Karaoke is not my thing. Never has been, never will be. It's a Will Ferrell film waiting to happen, in which he plays a guy who is really into it and competes with other people who are really into it and none of them get the joke that they're cheesy and awful and have outdated hairstyles. But if karaoke is your thing, the Atomic Rooster on Bank Street gives you your fix every Monday night.

Today I wrote a review of Cameron Anstee's "Remember Our Young Bones" chapbook and sent it off to the Danforth Review. I have an idea for a short story that intrigues me. A beginning, anyhow. If I don't start writing it tonight I'll get at it tomorrow.

Andrea is working on an article in the kitchen. We just finished watching Reservoir Dogs. The water in the building has been turned off for the night. I don't know if it has anything to do with the fact that the water heating kicked in the other day or not, but those pipes get hot.

I woke up and my alarm clock said 2:49, bringing me to gasp in horror, but then I shifted position and noticed that it actually read 12:49, which is a little closer to status quo for me. I made some breakfast and headed over to All Books in search of Margaret Atwood's "The Robber Bride" and Timothy Findley's "Headhunter," both of which were in stock and cheap because All Books does, in fact, rule (even if it did look as though a hurricane had hit it). I finished Yates' book yesterday and it definitely reads as material Sam Mendes would be attracted to - a couple living in suburbia who slowly lose their selves. I started Robber Bride today on a recommendation from a girl I met at Humber. If anyone can point my way towards multiple-point-of-view narratives I'd appreciate it, since I'm mining for writing tips.

Findley's I picked up because I heard it was about Kurtz from Heart of Darkness being let loose into modern day Toronto, which sounds right up my alley.

I need to start my writing output back up to something like 500 words a day. I'm working on another song that should be done by the end of this week. Plus I'm going to try my hand at a review. Last night I watched Romeo + Juliet, the Baz Luhrmann film from 1996. I used to have its poster on my wall. I invited a girl to see it with me when I was 16, but she wasn't particularly into me, so I didn't see it until it hit video.

I had been looking forward to last night for awhile, and it didn't disappoint. Lots of folks showed up and I think a good time was had by all. I got my first noise complaint, just a friendly request from a tired neighbor asking me to lower the music. Testing the limits of a new place is important. I was up until 4:30 and went to bed after some late late night diner.

Today has been all about cleaning up, picking through and sorting the wreckage in the aftermath, taking in the calm after a storm. It's as lazy as Sunday afternoons get. Tomorrow I'm going to get a bite on sending out some more resumes. I've been thinking about my employment situation a little too much lately for my tastes.

Jon Lajoie had a rowdy crowd at Zaphod's last night and put on a funny set that was mostly jokes about how he ended up doing what he's doing. Of course, he played his more famous songs live:





So that marks the first show I've ever gone to put on by an Internet sensation. Andrea and I were talking about videos we could make that would bring us fame overnight. Something along the lines of us acting as Siamese twins and dealing with everyday jams. I'd watch that.

I'm sprucing up the Flatcave for a celebration tonight. It will be the first time since I moved in that more than three people have been in the place at once.

Zaphod's is exactly the same.

It's shaping up to be an eventful weekend. The In/Words open mic is tonight, Andrea and I are seeing Jon Lajoie perform at Zaphod's tomorrow night, then I'm having a housewarming on Saturday.

I finished reading The Way the Crow Flies. It's an absolutely riveting mystery narrative rich in detail that brought tears to my eyes at times. She doesn't hit every single note right in the last quarter, but does enough to make it more than worth the read. I feel as though I've picked up some pointers about how to write certain psychological profiles reading it. Yesterday I started Richard Yates' Revolutionary Road, which most will become familiar with as the movie coming out this fall that reunites Leonardo DiCaprio with Kate Winslet. Sam Mendes is directing it and the material feels right up his alley - a 50's suburbanite couple yearns to break out of the mold that "settling down" has trapped them within. Pretty interesting stuff so far, but it's definitely a guy's narrative.

My apartment still smells like paint. I'm trying to get rid of it once and for all using fresh air and vinegar.

