So my dad's memorial was on Saturday....

Hm. You'll have to wait for details.

Oh. I apparently don't have a blog entry in me like I thought I did. Maybe I'm distracted by the SNOW outside...SNOW? For cryin' out loud. Snow. I'll say it again....forget it. You get the point. It's 2 degrees celcius out there right now. Bodes well for the future of the snowboarding season, not to mention the sleighriding season, but not so well for the rest of my evening vis a vis driving all over hell's half acre.

Plus, my brother and roommate are playing Grand Theft Auto San Andreas in the other room, and yummy smells are coming from the kitchen, and I have half a beer in front of me in a nice little glass...

Anyway, just wanted you all to know I am still here, and will be back, regaling you with tales of my winter in winterland. www.caravanfarmtheatre.com for more details.

Snow. Seriously. Come on.



Blame it on the barometric pressure. I do.

I realized last night why I like photographs of myself better than looking in the mirror. The mirror lies! I'm backwards! It's not the same as how people see me! Argh!

I am a dumbass today. I shopped all day yesterday trying to find something to wear to my dad's memorial. By the time I got home I had worked myself into a big ol' swivet worrying about what would be the right thing to wear, worrying that the flowers I'm arranging would be wrong, worrying, worrying, worrying. My head almost blew up. Thankfully I practiced trepanning and....no, I didn't. I did not drill a hole in my own head. Plus every time I spoke to my brother we argued. We are very jumpy, us two. Thank goodness our mother flies in tonight, maybe she can calm us down a bit. Or she'll get us really wound up. One or the other. But you gotta take the chance, because there's this kind of calming effect she has when she wants to that's only for us and only works on us. Motherly magic. Mummy. I love my mummy.

Gotta go. Tea's getting cold.



Peaches and edible oil products.

You know what I learned this week? Canned peaches and cool whip makes me feel better. Not, like, healthy better, but emotionally better. Yum. And yuck. All at the same time. But mostly yum.

Shoulder pain less but still pervasive. I'm sure this weather isn't helpful. I feel like a great, grey thumb is pinning me down. And divine spittle is hitting me in the face. And even though I was up first thing this morning and out all day working, I still don't feel like I saw daylight. So in rebellion I'm getting under the duvet and putting in a movie. And it's only 3:20 in the afternoon! HA!

I seem to be in slightly better spirits today. I think being back at work and planning for the next couple of months is good for me. Plus, a lot of alone time this weekend was very, very good. The promise of fresh hair, (a little hairticulture, Warren says), and possibly a new frock doesn't make me sad, either.

Each day my sadness spreads out, like viscous liquid, slowly escaping from a vessel and becoming an ever widening puddle. Thick and quiet, taking up more and more space, but thinning, too. So that it is present always, but the veil is fine, like silk, allowing glimpses of shadows and figures on the other side. I'm sure, and I'm told, that this mourning will take many forms, over a long time, and I'm sure, and I'm told, that the tears will come forcefully and randomly. But right now, this moment, I just feel wrapped in the warmth of having known my dad, and feel not bereft, but grateful, and full.

Love is remarkable.



Lazy Entry.

Here is the link for, and the text of, a review of our Theatre Under the Gun show. I'm kind of excited that if you Google my theatre group you get results!!

You'll have to cut and paste the link because I STILL can't seem to make links live on this thing. Oh, well.


The Stretch Mouth'd Rascals: “This company, formed by Mr. Jeff Gladstone [who was out of town], presents Mr. Thomas Jones with Miss Tallulah Winkleman and Miss. Riel Hahn.” ~ "The Lighthouse"; text: "Do you think this makes me look too tall?"; prop: a bright-red, clearly labelled, gas canteen of ancient vintage; sound: two pot lids, labelled 'bang these together'; an image of thirteen Eastern European children standing in the middle of a field in various odd poses.

There wasn't a single spoken line, save the radio programme which includes the line required (which is, in turn, repeated by one of the characters), and the entire story and characters' interrelationships were quite clear. If you have a small amount of time to tell a story, the best thing is always to make things as simple as possible.

