... I think, I think....

I think this Amadinejad type may be one of the smartest, or at the very least most riveting characters to hit the news lately. I think my eye's trained on this guy. I think if, as invited, Bush wandered over to Tehran University and was rightfully called a petty and cruel dictator to his face, there would already be no more Tehran.

I think puppy mills are evil, and make me cry into my morning coffee.

I think a chick in the chair might be better for America, but a brown boy will be better for the world.

I wonder what possesses people to pick on peaceful monks. Why doesn't anybody ever pick on the Italian Catholics? How come the Middle-American Pentecostals don't ever get a hard time?

Today, I want to bash something 'til it's bloody.
I've been satisfying my urge by watching documentaries on the Plantagenets.

Having recently shacked up with what I believe to be my greatest fan, the hormonal changes that I think might have come from an overwhelmingly satisfying 3-times-a-day boinking diet may have caused the deluge in anger I'm spewing over the state of the world today mid-monthly cycle, and full-mooned, when there really is nothing left in my part of the world to get angry, upset, or anything other than bat-shit giggly about.

Life is good. Largely in part to my unwillingness to pay any heed to those bits of mine that might not be.
My cushy day-job as an AV nerd has bumped me into Position #1, on account of being the only one on crew who consistently comes to work, and answers her cellphone, all the while firing my best friend, who has over the past week, refused to answer hers. Snooze and Loose. As cruel as it may seem, I'm glad to see her face some real consequences to her disinclination to take me seriously.

Larry-love lives here now, as mentioned, which comes with a slight increase in living space, and quality, as the trollish-yet adorable man delivers coffees to my bedside daily, and comes with the characteristic Ikea menage of the recently-divorced male. He's taking off to Saskatchewan-that-is-home for a full month, which will likely be both refreshing and excruciating, as we've had difficulties staying 10-feet away from each other for the past few.

We play like otters.

I run away to Toronto at the end of October, to hit Buddies in Bad Times Theatre's Hysteria! A Festival of Women as assistant curator, to hit a hot technology and the body workshop, and play a sexy sexy nurse in a performance art installation called The Clinic Alarming, yet undoubtedly good times ahead. Bonus, being getting my much over-due dose of time with Sodome.

Ah.

*stretch*
*Crack knuckles*
*breathe*

Maybe I will get out of bed today. Maybe.
Spent the weekend cosily doted on here, in the white sheets and sunshine. I am, and will continue to be, the luckiest girl in Montreal, should my capacity to choose such gorgeous and deserving lovers remain.
I say to him, I say... this work you"re doing agrees with you. You seem happy, and alive, in your reddened, tan skin, picking the concrete dust out of his hair... he says, I am, it does. He says, you seem slightly more stressed than I'd like you to be. Which I suppose is true.

Life at Rhamphorhynchus (the king of the dinosaurs! As well, my hot loft) plugs along, with it's minor annoyances contributing to the slightly stressed tinge I appear to be wearing. The couple I live with are lovely types. She, a bit of a nag, he a bit of a push-over. In the context of romance, I wouldn't put up with either of them, but that's neither here nor there. She, dear, close friend, is experiencing, like so many of my past roommates, her first apartment away from her parents house and is exhibiting those behaviours characteristic, including, but not limited to, the hording of furniture (We now have 18 chairs, and no storage space) the collection of all empty jars, containers and toiletrie bottles "just in case!" and the compulsion to put each and every individual item in the refrigerator in it's own plastic shopping bag "So it won't rot!" thereby increasing the rottage rate by about 50% and reducing my cucumber's findability to nil.

He, he is lovely, and runs around the apartment at all hours entertaining me with his frantic writer antics, which is good. What it means, is that I'm inclined to want to write more, and have hit the library for the tools with which to start big new projects. What is also means, is that he's frantic, and disorganized, and failed to tell me until a day or two before he started, that there'd be rehearsals in my living room every weeknight for the next three weeks. I love it. Philosophically. I hate it, practically. I cannot leave my room to take a piss or cook dinner without literally having to walk through the stage. I can't speak on the phone from 7 to 11, and I certainly can't get anything done.

The Ultra-Lame Day Job is coming to a rapid conclusion, which as jubilant news as that may be, also comes with a tad more strife than I enjoy. Seeing as my contract ends 3 weeks after my manager's (to whom I am assistant) does. Leaving me effectively promoted for those weeks, and untrained. I highly regret having taken this contract. It's left me feeling powerless and unheard, more often than not. (the project, sadly, failed, and had I been heard, would not have done.) It's failed to pay me adequately, and will not be compensating me for the majority of the overtime I've clocked. It's put strain on my work with my own company. It's put strain on my best-friendship. We cannot say that this one hasn't been a challenge, that's for sure. But! Over soon. And with a week's paid vacation at the end to make amends for some of that over-time. We now face impending unemployment. Things are changing.