Though I follow politics, I don't usually talk about them, but I can't resist this. Out of the mouth of Stephen Harper, the Prime Minister of Canada:

"I think when ordinary working people come home, turn on the TV and see a gala of a bunch of people at, you know, a rich gala all subsidized by taxpayers claiming their subsidies aren't high enough, when they know those subsidies have actually gone up – I'm not sure that's something that resonates with ordinary people."

The Conservative government cut $45 million from arts programs in the latest move to cripple the arts community in Canada, after proposing to censor Canadian films, and THIS is his rationale? You know what this boils down to? Harper thinks that "ordinary" people don't care about art. Artists aren't "ordinary" Canadians, trying to make a living, because they're spending all of their enormous subsidies on galas. Galas. What the fuck planet is this guy on? In what eleventh province can I turn on a television and get pissed at all of the never-ending GALA coverage that's being slammed in my face at my, the taxpayer's, expense? Idiot. Moron.

What pisses me off is that many Conservative voters will totally support Harper's viewpoint, assuming that money is going towards something their kid could paint instead of towards their kids' hospital bills. Culture keeps civilization running. It's what allows parents to feel BAD about their sick kids. If you make it impossible for artists to thrive, this country will become cold and sterile. You're talking about the end of humanity in humans. It's not a tenuous link.

Okay.

Yesterday Andrea, Sarah and I had dinner at the diner and walked up Elgin in search of ice cream. We popped into a couple of bakeries. It struck me during our quest that there are a lot of places in Ottawa I've never seen, little cafes and such that are hidden inside these faceless buildings that all sort of blend into one another. I'm intrigued to start checking out some new places because it might give my impression of Centretown a bit of a facelift. Not that I don't love it here.

They're starting to pave Bank Street, patching the violent holes that have been gaping since the spring. It's looking far less apocalyptic. Walking down the middle of the street instead of using the sidewalks always produces a surreal feeling in me.

It's gorgeous outside today. My absolute favorite kind of weather, and time of year in general. The very end of summer, the very beginning of autumn. Nothing beats it. I moseyed on over to the elections "office," the Metropolitan Bible Church on Bank Street, and updated my registration. All of the pews had been taken off the floor, mounted by cords at the front, and replaced with desks and computers. Separation of church and state... er, province.

I was going to buy a box of Halloween candy but opted for cookies as the really good stuff hasn't come out yet. Which means that I can afford diner. This is what not working does. It forces me into thinking that I'm making significant compromises, when all I'm doing is chipping off a little bit more from the money in my account. There will come a day when I'm working full time, paying off my loan, not paying the slightest amount of attention to problems such as poutine vs. 75 miniature chocolate bars.

RANDOM TRIVIA: The deepest hole ever dug into the earth is only 40,226 feet deep, just over seven and a half miles, and took 22 years to complete. That's only about 0.096% of the way across Earth's diameter. It's called the Kola Superdeep Borehole, and it's located on the Kola Peninsula in Russia. That's deeper than the deepest natural point on the planet, the Mariana Trench in the Pacific Ocean, which is located between Japan and New Guinea and has been measured at different depths averaging around 36,000 feet.

Another fun fact: Earth is not a perfect sphere. It's wider at the equator than it is between the poles. Holy crow!

The chapter has been sent to Mr. Kertes. Part of a foundation set. Here's to seeing where it takes the story.

Kat and I had dinner at the diner last night and talked. We came back to my place and I showed her an episode of twitch City I'd wanted her to see for awhile about the earth being taken over by cats. Afterwards I went over to Andrea's and we watched Esma's Secret, a Bosnian film about a mother and daughter that she recommended, which was quite good. I picked up a few flicks at Future Shop today - Once Upon a Time in the West and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, since I'm on a western kick, along with Monty Python's The Meaning of Life.

I've started working on a new song, one with a bit of a faster pace.

I feel shitty today. Problems that I'm hoping to get past. A day to grab a blanket and watch The Wizard of Oz on the couch. And I've done that, so now there's the evening and night to pass. I'm meeting Kat at the diner at 7. We haven't hung out in forever.