After rushing in bearing buckets of dry ice immersed in water, someone hoisted a floor-mount fresnel over their head and slowly turned around and around whilst the other two made occasional fog-horn noises. As the title suggests, the action took place in and around a lighthouse, with each individual taking one rotation of an 8-hour shift (or 'cycle of bells' as is indicated by a ship's clock). Each signed in or signed out, worked at odd tasks, and slept. Those that were 'off duty' made noises of crashing waves or wind either into as mug, or simply when looking away from the audience.

The gas can took on a fetish-like quality for the two women, as a simple sniff of the contents transported them to a far-away 'Wonderland' where they suddenly convulsed in a variety of odd positions and then collapsed onto the floor of reality. Miss. Winkleman was the most adept at the precision of this sequence, her character also becoming so immersed in the experience that she mysteriously drifted into the audience, and a radio report of an unidentified female drowning victim explained the result.

An intelligent use of minimalism, coupled with clown and absurdist story-techniques

Cool, eh? Stay tuned for more Stretch Mouth'd news. We're ramping up for a very exciting 2005. We're getting a logo and everything!

I saw the chiropractor today and my massage therapist yesterday, and I think I'm recovering. Though the chiro said it'll be a couple of weeks until the pain is gone entirely. Boooo! Dumb stress. His advice was to free my life entirely of stress and difficulty. Cheeky bum! Oh, how we laughed.

I rented 7 movies today. It's 6pm now and I'm going to start. 5 I've not seen before and two for comfort. You know those movies? The ones you could watch hundreds of times and they always satisfy? Room With A View and Grosse Pointe Blank. The 5 unseen are: Winged Migration, Human Traffic, an Ellen Degeneres standup show, the original Alfie, and Matchstick Men. I'm excited. No roommates, just me and the cat. My brother might stop by, as might Siobhan and/or Jonah, so I'll get some hugs and stuff. I feel my shoulders relaxing. It's good. Time alone is good good good.


Sorry for me, by Me.

I cried today. Like, a for real cry. I could have cried and cried, but I was trying to let my massage therapist do some work on my apparently causeless injury. I am in heavy duty pain due to some kind of shoulder/neck/rib situation. Whatever it is, it hurts like a mofo, hard to sleep. Really want to go out tonight, but am trying to get better and stuff. Poop. My friend is in town from LA and everything. Sad me. Sad me all the time, anyway. PMS not helping matter. Ok. hurts to type for too long. STUPID! I am feeling petulant and grumpy. My shoulder is achey and there is no one here to rub my feet. Grrr.

I went back to work this week. It was joyless, but fine. I don't know what's going to take me out of the mire and get me booty shaking again. Not getting headaches would be a start.

I am obviously feeling very complainy. I shall stop torturing you with it now. I am so fucking sad. I miss Phil. I really, really miss him. It's becoming visceral. I'm nauseous and sore. I feel like wearing a t-shirt that says "my dad just died" so people will know why I'm so weird. Like on the street and stuff. In stores. Everywhere. I get the old tradition of wearing a veil when you're in mourning. That would be comforting. Maybe I'll just get terribly eccentric for a while. Heh. That cheers me up a bit, wearing giant hats with feathers and veils and shoes and skirts that flatter my long legs.

Ok. I feel a little better. Except for the pain. ARGH! I'm going for a walk.



Fog. Funk. Etc.

Two blog entries ago I used the phrase "fog of underachievement", though did not properly credit the author. I have been notified by said author that the phrase was, in fact, "funk of non-achievement". Andy Graffiti, thank you. Although, on re-reading and comparing, I rather like both. I think I'll keep "fog of underachievement", it kind of suits me.

I'm going to work tomorrow. I'm sure it will be fine, but I have such a headache, and I'm worried that all that driving will render me dumb and possibly unsafe. I'll just keep tabs on myself. It will certainly feel good to put a bit of cash in my pocket...yep, that'll be swell.

After work the Stretch'd Mouth Rascals are getting together for a meeting/workout and we will all be in attendance for the first time in weeks. It will be very good to have Jeff back in our ranks and to do a bit of strategizing about the future of the group. We will also discuss and post our Theatre Under the Gun show, which we really haven't examined together since we performed it. It will be the first chance for Jeff to hear about our piece, as well, so that will be exciting. Yay, SMRs!!

