Love

Inspired by a zine I got in the mail this week.

Girl Love is not predominately a queer thing.

It's fighting girl jealousy, girl stereotyping, and internalized sexism.

Fighting girl hatred, the fear and intimidation that we feel around cooler, prettier, smarter girls.

I might wear this shirt until I die.

Trying hard to salvage the day.

Effing Dykes needs to update because I need to know what happens next.

Little big things

"YOU'RE A FUCKING LAZY BITCH. SAY ANYTHING ELSE, AND YOU'LL BE OUT ON YOUR ASS TONIGHT."

People like me,

Who come from places like this,

On nights like this,

Don't feel loved

By anyone.

"WHY ARE THESE CLOTHES ON THE FUCKING FLOOR? HOW DO YOU THINK IT MAKES ME LOOK WHEN YOUR STINK ROTTEN CLOTHES ARE LYING ALL OVER THE FLOOR?"

We,

(And by "we", I mean "I")

Think about suicide.

I'm not going to dress it up in euphemisms.

We tell our counsellors this when we see them.

We say, "I've thought about suicide before."

"YOU THINK YOU'RE A KNOWITALL RIGHT?"

You talk about it to them.

You realize you're not actually going to kill yourself.

You know how to write essays, not kill people, let alone yourself.

Truly modern.

"WHAT DO YOU EVER DO TO HELP ME IN THIS HOUSE? I HAVE TO PAY PEOPLE TO COME AND HELP ME BECAUSE YOU ARE TOO FUCKING LAZY TO DO ANYTHING."

But,

People like me,

Who come from places like this,

On nights like this,

Lie on our beds alone.

(We're always alone.)

"YOUR UNCLE JOHN IS DRIVING TWO HOURS AWAY SO HE HAS TO STEP OVER THE LAUNDRY TO GET TO HIS ROOM THAT I SPENT ALL DAY CLEANING UP?"

Despite all the devices created to keep in touch,

All the websites, and applications,

Nothing can connect you to someone who cares.

"NOTHING EVER GETS DONE IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE UNLESS I DO IT. NEXT TIME I SEE SOMETHING ON THE FLOOR I'M GOING TO THROW IT OUT. YOU NEED TO LEARN SOME REAL DISCIPLINE."

We think about little things.

Not grandiose plots involving wills, crying, aftermaths, letters to everyone you've ever cared about or know handwritten on yellow lined binder paper where the shortest of notes ends up taking you three hours and its almost twenty sides.

(This was that one time, not this time).

"GET TO BED THIS IS YOUR PROBLEM. YOU'RE ALWAYS STAYING UP AT NIGHT."

We think about little things,

Like what leaving,

What going feels like.

"BIG FUCKING JOKE, RIGHT? THAT I THOUGHT I COULD EXPECT MY KIDS TO HELP ME?"

That little sigh,

That little exhale,

When everything is over.

"FOR TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS I'VE BEEN DOING EVERYTHING IN THIS HOUSE, WELL NOT ANYMORE."

Calculations

They don't even know

Exactly how much oil is spilling into the Gulf of Mexico,

Into the ocean

Every fucking second

Of every day

Since this thing started.

They have estimates.

But they can tell you exactly how many fucking apps are in the istore.

They can tell you exactly what Lindsay Lohan did after she got her wisdom teeth removed.

But they can't tell you how much oil is spilling into the ocean.

They say they can't track the amount of oil, that they need sensors

That they aren't sure when they're going to install.

They can perform surgery on a fetus before its born which takes less than 24 hours.

I'm pretty sure they can install some fucking sensors with a robot

And if they fail, they should just be able to try and try and try and try again.

Make it an iphone app, make it an ipad app, make it a smartphone app.

Live feed from the oil spill.

Every television show should have a little square feed in the top left hand corner.

Live feed from the oil spill.

It doesn't go away when you change the channel.

Counts the oil going into the ocean as it happens.

Is that what we need to make us care about things now?

I really don't understand why no one is losing their shit over this.

