it seems like years have passed since i last wrote. time has warped like thin ribbons splitting in two, then in four then in eight... now august 23. i just went down the street for a quick haircut and i asked, please act fast, it's unbearable, and they said, 3 minutes or it's free! 3 minutes – tops. i got kind of a buzzcut, but only the lower back and not my 15$'s worth.

i can't really piece two sentences together, i have been so joyful, so relaxed these days... completely work-free. i quitted my job last month and somehow managed to secure a bimonthly paycheck for the next few months. the reason is my ex-workplace was filthy and my coworkers afflicted with dementia, which proved harmful to me. blessed or what! i plan to spend the next six months writing, perfectly constructed shopping lists, travel fare comparisons, notes for my boyfriend's lunchbox... living with you is like being at the biodôme's butterfly garden, i smile all the time, my insomnia is cured

other dream coming true, next weekend all my family will be reunited in the backyard, brother included! he's flying over from BC to attend a billy idol concert with his best friend, and to see us, how much we have changed or not in the last years. so i got a haircut, with plenty of time left to rummage the garbage and gather a few presents.

my new job blows and i don't want to talk about it. but without money i could never have got the toulouse record and secret map attached. or go places. so.

my weblog just turned one! the first weblog outside of our solar system has just been photographed! i mean planet! other scientific breakthroughs; my heart has expanded 8 times its size, nightime breaks late now, and it is the last days of my twenties, so have a cigar.

Probably the long wait was key, but right now I can't think of any 5$ that ever bought me such joy. I like the blue prints on the carboard, and the undoubtedly lovelier sound of a needle on a slow-spinning vinyl! (my turntable is almost shot). The tincan ringing of the mp3s I used to listen to has reveal itself vintage, but it just sounds many degrees warmer.

At first I was heartbroken to not find a lyrics booklet, even though I often end up disappointed, but then I found instead a note for each song :

- one a.m.
the city built on stilts is not such a terrible idea…here, one can survey the motorways below from a safe vantage point above.

-know better
the city built on inaction must be provided with the impetus to act.

-chant marigot
the city built on the sea sways softly…its youth lament the tragic ends of their past amorous adventures.

-sadness will persist
the city built on rubble must certainly fall to the ground. its foundations are far too fragile.

-and the connections
the city built on concrete, glass, and cars is a never-ending squalor of sights and sounds. one must find a guide if one is to avoid becoming lost in its byzantine mass.

-memory is nothing
the city built on dreams must never turn to memory as a crutch. its motels and airports are filled with misguided travelers.

-never said
the city built on springs is a wonderful contraption. watch as it bounces and moves about.

---

I guess many people could find the record dated but it still sounds intemporal to me. Like finding myself at intersections, chosing this or that path, without always thinking about which part of me finds it beneficial, and what do I lose in the trade. I seldom seem to make the wiser choices, and the melancholy of these songs just proves me right. It reminds me of the dilemma at the heart of architecture, or music, and of the way Toulouse failed to make a second good album (well there's always Vitesse I guess!)

"As urban designers, we must consider every denizen of the city. How does each city-dweller view his/her environment, and how do these perceptions affect his/her daily enjoyment of the city? A stockbroker who goes to work at nine and returns home at five certainly appreciates the steady flow of traffic afforded by broad streets. However, we must not forget the youth of our cities. They sneak out all night, play like spies. They enjoy running down streets and hiding far from sight, and as such, they would presumably prefer narrow, nameless streets."
Venturi, Robert, Complexity and contradiction in architecture, 1966

I don't think any more snow will come out. Well it's still winter, but I couldn't say I really hibernate anymore. Even in the sound 8-hour sleep of my last few work days, or in the depth of night, my eyes keep opening up every other hour, then close again, like one would feel a sword kept under their pillow. I feel anxious about not waking up in time for next week's holidays. I have no time to get away, so I decided to buy a small electric piano.. no idea what kind. I will love it and wonder what took me so long. Me a daughter of letters, who am I fooling! My new career is maintaining registries of car accidents, I better get this out of the way now, nobody should want details. A new schedule means less holidays, but more time to be awake, and for my true calling : piano.

As we prepare to go, we see the weather is indeed seasonal, with flurries and abundant slush. I lace my boots tightly, find some shoe polish in the gloves compartment, then cue "Kill surf city" and "U-Mass" and a couple other old tapes, not able to stop smiling.

