I got my learner's license today. Three and half years late, but I have it. I didn't appreciate it when the woman at the registry office looked at my picture and said, "Oh you poor dear, I'll just use the other one."

Tomorrow I plan to buy camera batteries. This means that photographs of the secret-compartment pillow, my scoodie, Notebook Issue 6, and me wearing 3-D glasses, are forthcoming.

I would really like a photograph of Tim, but I don't think it would be kind of me to demand one, since he hates having them taken almost [but not quite] as much as I do.

I'm really stressed out. I've written a nightmarish piece.

The Dark Knight is super-fantastic.

I think I like cuddling.

electri-city

During the past month I've taken apart two old blowdryers, one that doesn't work and one that does. This morning I plugged them in for the first time since they've been just guts and figured out how to fix the broken one. I touched a wire to the right piece of metal, and the fan started spinning and the coils heated up. It was incredibly thrilling to understand why it hadn't worked before and why it was working now. But I am not eager to electrocute myself - I've asked Tim to give me advice on how to reconnect it permanently.

July 26

Tonight I get to pretend I'm a writer. Fun! Notebook Magazine http://www.notebookmagazine.ca is launching its sixth issue, which includes six [count 'em - six] of my poems, at a sketchy cafe with delicious chai tea, TONIGHT. I quite accurately and literally can't remember the last time I was so excited. You can tell I'm excited. I used caps lock.

Also: I made a pillow with a big zippered secret compartment in the middle. Big enough for books. The pillow is blue and sand-coloured. It's for Ros for her birthday.

Acmeism

I've been reading a bit about Acmeism in poetry. I don't have a perfect understanding of it yet, and doubtless I will discover tenets of it that I disagree with, but as far as my knowledge reaches now, I consider myself an Acmeist.

'Acme' is a Greek word meaning "the best age of man". Acmeists are obviously rather humanistic, as opposed to Symbolists, who are the literary equivalent of mystics. I especially dislike the preoccupation and reverence devoted to "the muse" in Symbolist poems. The muse does not exist. Humans write poems for other humans. Poetry does not exist on a higher spiritual plane, and it is certainly not dictated by the gods. Poets seem to like thinking of themselves as mere secretaries, but I find this despicable. Why hide your talent behind nonsense about your immortal Muse?

Every half-baked word I write costs me work and worry. When I write something almost-good it is solely by my own efforts. I am not afraid to say so.

Oh happy day. I have gotten my act together and am writing decent things again. Maybe Tom Tom #2 will come out within less than six months.

Yesterday I drew my mechanical alarm clock's innards.

Christine Fellows

Night.
There's a lantern in your window.
If we could come in closer we would see you in your housecoat.
What a sight.
Grains of sawdust mist the air,
Like your kitchen is a movie set and you're the heroine in there.
In your place
A renaissance collage
Next to the plastic lobsters
A reverent homage.
Then you might
Write another bashful letter
To a Russian ballerina
All the way in New York City
It's Saturday Night
On Utopia Parkway
I pray that you might
Think of something you'll love to love
(to love to love to love)
Tonight
My dear Mary Baker Eddy
I pray for Brother Robert
And those boots of lead again.
Despite all I know I can't contain
I'll gather all the parts I need and hope that we remain.
Whitewash over me until
Pure Varathane runs through my veins
And I'll at last be still.
Right when the arrow leaves the bow,
It erases all uncertainty and love I'll never know.
It's Saturday Night on Utopia Parkway
I pray that I might
Make you something you'll love to love
(to love to love to love)

I started re-writing today.

To quote my facebook profile...

I am trying to become a perfectionist. Never before in my life have I made a concerted effort to do anything properly, to the best of my ability, until I was happy with the result. I have always cut corners, refusing to buy the materials I needed, refusing to start over after I'd made a mistake, refusing to learn enough about what I was trying to do, etc.

I have started to try. There have been a few, tiny successes, so tiny that they will make me look foolish: a scarf I made for myself that is really pretty and that I can't wait to wear, my milk-foam skills [I decided that if I was going to be stuck in Starbucks eight hours a day this summer that I might as well learn to make good foam - but it can still be improved], a violin piece I have been working on for months because I want it to sound amazing, mailing my zines off in envelopes so they arrive in nice condition, some banana bread that didn't taste like cardboard, a few drawings I like, the way I set up my new room - only keeping the things I adored or absolutely needed.

I told you. I've made myself look foolish. Most people take these sorts of things for granted as the results of an obvious method.

The Summer Progresses

I am in good condition, as far as my list goes. An update:

-I am nearly finished Utopia. I really need to find another translation of an Anna Akhmatova collection. D. M. Thomas is not good for her.

-Hand holding walks with a boy have occurred, but not often enough.

-On Saturday Tim and I are going to see As You Like It at an outdoor Shakespeare festival.

-Life is better in size eight, I swear.

-I have relearned how to ride my bike with no hands.

-I got a job at Starbucks. I will be rich soon.

-I haven't slept much. I keep waking up when the sun rises at five, but that is not a bad thing at all. Some days I take naps.

-Piano is now at the two-handed stage, violin is now at the I-can't-wait-to-have-a- teacher-again stage, and bass is at the I-need-to-practice-a-lot-more-stage.

-I stopped crocheting a scarf, because I need some help from my oma on ending my rows, and knitted one instead, all in one night. It's purple and yellow. I can't wait for it to get cold so I can wear it.

-I haven't learned to knit mittens yet. But the season is young.

-The cake has been good. There has been a lot of it.

-I've already mentioned my new story. The poems are few and far between and not excellent or usually decent. I am trying to be patient.

In other news:

-My new room is perfect and extremely clutter-free.

-I've ordered a scoodie from my friend Glynis [bearwoman].

-I have new zine subscribers.

some days like today

When I need to be brave, some days I pretend I'm not a woman. I don't pretend to be a man, but more an entity aside from considerations of gender. Perhaps 'pretend' isn't the right word.

When I ignore the fact that other people look at me primarily as a female, it's much simpler and easier to walk purposefully and arrogantly, like I like to, to look at them in the face, and to say what I mean.

Ten days is too long. I would happily skip to Wednesday night. I want to see you more than I like to admit.

I am going here tomorrow.

starving

I've been starving to death in my own house. If I get this job [luckily I should know by tomorrow] I'm going to celebrate by going out and buying whole grain bread, cheese, lemons, cantaloupe, red peppers, quinces, apples, butter, tea. If I don't get this job I will have to continue living on oatmeal, cocoa, and fat-free ice cream. I will have to continue feeling sick.

story

I've started writing my first long story ["long" here meaning more than a page and a half] in about two years. I am about half way through the very rough draft. I can't wait to start re-writing. Rough drafts are the creative equivalent of stacking firewood, in my books - both literally and figuratively. In fact, stacking wood is more satisfying. When you're finished stacking wood you have a neat pile of fuel that will probably last you all winter. When you're finished a rough draft, you have weeks or months of work still ahead of you. Also fireplace fuel, I suppose. But it's more like kindling. While we're exploring double meanings and bad metaphores, it's even like kindling for your story.

The story is about crows. It will hopefully be one hundred times more elegantly written than this post.