Friendships aren't what they used to be. They change when you get older. You don't make friends as often, and the friendships you have are harder to take for granted. Andrea isn't simply my girlfriend; she's my best friend. I tell her everything, far more than I tell others, which even so must not seem like much at times. I don't feel as intensely as I used to. Sometimes I'm downright shocked at how zen I've become when I compare it to the agonizing phone calls and tears and cigarettes and shitty poetry and awful words that linger from five or six years ago. I don't meditate. I don't pray unless it's for other people. Sometimes I think about what's holding me together, and it's always the same answer: beauty, truth, art. You're born into the world, there's art, and then you pass away. That's my life philosophy.

I spent the last year and a half wondering if I'd ever make something again. Lately I have been. It's taken commitment (and not working a day job). I have words again. I have MUSIC again, really, for the first time since high school. And as much as it drives me crazy to carry around ideas in my head, I'm endlessly grateful that ideas are coming again, and that they're hanging around. When I lie in bed and stare out into space for an hour and feel myself completely absorbed in what a character is thinking and why they're acting the way they are and what they want me to say about them when I bring them to life, it's unlike anything I've ever felt before. I think to myself, "This is it. This is what it feels like to be a writer. I've been going about it in the wrong way all along." I've rediscovered the part of myself that is filled with life at 3:30 in the morning, with that outside-nature feeling, and I've been trying to fit it to my whole self like tailored clothing.

Maybe I do feel as intensely as I used to. Maybe I'm exactly the same in my chest compared to when I was 22. I'm just making different decisions, lending a greater amount of thought to where that energy flows. I've hurt people and I need to be more careful. Maybe in that respect I'll always be the same, for the rest of my life, and it will be up to me to keep making decisions to get to that next point where the words appear on the page and the chords change into each other and I'm still in love.

I'm working on the death philosophy.

It's been a productive weekend. My first chapter is a hair away from being ready to send off to Joe, I'm continuing to motor through The Way the Crow Flies, and I just finished a new Wire and Light Track, "Clear."

You can listen to that right here, over at last.fm.

I'm hungry. I've been sitting in front of the computer for too long. When I'm working on music I forget to eat.

Has anyone else noticed that Sarah Palin sounds exactly like Mrs. Generic from Bobby's World?

Looks like I'll be bartending for three evenings at the Writers Festival. Do they even charge for drinks? Tip well, I'm unemployed. Should be fun getting lit folks tipsy.

I went out with some of the gang last night to the dirty Oak. Steve played a solo acoustic set and had a guy join him on a bongo for a few songs. Afterward a few of us straggled over to Matt's and I got quite high. In a rare occurrence I turned down a trip to the diner, it being after 3 in the morning, and my sleep schedule being what it is, and my cashflow being what it is. Plus I missed my lady.

It's starting to get chilly in the Flatcave. Eventually I'll have to figure out how to use the rads. This is my favorite time of year weather-wise. Pleasant during the day and chilly at night. I can roam freely in a hoodie and feel comfortable. Soon enough I'll be strapping the iPod on and kicking up leaves.

I hate my sleep schedule. I cannot for the life of me fall asleep before 3 o'clock in the morning, and then I routinely sleep until at least noon. If I were back on nights, it would be fine, but as it stands I feel like I'm on a completely different schedule from the rest of the world. I need a job, something, to return to a semblance of normalcy. Andrea is in bed by 11. That's four additional hours I have to amuse myself. If I'm at her place, I can't write. I lie in bed trying to calm the flow of ideas, because I want to be beside her. I need to start forcing myself up early and going to bed at a reasonable time. At least until work at the Senate resumes.

Tonight I'm going to a volunteers meeting for the Writers Festival. For one reason or another I have never attended a single Writers Festival event. Since I'm feeling more like a writer lately than ever before, it's probably about time I started lending a hand in the community again.

I got the words written last night. They came to me in the middle of reading The Way the Crow Flies, so I set the book down and went at it. Wrote more than I planned, until it was finished. Miraculously, MacDonald's book is touching on a lot of experiences and emotions that I'm attempting to communicate in the novel. It's giving me ideas, and at the same time I don't feel as though I'm ripping it off.