In close to 5 years of friendship, we never shared a road trip together, memorable taxi rides not counting, and always wanted to set sail. I already know she won't let me drive, but I accept with gratitude the tape player and the windshield wiper's responsibility. "Do you even have a license?" I asked this, not her. "I do", answers my friend. "It's very safely kept. Don't worry."

And she does drive like a pro! one hand on the wheel, the other in her mouth, biting her nails. We ride around for a while, following our apparently circular inspiration, then back from the start, we finally decide upon a destination – the palindromic suburb of Laval and it legendary ruins, gigantic shopping complexes and space shuttle-shaped children day camp, all the way over the Autoroute 40 Ouest, or is it 15 North? This will be clarified later.

How great is my friend's skilled and courteous driving way..! Upon every red light, every stop sign, we lively discuss the music and the weather until every last car around, every last pedestrian is safely out of sight and all the cars behind us start their cheerful honking. Her flair for shortcuts also allows us access to many, seldom admired dead-end streets and parking galores that at first looked like streets leading somewhere.

We reach the shores of Laval by mid-afternoon, head for the closest mall, and step inside requesting lodging and food. The ride has invigorated us, and the shopping crowds which usually make me dazed now just make me silly… We point at things and gimmicks as if we came from another time, observe how unattractive they are, and walk back to the car before our parking space fades into memory.

K.* drives us safely home for more food and drink and we watch a movie but feel the road trip isn't over, so around 9, we head back outside. All this ice to scrape off proves so worthwhile! This time we explore Côte-des-Neiges and its wonderful old brick houses and curvy roads, we slowly circle Polytechnique with all lights out, until there is only one way left, a path thickly cushioned with snow, up to the observatory.

And from there the city looks so small, so familiar, yet impossible to embrace at once, at once a warming, frustrating sensation.

This weekend I attended a show from the "Under the snow" festival, The brotherkites. My ears still hurt a bit... They had 3 guitars on heavy reverb, and quite catchy songs. I feel well-rested (dreamed I was climbing up a mountain! ah) and now have a whole day ahead of quiet...It is a good day for reading, and bringing water to boil, and not much besides this. Well one could also prune trees, I guess. But just reading is fine.

When I was a kid I loved quiet sundays spent with sweepstakes mailings, also the Guiness book of Records, the TV Guide, etc. I was made fun of for reading instruction booklets, too. That was before the Internet. One thing I especially enjoyed was The People's Almanac, with something new to ponder upon for every day. So here is a page for March, which you might want to refer back to occasionally.

(c) Pere Ubu's Almanac, 1901

I have another, hopefully last interview, at Square Victoria today 4 PM, but it doesn't mean anything. These last weeks blunted me; can I dissimulate all traces of rolling eyes, of carelessness, it all keeps poking out. But how little does it matter... I just can't tell the truth. I lost all my diplomas somewhere in moving houses, my references burnt to ashes in a tragic fire. But listen to me typing away! I only got into coffee a year or two ago, so it's still like a honeymoon, and mornings are no problem. I dig repetitive tasks. I promise clean shirts, courteous exchanges, in peace and troubled times alike. As long as I get home in time for the sunset, making enough money for drugs and books, visits to the circus, and providing my old kitten a life of luxury.

This better works now... fingers crossed.

I woke up and thought about my dream for a long time. Despite its perceived 'controlled' resolution and the silliness of it, I was still feeling anxious and upset. The bad thoughts lingered over breakfast, and I remembered about the free Nightmare Hotline I read about a while ago, on slowwave.com. I had carved the number on my placemat for fun, but never thought about calling. Until something drew me to it this afternoon.

The prerecorded greeting and bad musak reminded me of prank calls to the Mr. Christie's cookies Hotline and the likes, in company of giggling schoolmates. I suddenly felt that the nightmare volunteers' goodwill shouldn't be sneered at and I was about to hang up, when a lady came on the phone.

Her voice was frail and old, but also warm and soothing. I felt self-conscious, not sure if I could let my reserve go. I asked if they offered interpretations, or consigned the dreams for research, or something else. She left a few seconds of silence extend between our voices before saying, dreams cannot be interpreted, only dreamt, and told. She invited me to share a childhood nightmare, and I went on from there.