There is oil

Spilling

Into

The

Ocean.

I can't even grasp what this is doing to the grasses, fish, birds, whales.

I can't stop reading these articles

And looking at these pictues.

I'm too jumpy tonight.

Anxious.

When I get notifications of cellphone alarms, emails, or text messages,

My heart skips a beat.

Like its someone telling me we finally did it, we finally fucked shit up so much that we can't repair it.

When its just my sister, teasing me about my braces.

Just some alarms I forgot to turn off from two days ago.

Just some meetings I've planned over the next few days.

It's going to be a struggle to sleep tonight.

I haven't felt this nervous in awhile.

Ok, so I felt this nervous Sunday night and Friday night on my one woman escapades.

But I haven't felt this nervous about world things in a long time.

Breathe.

It happens all at once.

Everything is happening all at once. It always happens like this. Self-love, and self-hate. Art, and the desire to speak your mind, to actually speak your mind and say things. It comes with the desire to be reckless, to be impulsive, to feel that for one night, behind one microphone you can say whatever the fuck you want to say at that exact second. That no one will stop being your friend because of it, that you will move on and grow. That there will be no consequences.

Truth is, we are taught when we're kids, "If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say it at all."

When you say things there are consequences. Good ones and bad ones. You can't just walk into the United Nations and say, "Stephen Harper is a patriarchal sack of shit."

I would laugh at the angry feminists who say that. I could say the same thing in sharper words, better articulated. Although, sometimes you just have the feeling to say shit as you feel it. Who am I to critisize expression in its various forms?

One of the things that drives me to cutting the most is the feeling that I can't say what I want to say, or what I have to say. Sometimes I say ridiculous things my mother would crucify me for. Actually, everything I want to say that means something to me, my mother would kill me for saying.

I wrote down what I want to say. And I am bursting at the seams to say it. If I cut myself, I know I will be able to say something else. I could rip out the passion that I have for it. Shove some poem out of my hands that I don't really feel. A poem I could pretend to feel enough to share for the sake of sharing.

I don't want to share a poem I don't feel. The only reason you write slam poetry is to fucking feel something, to say something you genuinely feel. I feel this, even if the words mean nothing. I feel this.

I feel this.

Do I deny myself the ability to say something? Do I say, "Fuck it, lets just operate this poem out of your body. Let's lock the door and get this poem like a tumor out of your body through the veins on your legs."

Is this better than hurting someone else? Because you know, you're not the most fucking subtle person in the world.

This is why bus rides and walks were invented.

Ownership and Self-censorship

I try not to be a consumer, but I like to consume.

Not in the way of buying things. Even what I am wearing now, its evident I'm not a consumer who buys a lot. My bag came from my great aunt, my shoes were paid for by my mom's insurance because I have shitty feet. The tights I am wearing I got for Christmas, the skirt I have on, my sister gave me when she was cleaning out her closet. The cardigan is borrowed (without asking), and I am wearing a blue shirt I stole from my dad's value village pile.

Most days I wear at least one thing someone gave or bought for me, or something I bought second hand. I like wearing other people's clothing, clothes that they've given me. I feel more myself.

I like to consume people. I was reading that last post, and I realized that's what I do, and I just didn't realize it before. I'm not a pimp, I don't have twenty groups of friends. I like owning and consuming people. It's more than just the women's earrings that I collect. I used to be really jealous of my friends when they would have other friends. I guess I still am in some ways, but it was a lot worse when I was younger.

As a kid, I never understood why my cat didn't want to stay with me all the time. Cats like to wander around, sleep at the edge of your bed, go outside. They kill birds, mice, and aren't seen all the time. I would chase, grab, squeeze and hold my cat because I never wanted it to leave me alone. She always had to leave and do something, and this made me sad every time.

I don't like people to own me though. I think that's why I'm so reluctant to record my music, or make the art or thoughts I have available to a lot of people. I don't want to become an object. I don't want people to have this power over me where they can choose to read me, or put me on a shelf.