While I was in London last I picked up a copy of The Squid and the Whale, which I'd never seen until I watched it last night. Being that I'm in love with movies about writers and the writing life, I can't believe it had eluded me for so long. It made me laugh out loud on more than one occasion. It has flashes of Wes Anderson's brand of darker family comedy, but it's more merciless in its portrayals. A fantastic script. Jesse Eisenberg (who was great alongside Campbell Scott in Roger Dodger and was about three years too early to achieve Michael Cera's current popularity) has a great line: "I never envisioned myself as the type of person who would end up in this position." That is purely a line of dialogue pulled out of my young-adult head.

The salad turned out phenomenally.

I'm updating from the Mac, which means that Rogers received a shipment of wireless modems. I headed over first thing after showering. Now everything is pretty much as it should be in the Flatcave.

Last night I watched the last episode of Ken Burns' The War series because I wanted to check out scenes and details of the battle on Okinawa. It left me feeling a bit sad as war footage is wont to do. I'm handling living alone differently than I thought I would. Most times it's fine but I do get a bit lonely.

I made a salad and dressing this afternoon based on one of the recipes Kim gave me. Other than that I've been working on music all evening. I NEED to get back to the book. I'll write 500 words tonight or fall asleep trying.

Another application is sent off into the ether. Though I know PH received it, because they emailed me back to ask me to reformat my writing sample.

I think I've figured out a direction for a character in my novel. He does a very bad thing and I wasn't certain what motivates him to do it, but things slid into place last night as I was lying in bed trying to work it out. I just have to WRITE IT. But it's going to require a bit of research first, and disturbing research at that. Tough, but I never want to feel as though I'm closing myself off to reality if being open to it is necessary.

The Way the Crow Flies is building effectively. It opens with a poetic description of the murder scene of an unidentified young girl, and after 125 pages it returns to the scene again, leaving the reader wondering how the dots will be connected. Very effective tension. I loved Fall On Your Knees and while this novel only has flashes of that novel's storytelling process I'm still a big fan of MacDonald's prose.

Last night Andrea and I watched Clueless in bed. I'd never seen it. It was light fare punctuated with moments of self-awareness here and there that made it enjoyable. It certainly prescribes a healthy dose of kitschy mid-90's pop culture, for better or for "oh god what were they thinking?". Side note: I watched The Princess Bride earlier in the day, so yesterday turned out to be a Wallace Shawn-fest. I now have a huge craving to take in My Dinner With Andre again.

The chili was a success. Afterwards I went over to Christine and Laura's to hang out for a bit before I crashed at Andrea's. Apparently Andrea's roommate is meeting some dude from the Internet tonight for the first time, and he's crashing at their place, so she wants me to come over in case the guy is a total shifty creep.

My kitchen is being overrun by fruit flies. I cleaned it a bit and it seems to have helped. I'd love to throw out a couple of boxes but I'm worried that the TV and speakers are going to break down. I'll give it another week.

I've been spending today getting my resume ready for submission with Public History tomorrow. Wish me luck.

Chili's on. I'm making my first batch since the failed venture just after I moved into Riverside. So far so good, but we'll see how it simmers.

Andrea and I had lunch/breakfast at Eggspectations today. Afterwards I went grocery shopping for chili ingredients. When I got home I worked on a song. It's now almost ready for a bass track. I'm also working on a cover but it's sounding kind of bare. Need to put some pepper on it. I'm hungry.

I started reading Ann-Marie MacDonald's 800-page opus The Way the Crow Flies. Last night I polished off Wayson Choy's lovely All That Matters, which completes my most recent collection of the novels by writers who were giving workshops at Humber in July. I emailed Joe last night to ask for a employment reference and to tell him that I should have the first chapter of my novel drafted for next week. I've effectively set a deadline for myself.

I watched Singles before going to bed last night simply because I wanted to hear Kyra Sedgwick's character talk about how great it felt to have her own place.

I went home for a couple of days to attend my grandmother's funeral on September 11th. The family met at 10 AM at the funeral home for a last viewing of her body. There are two uncles with funeral directing experience on my dad's side of the family, so it went smoothly. The funeral took place at St. Mary's church in Lindsay. Grandma was Catholic, and it was hands down the most ceremonial funeral I've attended. For my folks' sake I went up and received communion (there's a first). Many of those in attendance responded appropriately in prayer while my siblings and I stood in quiet awe.