One of the interesting aspects she mentioned was in regards to the themes and symbols that a recurring nightmare involve, and how theory suggests that a parallel can be established with an unresolved issue in the dreamer's waking life. She said that maybe the dreams just parallel and feed one another, their meaning contained within themselves. She told me some funny and twisted moon indian tales, of giant bears found to be frauds, of dreams used as smoke signals. Unlike me writing this down, the lady conveyed such an empathy, a gracious curiosity towards the strange nighttime workings of our minds, that the thought of this old woman giving all her attention to strangers' nightmares, and providing comfort (perhaps the same way she once cared for her own tearful children, awaking in a sweat), the thought simply overjoy me.

But I just can't wait to be outside, under the bright white sky! On Fridays I am generally useless, and this is when I like best meeting up with a friend, have coffees and walk home early, pleasantly exhausted and a litl-l-e wired.

I wanted to mention the obituary published in the Globe and Mail, about Navarino's coolest employee, Andrea. Reading this makes me feel sadness and regrets, for friends long lost, my helplessness, I still and never will know what to say.

On my way to the copy machine, not returning anyone's high-five, I couldn't help thinking, I just don't remember having ever been a cheerful person. And despite claims to the opposite by uninformed people, I have never been one to idealize childhood either. My earliest memories are of anguish and restlessness - dad steps on the cat's tail, I sit in my crib, wishing to be teleported somewhere else, anywhere, etc! And this is why I've always got the blues.

Thanks god I have a blog, and not a see-through forehead... I need to halt this ridiculous train of thoughts. When I was younger, what always worked very well against black thoughts was to think of amusement parks, and to plan my next excursion at La Ronde (now Six Flags). As I grew older, there was always a sweet boy with piercing eyes to think of, a party to anticipate, or new records to pick up.

Now this being February I have armed myself doubly, and I summon altogether happy thoughts of tall grass, of improbable graffitis and pigeon families on high bridges and rooftops, of the 3-months liquor store strike ending this Friday at noon, of Laura Secord prices on February 15, of a Malajube or whoever else concert with music loud enough for the ringing to last me all through the week, of blue summer and speeding comets, and most especially today, of sharing grandfatherly drinks, such as the Stinger(brandy and white crème de menthe), or the Bourbon Stone Sour, with pogo.

I only attended the Quebec city carnival a few times, but never did I feel at ease there, nor did I manage to escape the threatening sense of being back into the Optimists' fold, white as snow, ready to kick you out at the slightest misbehavior.

Not long after he hung up his Petit Bonhomme costume, my brother and I founded a Bitter club jr. We held a fundraiser, purported to help us buy sturdier fundraiser boxes, the ones we used being old butter pots with a cut-out hole on the lid and inspiring pity. After a few years we had amassed a pretty sum, until one night my brother raided the locked tinboxes and took off for the sea. He left me only a couple of dollars, and a note suggesting I order chinese food, like we used to do whenever we felt fortunate. But I got mad.

And from then on, I never rested. My efforts culminated in the Union certification and ensuing revolt of Bonhomme Carnaval, which got all the elders from the Optimist Club up in arms. It is now obvious that their sinister credo cannot withstand the modern world, and I have faith that with their surrender, new hope will unlock in the heart of this foolish, carnival town.

1. First one was less a smile than a studious frown, seen on a young man in gigantic cushioned headphones from which thumping bass grooves could be heard from front to back of the bus; he had his nose buried into a pocket book, French Grammar – Intermediate, and my heart swell

2. Apparently someone thought I was deserving of a treat, and produced a 85% cocoa excellence bar and a jar of coffee right by this very desk! making my heart swell and swell, while I maintain my alarming productivity

3. The picklejar lady, my very favourite... really, she shouldn’t be at number three. So to recap, in the aftermath of a plant closure, shocked and sulky ex-workers are often sent our way for alchemy seminars or whatever it is we do around here to cheer folks up. It came to be that, one victim of the closure of another Kraft Foods plant is a lady of 73 years who supervised the canning of pickles, and who have kept at it from way before I was born for 6 days a week, which is simply stupendous considering how sparkly her eyes are. And how energically she kept shaking her head, and saying how she needs to find another job, and fast! because she can’t stand children, and the minute she gets off work, she gets asked to babysit grandchildren and greatgrandchildren and it simply is crazy and simply cannot be... I knew I was supposed to hand out pamphlets and walk her around our quality premises, but I just stood there and kept listening to her grievances, watching her smile grow bigger and bigger until it broke through everything.

4. I can’t think of any number 4 (have a refill of number 2)

5. At random : the word lewd, the word levorotory, the words holy shit, amongst others, leave me with nothing to do but smile.