I like photographs and blogs that belong to other people. There are 10 girls with flickr accounts I look at almost every day even if they don't update. There's a handful of blogs or tumblrs that I frequent, but its mostly the pictures that capture me. I consume their images, I consume the moment they've chosen to share.

I think this is why I've made my blog private for a few days. Most people don't read my blog, or look at my flickr photos. It's different for me having someone consume a picture I took. Pictures are pictures. I know no one looks at the pictures I take of myself, so I don't have to worry about being consumed and owned like the girls that I own. It's my thoughts that I'm the most worried about. You would think, "Why worry about invisible things like thoughts? You write your thoughts all the time in letters and stories and things you give to people."

It's different.

Chasing inspiration

Photos taken and edited by me.

L.K. edited some photos,

So I thought, "Why not edit some photos? You don't take any fucking photos anymore."

I am bored with my subjects which are all objects lately. I already own objects.

I wish I knew girls who would let me photograph them nude, or just let me photograph them at all. I want a pretty girl to follow me around all the time and let me take photos of her. I have one boy who lets me do this, and I love him for it, but sometimes you just need a girl. I miss directing people in photoshoots and film shoots. I like telling people what to do. Dressing, posing, prepping, probing into their lives.

Ideally, in my head, I'll be a suicide girl photographer for the rest of my life.

Realistically, I'll take photos of Barbie Dolls

Sigh.

Pizza pointers

"You spread it like this," my dad says pressing the pizza dough into the circular metal pan. "You want to make sure that you patch the holes. See here?" He says pointing to a small tear where the dough had stretched too far and the grey tray peaked through.

"Spread it like this. You want to press down these big guys over here," he motions referring to patches where the dough was an uneven thickness.

I do what he says and try not to sigh. We are baking together. He is giving me baking tips, and I can bake most things better than everyone in my family except my mother. He makes comments just to make them, tips that anyone would know. Don't spread the sauce unevenly, don't concentrate the spices in the middle, don't put on too many onions, and add enough toppings, but not too many.

It would be like me giving Michael Jordan basketball pointers, me telling Shakespeare how to write in iambic pentameter. I am not the Bob Dylan of out of the box, kraft pizza kit making, but I know enough.

I wonder why he is trying so hard to be a father today. It's as if he's making up for all the direction that he missed out on giving in the last twenty years, in one afternoon.

Sobering thoughts.

Quiet songs about death on foggy nights

Remind me:

Everyone in the phone book is going to die.

Everyone on my cellphone is going to die.

My parents are going to die.

My sisters and brother are going to die.

Everyone I've ever thought about or loved will die.

People who think a lot, don't need any more ammunition to think about things.

Especially death.

I go through phases that last from a few hours to weeks.

Where I think about things or people or a person obsessively.

I thought about God for almost four months when I was in grade eleven in high school.

I thought about Natalie Portman for two weeks last summer when I kept dreaming about her.

I don't need a thinking about death phase again.

I really don't need one of these phases again.

I wish I just lived and wasn't so prone to these moments of intense thought.

Little Dead Bodies

by Algebra Suicide

Five Act Day: Acts III, IV and V

Act III

Stumbling

(poster and sticker on wall from art crawl. sticker by Christina b.)

Plot my escape. Eight hours is a long time to spend with your family.

Shannon tells me to have a drink tonight, tells me I have to have one because its part my degree too. I laugh, but we both know its true. I edited a good chunk of her papers, half wrote a handful of assignments, and gave her ideas she would jot down and turn into a project.

I can tell Sean wants to be out with his friends.

I'm at the edge of the driveway

He says, "Where are you going?"

"Out"

"Where are you going?"

"Out," I say and smirk.

"Be careful," he says.

"I might," I say.

On the bus. A bigger girl sits beside me. She apologizes for squishing me, and I tell her I don't mind. I want her to know that I am self-conscious of people sitting next to me on the bus for the same reason. She likes the doodles I am sketching. We chat a bit. When the seat across from me is free, she moves, but I didn't want her to feel like she had to.