Ah, life. As inspired by BDeyeD's hot new ink, my Facebook status has been set to "... is laene"

When we here at Ms. Quickley ran away to theatre school, it was to fulfil our dream of running away to Theatre School. And to our astonishment the dream, was, in fact, legitimate. I have not ever felt like I fit in anywhere I've been, but for the first time, I felt like I belonged.. That is an overwhelmingly positive sensation. Little is better for one's sense of self than feeling one's made the right decision for one's life. Theatre School is over, and I miss it.

I lived in fear at the end of my last term that the compulsion to continue to make theatre would fade without the rigid structure and goading and deadlines of school and teachers and classes, but no. In a fashion highly more relaxed and muchly more my own, we have continued to plug away at the craft. The compulsion has not ceased, and for this we are thrilled.

I took myself to the library on a chilly day a few weeks ago, and walked in awe among the stacks, breathing in the all-familiar smell of book mite poop and ink. The Webster's even quieter in the summer. Divine. I spent about an hour picking out my 5-book alumni ration and thought... I would spend my life here, in the halls of artistic, and creative academe. Give me my minions, I'm thinking. Give me my space. The time has come. Grad School, come git me.

I am bored at work. Aren't you?

If I were a doll, the accessories packaged with me would be:

A wrench, a shiny blue pair of steel-toed boots, A laptop, A carton of 1% milk, and a pair of really hot designer glasses.

I have an irrational fear of:
Lentils in unexpected places.

What type of food do you eat at your grandparents house?
Cookies! And the Patented MacRae Family Burger Beef Soup.

What weight were you when you were born?
8 pounds. Some Ounces.

What would you do if you were stranded on an island with the person you hate most?
Hide. Make sure I was never discovered, and steal their food and firewood in their sleep.

I am most opposed to:
Dishonesty.
Spinelessness.
General Immaturity.

What would you do if you found out you had been cheated on?
Its not cheating if the rules say it's allowed.

Do you stalk anyone on myspace?
Myspace? Who's on Myspace anymore?
No, I do most of my secret stalking on SG, and it's brought me nothing but the very best things life has to offer.

I am too old to be:
Cast in the role of Little Orphan Annie.
Receiving a discount from the STM.
Dancing for 16 hours a week straight heffed up on Ecstasy.

I find the thought of childbirth:
Not nearly as frightening as the thought of childrearing. And that, not nearly as frightening as the thought of being the parent of a rebellious 14 year old. I mean... It's scary... because I can't think of what on Earth a child of mine would have to rebel against...

Next door to my house is:
A mysterious residence called 'L'école des sages' that has old ladies that tend to ogle as my dates and I make out on the balcony.

My feet are:
Cold.

My preferred style of jeans is:
Uhm. Not low rise. All my jeans are so low-rise. I like the belly. So do my fans. But I don't need to feel like Homer on a daily basis.

I know how to cook:
Most things. I am best at down-home meat & potatoes, family holiday dinner style cuisine.

I am annoyed at:
Chamber Music Ticket Patrons.
Transit Interruptions.
Banked Work hours, leading me to work more for the same pay.

Men should always:
Treat every woman in the world as if they were their girlfriends, and treat their girlfriends as though they were the only women in the world.

Women should never:
Manipulate. Be emotionally remote. Use. Try to change him. Be unclear. Pay heed to their insecurities. Compete. Keep score. Withold. Blame their cycles. Ask for it, and deny having done so.

What do you think is the worst way to be dumped?
Via Post-it, text message, or e-mail.

What child-related smell do you not like?
This answer should be obvious.

What sea creature scares you?
Red Coral. It's pretty, but you better not touch that stuff, man. Trust me.

What color hair do most of the people you are around have?
Light, ashy brown... or alternately, dark ashy blonde.

What object have you broken most recently?
My Bike. Stupid Bike.

Name one of the Spice Girls:
Steak spice?

What was the last thing to make you cry?
Katharine's Cat.

I would like to be in an advertisement for:
Skin Care, Rock & Roll, Intelligent Smut, any good cause.

What are the stems of wine glasses for?
To increase the likelyhood of the thing tipping over and crashing dramatically.

My favorite shoes are:
12 year old Burgundy Doc Marten 8-holes.

My mothers' greatest fear is:
Confronting my father, maybe.

Can you use chopsticks?
I can. And do. Unless I'm Lazy.

Do you prefer beaches or forests?
Beaches. Both are fraught with danger to me, but a sunburn is much easier to cope with than a face fulla hives and an asthma attack, a runny nose, and itchy eyes.

Any male who's had the privilege to encounter me in intimate moments will attest to the fact that my fascination with facial hair is downright animalistic. Not unlike dogs to each other's butts, or moths to flame, I will, if allowed, peruse every follicle with the tip of my nose (the widely under-used 11th finger) and note the Starry Nights that swirl around on your face. Is that weird?

The fascination, of course, leads to the frequent acquisition of red, raw, weeping chins and peeling noses. What's a girl to do? Slather my face in vaseline before every make-out? No. This is not universally attractive solution. There's a delicious amount of grinning and bearing it going on. Life is good. There is the delicious company of a perfectly jugglable number of absolutely fantastic, warm, sexy, very real men. Serious crushes developing on the world's most fascinating ladies. Moments of love at first sight, Monday morning champaign brunches, grins and giggles, melting like processed cheddar, and hugely important, and sudden movements of the heart abound. I am so happy to be here.