Her middle name was Madeline. Hers was only the second deceased body I've seen in my life, the first since my other grandmother in 1992. We weren't close. She didn't get along with my mother, though there was no vitriol between them at the end. Last time I was home my dad told me about the time he drove out to Lindsay one evening years ago to tell her that she was a lousy grandmother to his kids. I remember her as a somewhat frail, intimidating woman who had a way of staring a hole into you, an intense gaze that I believe I inherited from her. She had a voice like creaking doors and avalanching rocks rather than a wind through meadows and opening flowers. When I remember grandma I remember her voice and eyes.

I'm not sure I loved her. How can you love someone you barely knew? Whose memory evokes receiving socks for Christmas as a child? I remember being ten and playing a game with my sisters. We would hide in their room and peek around the door frame at grandma as she sat in the living room talking to our parents. Occasionally she would look over and penetrate us with those eyes and we would collapse in laughter and retreat. I have no earthly clue what she thought of us on lonely nights when she must have taken stock of her family. To us she was largely absentee.

This is how things are sometimes. It wasn't our fault. I don't know how things can turn sour, how relationships with the people you're supposed to know and be close to for the rest of your life break apart. My uncle Greg, her son, didn't attend the funeral. I struggled to remember the name of my dad's sister and avoided talking to her sons, my cousins, so screwed up by their dad before they divorced that we'll never be able to carry on a normal conversation. But then, I'm not normal either. I'm a product of being kept away from these people, to the point that I'd be fine if I never saw them again for the rest of my life. I've turned out solipsistic.

Since I moved out of my parents' place I've become more and more interested in where I come from, but I'm realizing that the links to my past are falling further and further away. My dad showed me a collection of pictures at the reception after the funeral. One of them was a picture of my dad as a baby, sitting on my grandmother's knee, with her mother standing beside her, and her grandfather completing the quartet. Four generations of a family.

"11166-17 Walter LABADIE, 22, glass worker, Chatham, Wallaceburg, s/o Peter LABADIE & Mary BLAIR, married Elma MACHET, 19, Montreal, Wallaceburg, d/o Edward MACHET & Palmire LEONARD, witn: Lawrence BLANCHARD & Christena ROSS, both of Marine City Mich., 17 Feb 1917 at Point Edward."

Peter Labadie and Mary Blair. My great great grandparents. Walter Labadie and Elma Machet, my great grandparents. Thelma Labadie and Adelore Emery, my grandparents. Who were they?

This was the first time I'd ever accompanied a casket to the cemetery. The ceremony was respectful and peaceful. I felt sorry for Leonard, the closest person to a grandfather I'll ever know, who has always been a terrific guy and who took the best care of Thelma he could. I watched him sit near the grave while the priest led a prayer and the sun glinted through a tear that hung on the end of his nose.

She'll be buried beside Adelore, dad's dad, who died forty years ago next year. Thelma will be nine feet deep in a concrete vault, so that Len can be buried on top of her at six feet when he passes. Before we left the cemetery we visited my uncle Leonard's grave, a brother of my dad's I never met before his death in 2000. On the way home we stopped by Rosemount to pay respect to my mom's parents. All of my parents' parents, now gone.

Emery-Albrecht, Thelma M. (Née Labadie)

Entered into rest at the Ross Memorial Hospital in Lindsay on Sunday, September 7th, 2008, in her 87th year and was the loving wife of Leonard Albrecht and the late Adelore Joseph Emery (1969). Loving mother of Ron and his wife Joanne of Peterborough, Michael and his wife Cheryl of Lakefield, Greg and his wife Kathy of Lindsay, Mark of Oshawa, Laurie Dancy and her husband Rick of Lindsay and predeceased by her son Leonard and his wife Ali. Sadly missed by her 12 grandchildren David, Sarah, Holly, Adam, Michael, Keith, Christopher, Jason, Lisa and her husband Jeremy, Lucas, Cameron, Craig and by her great grandchildren Erik, Kyle, Zoie and Anthony. Survived by her sisters Diane, Marjorie, Marilyn and by her brothers Robert and Jim and predeceased by Gordon, Walter Jr. and Dorothy. Lovingly remembered by many nieces and nephews. Friends are invited to call at the STODDART FUNERAL HOME, 24 Mill St., Lindsay on Wednesday from 2 to 4 and 7 to 9 p. m. Mass of Christian Burial from St. Mary's Church in Lindsay on Thursday, September 11th at 11:00 a. m. Interment St. Mary's Cemetery, Lindsay. In Thelma's memory, donations to St. Mary's Restoration Fund would be appreciated by the family. On line condolences may be directed to www.stoddartfuneralhome.com.