What else. People I haven't seen or heard from in years are coming out of the woodwork since Phil died. It's been amazing to reconnect and feel such support. My friend Briana, who I adore but have not spoken with for years, is coming out from NYC to be there for the memorial. This is a woman I have such history with, whose family's is inextricable from mine...it is so emotional knowing she and her parents will be there. I am overjoyed to hear her voice again, it makes me feel safe and loved. I don't think she knows how much I have missed her, but I have already imagined a hundred times the moment when I lay eyes on her again and get to throw my arms around her. I will cry. I know I will cry. I'm so tired of not crying.

I went to see Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason today, (largely boring and choppy), and nearly had a good cry at the end. Maybe I was bored to tears, ha ha.

I need a haircut and a tall pair of sexy black boots. These are the things that would make the winter bearable. That and a really hot love affair. I have two new crushes. Tart!!

Sigh. Fog of underachievement. Funk of non-achievement. Depression due to loss of loved one. Whatever. Bed rules. And the Office. And Arrested Development. The very best television show ever ever made.

Gotta go, Tsarina needs the computer.



Wokka wokka

I feel like complete crap. There's just no getting around it. I'm trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy in my daily dealings, but it's getting kind of tough. For a while I was able to be very jokey with everyone, and now I find that this fatigue has set in in earnest. Just so very tired all the time, and the effort to be silly or cheerful or anything is huge.

Of course, a thick depression can't keep a girl like me down. I'm off to celebrate birthdays of friends tonight....some high heels, some flowers in my hair, a little lip gloss, it's on, baby. Drown my sorrows in drink and flirtation. That's the ticket.

I'm determined to start working again this week. Money is definitely a motivating factor, but so is structure. I need to be in the swing again, doing things outside the sphere of sadness. I'm sure I'll have all kinds of time to ponder while driving all around, but at least the smell of flowers and all the colour will cheer me up. Or on, if I'm listening very closely.

Diana Frances is doing a ten minute piece for Definitely Not The Opera, heard Saturdays on CBC radio. Her piece is about women in comedy, specifically trying to figure out why there seem to be fewer ladies in the standup biz. We had french toast and chicken bacon, (who knew?), and she interviewed myself and Ian Boothby and Pia Guerra, and will go on to interview others. It was a very interesting discussion and raised a lot of questions about women and ambition and success.

I need some dinner. STAT.



Little bit 'o this, little bit 'o that.

All this wandering around in circles...that's kind of what it feels like I'm doing right now. I want to go back to work, but I'm pretty sure it's not a good idea just yet. Next week, I think. I've noticed that just going a couple of places in the car is really wearing, and that it's not long before I'm doing stupid things and have to go home and get the hell out of the car. So, therefore, I'm thinkin', not such a hot idea to go back to driving for a living. I feel like I'll be more able each day.

I wander around the house and feel the fog of underachievement, (thank you to whomever it was for coining that phrase on the phone with me today....I can't remember who said it, dammit!), but also am trying to be kind to myself. Argh.

I'm missing my Poppie a lot last night and today. I went to see Peter's dad read from his new book of poems and felt a real pang when I realized I wasn't going to be in an audience, sharing my Philly with the world. I have such strong memories of being with him when he shone for a crowd. And he did shine. Could you find a funnier guy? I think not.

Usually, I find myself with nothing to say until I sit down at the keyboard, and, when I can actually get my ass in the chair and start typing, it just comes pouring out. But, now, I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm processing things, but it feels hard to write. Perhaps it's the lack of activity. Although, I did have a very sweet day today.

I have a very strong attraction to a man I know who is married. (He's not in my daily circle, so y'all quit trying to figure out who it is.) He is attracted to me, too, but, obviously, we are not going to do anything about it. But it stirred something in me I haven't felt in a while. I mean, you know I love men. Doy. So very, very much. Mmmm. Men. So I see men every day, every minute practically that I think are attractive for all different reasons. Some smile back at me and there's a nice second of mutual tingling. But, this attraction to this married man....well, it's one of those ones where you know, timing being different, something really special could happen. We just slide right into easiness, comfort, the conversation is natural. And sparky, flirty. Though this won't come to pass, it does remind me what I'm looking for, and how it's worth it to wait patiently, going about the business of being my lovely, fabulous self. I have been getting kind of impatient when it comes to love, but I know it has a lot to do with looking for comfort and distraction. So this was a perfect reminder that the chemistry still happens, and mostly when I'm just doing my thang. Thanks, Mr. Married Man, who shall remain nameless. I fell asleep thinking about him last night, and it was really nice. It doesn't take much, these days.



