changes

change is in the air....like the delicate
fragrance of an orchid....or something
like that....

news as it develops. some of you know
already of which i speak. nothing's
official until i announce it.

anger. bitter and boiling in the back
of my throat. seething.

this is how i now feel about this job.
i detest how it consumes my life.
turning me into little more than a slave.
they expect me to live and breath this
job, like its the only thing that should
matter. giving all until nothing remains.

is that why i've worked so hard all my
life for?

you work hard and get an
education so you're not supposed to be
somebody's slave. but not here. oh no!
not here! fuck them. f u c k t h e m.
i've worked to hard for too long
sacrificing too much....

middle-age?

Well, you've read my complaints and whining
for awhile on here.

What it comes down to is this is not what I
wanted out of life. I figured this would be
a good chance to live a little, have a bit of
an adventure, etc. Instead I'm chained to this
job. I very much feel like a prisoner and I
really don'y like feeling trapped.

I've put so much of my personal life on hold
over the past ~2 years in order to build up to
a "career". Maybe its partly that I just didn't
want to try at those personal life things, but
I don't really think that's it. I look around
and I see people living lives: relationships,
families, friends, social activities. And I can't
have ANY of that. Yes, it is jealousy, but I do
feel as if life is completely passing me by.

I spent most of my 20s in the same way: working,
ever working towards the PhD, putting stuff on
hold. Once you get a "real" job, like I
supposedly have now, you can live life. But
I can't. This job, here, now, renders that
impossible. I have been cheated, as crass as
that sounds. This job is eating my soul. And
I hate the life I'm living NOW more than I ever
have because I have NOTHING in my life anymore
except this job.

You were expected to sacrifice during the PhD
years. But not now. That's not what it was
supposed to be about.

Fuck it. Fuck em all. There are possibilities
back in Canada coming up. If they don't pan out,
well, then fuck it. I'm not spending the rest
of life not having a life. I refuse to.

No more breakdowns. No more tears. Only anger
and pure determination to get out of here by any
means necessary. They can't have what's left of
me.

life

I've been here 8 months. And it still
is shit: still haven't completely unpacked,
have made no friends, missed the film festival,
haven't been out to a blues/jazz club in ages,
no women.

This is shit. I cannot wait to get out of here.
It feels like my life has been put on hold yet
again. ALways on hold. Never moving forward.
Grad school was like that too. I'm existing for
somebody else. I feel powerless. I don't think
I've ever really lived for myself.

Things have to change. I have to change them though.
I will change them.

WTF?

Seriously, people....what the fuck did you just
do yesterday? You handed Harper another
fucking turn at bat. This clown, who's grinning
like Heath Ledger in Batman and is almost as
psychotic, is PM again.

The environment? Social justice issues? Rights
of workers? Phew! You just gave him a blank
cheque to piss one em!

Listen, this screwjack has been weaseling his
way along for awhile now. He's a bad fungus:
you know he's there, but he's not really doing
much harm, then one day you wake up and he's covering
your wall, and your hacking up a lung cause he's
fucked up your living enivornment. You can't
get rid of him, and you can't move,
cause who would buy some place lousy with fungus?
Your neighbours talk behind your back: "ohhh, it
used ot be such a lovely place! such a shame!"

Time to throw some vinegar on this fucker....

p.s.- that said, I still want come back ....please....

From Godard's "Breathless"

Q- "What is your greatest ambition in life?"
A- "To become immortal, and then die."

37

My poetry has always been amateurish at best,
but I wrote this last night on the countdown
to midnight and feel like sharing and not being.
a grabby five-year old. I was in an Irish pub,
The Galway Bay, up in Lincoln Park.


I sit here
Two-and-a-half hours to go.

Thirty-seven
In the city alone.

What have I created?
What have I done?
Maybe it's already started.
Maybe it's already begun.

I sit here
Existing.

I sit here
Drinking.

I sit here
Wondering.

I sit here
Wondering where it goes from here.

I sit here
Writing

I sit here
Watching

I sit here
Watching lives move on about me

I sit here
I sit here

I
sit
here