Well, it looks like the upcoming election has offset the Senate's schedule, as I was afraid it might. Dave says it looks like they won't need me until November at the earliest.

So I need to find another job.

And I just this second found out that my grandmother died, which means all of my original grandparents have now passed.

Hmm.

Okay.

Rogers finally came by to give me Internet access today. The cable guy told me to go to a Rogers Plus to exchange the modem for a wireless one, except the store is OUT of wireless modems, so I won't be able to get the Mac online until they receive a shipment. Fucking company. They're ALREADY screwing me.

Okay. Breathe. A lot has transpired over the last few days. Connolley's wedding was certainly a wedding. I got a kick out of the minister, who was really jovial about the whole thing, constantly cracking jokes. I kind of respected the fact that he didn't bring God into the ceremony as much as a lot of ministers do. I'm looking forward to not having a wedding to look forward to, all things being equal.

I've been living in this apartment now for three weeks and it feels like three months. Things can't happen fast enough for me to get everything in place. I still need my couch. I'll feel a lot better about the place once it's here. I never thought I'd be so picky once I started living on my own.

A group of us had dinner at Tucker's in the Market last night and ended up at Mod Club. I stayed until close for the first time in forever. It was fun. I'm tired today. I think I might just watch movies and chill, get away form the world for awhile.

Andrea and I are heading to Kingston for Connolley's wedding tomorrow. I've been looking forward to this wedding as the last real "event" of the summer, and although I'm definitely happy for Greg and Kelly I'm looking forward to having it behind me. I'm kind of wedding-ed out at this point. In any event, I'm going to try to hit Kingston on the first shot in the rental car and not end up in Arnprior this time.

A bunch of us went to The Lookout last night, a gay club in town. It was the first time I'd ever been to one. It's pretty much the same as any other club, with more men wearing tighter t-shirts.

I think I need to start getting out more.

I've been having trouble sleeping lately. I'll lay awake in bed until as late as 4 in the morning, and the other night the reason struck me: I have to get back to writing my novel. It's been stewing in my brain for the better part of two years now. Last night I sat down as my kitchen table, my new workspace, and started writing out the narrative outline and descriptions of the woman I want to try and bring to life through the senses of others. before I make her a series of assertions I want to make sure that she is, in fact, real. That she is a person who makes decisions and has a set of ethics and lives a full life despite the tragedy with which she is afflicted. After sketching out in general terms the first half or so of her life, I was able to fall asleep at 2. It's working.

The new television arrived yesterday and it's pretty fantastic. It makes me want to revisit my entire movie collection. Yesterday Andrea came over and we watched Punch-Drunk Love. Unfortunately, she wasn't a fan, but damn if it didn't look great on the new TV.

I've started reading Alligator by Lisa Moore. Moore is a good writer, but I'm having trouble getting into it despite the phenomenal first chapter. Her descriptions of small things are poetic but too numerous. Maybe it's just not something I'm in the mood for right now.

The song is done. Download it here. Give it a listen. The song is called "No Time Left." I'm calling the band Wire and Light. I'm going to try hard to ensure it won't be the last song I'll record.

I think my drive to be creative lately has put an atmosphere in place in the apartment, constantly reminding me that there's something I should be reading/writing. It hangs over me, I breathe it in, whenever I'm indoors, and it keeps me active. I started reading Disgrace by J. M. Coetzee last night and I'm forty pages from the end. I couldn't put it down today.

I've been thinking about picking up a record player lately and starting a vinyl collection of my favorite records. Yesterday Matt, Carly and I went to Vertigo to browse LP's. A player is going to end up costing me about $250, so I'm not going to get it up and running immediately.

Andrea came over last night and I showed her a bunch of stuff from my college days. Apparently the college version of me was cute, even without facial hair.

The TV arrives tomorrow. I'm beyond excited.