Don't tickle any knickers.

By the way...I'm well aware that I'm completely avoiding the topic of my father's death. Why? Because....blech. Seriously. I have a lot of processing to do...blah, blah, blah.

I think it'll just leak out, like oil from the underbelly of a 1963 Volvo left too long in the long grass.

Slow, is what I'm saying here, folks. Sloooooow.

I just paused at the keyboard for, like, three minutes, staring off into space, thinking I had something very clever to say here. I do not.

I am stalling because I know when I go downstairs I'm just going to play Grand Theft Auto 3, San Andreas and then it will be so so so so late. But, I'm not quite ashamed and possibly a little bit proud to say, I love this game. It's grotesque and awful and violent and alarming...and very, very cathartic. You should see me work the nightstick.



Pregnant Patti

Those in the know will recognize Pregnant Patti from Halloween. Those not so lucky as to have met her....well, just hang on to your fallopians, (vas diferenses?), because the day you meet Patti is the day everything you knew to be true is turned on it's head. No. Actually, I think the day you meet Pregnant Patti is the day that all you believed to be true about the world is proven to be just as you thought, rendering you paralysed with fear and loathing for the lives of future generations.

Or something like that.

I love Patti. She brings out something in me that is so balls out. I mean, let's face it kiddies, I'm no shrinking violet, so, as you may well theorize, if she makes me balls out, it must be quite a sight. A lot of people who were at the Jolly Alderman the night of October 30th would back your theory with their anecdotal evidence.

How would you feel if a big toothed pregnant lady in rubber boots and kneesocks balancing a pint of beer on her round belly rubbed said belly in a seductive manner while looking you in the eye and inquired, "Hey, you wanna be my baby's daddy?", in a tone that can only be described as nicotine soaked? My guess is you would be dazzled.

And they were.

And I was.

And you will be.



George W. Bush killed my dad

Morbid, I know. Oh, well. I am morbid. And macabre. And maudlin. And this is my blog, so I can write what I want, (chin in air in haughty stance).

Anyway, my dad said he'd stay alive for the election, and he did, but then Bush won and that was all the poor man could take.

We lost him at 11:45pm, November 3rd.

Philip Stanley Savath
December 28, 1946 - November 3, 2004
He is missed.

I will write more about the losing of him, it was a remarkable experience, but I can't seem to focus for long right now. In fact, I'm supposed to be in the shower and getting ready to go out, but on the way to do that I sat here. Then I forgot about getting ready. One thing at a time seems to be my speed. If I accidentally get in a conversation on the way to the fridge, there's no hope in remembering what I wanted from said fridge. I just answered the phone and nearly forgot I was doing this.

I'm going for a walk now.

Very surreal days.

Peace. Kindness.




Oh, Oh, Oh, Ohio.


Well, well.

Well, well, well.

I am steeling myself for the avalanche of smug that I expect to find pouring down on us like Vancouver's January rain. Cold, endless, dark. Please, please, Ohio, come through for the rest of the world and get those 20 electoral college votes out to Kerry. I mean, it won't seal the deal, but there has to be something that says the American people DON'T want an imbecile for president. Of course, if they do re-elect the punk ass chump, then we will plunged far enough into the dark ages that perhaps the people will realize that fundamental changes are needed, and finally will rise up in earnest. Though that seems less than likely, too. God, I just get seething when I think of Bush's face in the event of victory. Come ON, America. Do the right thing, here. Put the rest of the world out of our misery. Oooooh, it hurts me.

Keep your fingers crossed.

I'll have more personal things to say tomorrow. I don't want to get too deeply into my broken heart tonight. I will say this, though. I feel like I'm on another planet entirely. Like I'm moving through life with surreality glasses on. Slow, everything seems kind of far away. I'm waaaaaaaay inside my head. Strange sensation.

Back to the election. I think I'll have nightmares tonight.

Peace. Kindness.