We get off downtown. I rip the page of doodles I was drawing out of my notebook, the ones she liked and wrote "you are beautiful" on it. I slipped it in a Dear Girl, zine and gave it to her and said, "I want you to have this, you might like it, its a zine I make."

She said thanks, smiled, and I walked away quickly. Went and did art crawl. Went alone. It was a good art crawl, but lonely. I kept seeing people I vaguely knew, people from school. But the thing is, people go with people to things like this. It's nice, but awkward when you meet up with someone you know from school, work, or the just random day to day things. I talk to them for a few minutes.

Eventually they always say something like, "Are you alone?"

I say, "Yeah, I couldn't get anyone to come with me." I really want to say, "I asked about 5 people to come out with me, and each one of them said no for different reasons, and its kind of really fucking annoying when you don't have the ability to make plans with anyone. That you are only good at making plans for long distances, weeks, days ahead. And when you really want to go out and do something, you don't have anyone to go out with. Not so much "go out" with, but "let's go out and take no prisoners" kind of out with."

It becomes awkward when they say, "Oh I have to go and meet with my friends now," because you caught them when they were alone. They came out with people. I say something like "see you soon," or "have a great time!" and go on my own way.

I know I saw things that I wouldn't have seen if I went with other people, but sometimes thoughts alone don't make good companions.

Act IV

Difference

(singers from thou art art party at art crawl)

Art crawl is pretty much over. I try to decide what I'm going to do.

Do I go home, go out alone, go for a walk, go see music?

Mission is to drink one drink.

I graduated a little bit today too.

Go to the gay bar. It's kind of quiet, kind of early.

I get a drink, but feel too much like the older gay men there.

Sad, a little lonely, a little creepy.

Drinking quietly in the corner, watching people dance.

It's all girls with their gay best friends.

Fucking boring.

It's early, but I feel even more alone there.

Leave a Dear girl, zine in the bathroom.

Think myself out of the bar.

"Come to Che" is a text I get.

I go there, and I see girls tripping up the cobblestone.

My sister always jokes its funny to see drunk girls have trouble walking there.

I tripped, and I was basically sober.

Wait in line, get in.

Hot, loud, and lonely.

I can't find them, which is a joke because its so small.

I think when I do find them, will I even like who they are right now as much as I like them normally?

Leave.

I realize I'm a wanderer, not a stumbler.

There is a big difference that I can't explain.

You're either more one or the other.

Go back to John's apartment.

Sleep on the couch.

I really really want to fucking cut myself.

And I wonder

If its because I feel like a failure of a 20 year old.

I feel a flicker of the future again.

I push her out of my mind.

It's just some fantasy.

Some big fucking joke.

Act V

Reprise

(random theatre building at art crawl)

I wake up on the couch.

Leave.

I feel like I used to feel when I would stay over.

Like I was just some strange girl sleeping on the couch

An intrusion.

The multimedia lab isn't open in the summer.

Go to get the bus.

Call my mother.

She's mad I went out last night.

My cellphone is a little beacon

A direct link that imports anger, rejection and exports my clumsiness and loneliness.

Why do I pay so much a month for something like that?

Yelled at.

"You can't stay at the apartment of two young guys."

There's some illusion of impropriety

Yelled at some more. Hang up. Come home.

Oldest sister Miranda is there.

Carly doesn't want to talk to me.

Mother ignores me.

Put on trial in the kitchen for being out at night, and being vegetarian.

"You're going to mess up your hormones," my nutrition conscious oldest sister says.

"I fix people everyday who are vegetarians."

Everyone thinks I had a great night.

That I went out with people,

Partied it up.

"So really where did you stay over last night? Where did you really go?"

I smile as I say, "John's" and "art crawl".

She doesn't believe me, but there's no big secret.

It's not like I crawled out of some strange woman's bed in Toronto, and had to figure out how I got there, how to get home, and where my bra was.

Curtain Call