Recent migration to the Village have left me surrounded by friendly pure-laine homeless old men, and pretty punk faces, in a world where gender is irrelevant. Life does get better, the further East you go. I think I'm going to like it here. My apartment is Hot. HOT, I say, as warmed by the good hearts and company that have already swung through, and have established residence here. We are perfectly balanced, we four (Earth, Fire, Wind, and Water Signs, each.) and laugh and play and eat en-famille. We wonder, we wonder, should we be waking up?

I am the luckiest girl in Montreal.

When prompted, How is your heart?
(of course, not that excellerating pulse, no cardio-vasculars here)
she should have said
(The greatest of stories molt drafts, revisions and re-writes)
Not a word of recently healed wounds and fading heartache, but this:
It's exactly in the right place.

Here's something I wrote maybe 4 years ago, I thought you might enjoy.

Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the Cheerful Dawn;
A dancing shape an Image gay

She Was a Phantom of Delight William Wordsworth

She laced her old and dusty shoes, her private pedestals
On which, tall and limber, she trod out the door
Slicking satin gloss over a pixie dusted perfect lip,
She spirals down the stairs feigning haste
The sooner she gets there, the sooner it begins
At the door, halted, gasping, she stops to stare
Snow twinkles at her feet, on the lawn,
Across the street, a sunset's colours, falling still
Before her eyes, upon her hand, onto her head and shimmers there
Like twilight to her dusky hair

Tall and limber and smiling sure, she hovers
Over sidewalks paved in platinum, her golden statue self,
Carved in light and love and alabaster she
Grips firmly onto the night. The City is hers to keep
It's key, though, loosely grasped, its weighty
Brass tarnished, green. Like its porter, it had once shone
Smiling sculpted sure towards the door, remembering
A time before when canvas painted was smile and stride
And grateful that by the days have gone
Where all things else about her drawn.

Smiling, sculpted sure she golden shines and enters
The dimly lit room where she glows amid the gloom.
Sheds her coat and shakes the twilight from her hair,
She leans against the bar and rifles through her purse
Plucks from it a slim, white cigarette and once lit,
Sits it on her perfect pixie dusted lip. Into her lungs and mind, smoke is drawn
And released. She looks to the empty floor and is taken
By angels, rapt, into the music and the rhythm
Dancing the night into day and again from dusk, moving, a graceful swan
From May-time into cheerful dawn

Dancing, her arms to treble rise and fall,
Her hips to bass sway left and right
She dances, laughing, smiling, sculpted sure
Her gleaming golden self. She lets the DJ polish
The tarnished green bits left from flatter days
And fingering beats like rosary beads, she finally can pray.
Oh, gods of dancing, gods of wine, gods of rock n' roll,
And gods of drugs, of smoke and bliss, her prayer on high she sends,
That forever young and smiling, sculpted sure she stay.
A dancing shape, an image gay.

As per usual, the only question questions ever really asked is... what now? What next? And so?

And we shuffle, and shuffle and meditate and pray, and we pull, and the single card, pulled again and again and again is the same.



The card represents the critical factor for the issue at hand. The High Priestess, when reversed, hearkens a time for action, for involvements with others. Commitments in romance.

Who? Ah, if I knew, I'd tell ya.

But it's a welcome reading, and comforting, and interesting that she comes, like so, again and again and again. Because (if I can say so without falling into the whiny female trap, which I suppose I am excessively cautious of.) this gals needs have not been met. Hey whoa, cowboy. That's not what I mean.

In the 2 1/2 years I've been in Montreal, I've put more notches in my bedpost than in the previous seven years combined. That ain't it. It's nice that along the way, someone did pick up my heart (ew! Heart! I call for a new word for the thing. Heart brings to mind the 80's and so much awful Valentine's paraphernalia.) from out of the wreckage, give it a crank, and showed that it does in fact, still tick. Sad that he couldn't stick around. Yet I'm grateful. No, no. I don't need to get laid, that's not quite what I crave.

This, is more like it.

I commented today to my dearest girl_fawkes that the masochist in me (well, that part I didn't comment, but it must be that part of me) kind of misses being deeply heartbroken. And then the other part laughs and dances, and smiles a lot.

I am alone. We are all alone inside our minds. We were all born this way, and we will all die this way. But there is safety in numbers, and that external safety, of warm bodies and pithy eye-contact, that chance to take, and be taken for granted, that safety is what's missed.

But it's okay.
It's in the cards.

Because, these receive roughly 400% more comments than anything serious I may have to say, and that pisses me off. You yellow-bellied Superficial piles 'o dragon droppings. You suck!

Tell me.
How old do I have to get for you to stop dismissing me as an idealistic youth, and see me for the principled adult I am.

Principled Adult?

They say that when Columbus came, the natives couldn't see the ships as they approached in the harbour. They had no frame of reference for them, and so they were rendered completely invisible to their pre-colonial minds.

A Principle adult approaches the shores of the Theatre Community.