And I Made Lemonade Out of it

I've decided that this blog needs revival, but in a new format. Welcome to my personal life. It's sexy, it's exciting, it's humorous, but most of all, it's mediocre.

If you've followed my blogging over the years you will remember the years of personal exploration and expressions of heartbreak that I etched in to various webspaces. These blogs are all long gone. It wasn't easy. Deleting years of honest and heartfelt words was like taking a sandblaster to my heart, but it's something I felt I had to do.

Rockalily was in it's fledgeling year and my profile was rising in the Ottawa scene. Someone I didn't know recognized me on the street and tried to talk to me for the first time and it scared me as much as the first time I had sex. It was new, exciting - and it kind of hurt. I immediately made every effort I could to delete my personal life from the internet. Nobody needed to know that I had been raped, that my father had died, that my favourite fruit was avocados, that I peed my pants once when I was 16 or what my religious views are. More importantly, I didn't want anyone to know.

I spent another year building up a profile of the public-figure versions of myself, only to realize that I was a dumbass and didn't give myself a proper pseudonym. Perhaps it was my subconscious masturbating my ego; maybe I was entering into a habit of slow self-destruction, like smoking. All I know now is that in the long run, there has been no point to it. Everyone who cares about any aspect of my public life is aware of all of them. All that I'm left with is a confusion over which persona I am at which times.

The first time a journalist bothered to properly research me before interviewing me, I was flattered. The most recent time, I was flattered, but I kind of felt like my privacy had been invaded. I want to blame twitter.

Norma Jean was a fan of free association. She found it to be therapeutic. Long after her death, Playboy Magazine published a transcript of a recording of when the lovely miss Marilyn let her mind wander and her thoughts be free. That's how I know that she enjoyed enemas in a sexual context. Kinky!

I've always found it extremely difficult to fall in love with something that had the capacity to love me back. I love avocados, I love Montreal, I love Desperate housewives. These things could never possibly hurt me.

I don't have the capacity to be in love with a human being. There are many people whom I love, but I have not been in love in years. Even in an intimate situation, I have difficulty amalgamating my personalities in to one. Which one am I? Am I all them? They are all pieces of me, only exaggerated and often with fake eyelashes. Some of them can love, some of them can't. You can love my stage presence, but it's merely a facade. Loving her might garner you affection from a part of me you don't like.

Sounds fucking crazy, right?

Which kind of brings me back to where I started. I deleted all of my blogs. I didn't even save them for myself. Right now I would like nothing more than to look back on an entry I titled "The last person I let break my heart" I know what it was about, but my memory alone can not mimic re-reading my own words. It's not the same.

I've just spent the first 3 weeks of the year in a miserable relationship that I didn't want to let go of. I tried desperately to work it out, but he gave up, rendering my efforts futile. I'm not heartbroken. I feel more like I've been fired from a job because the business was closing. I sure hope I still get a good reference.

I am both sorry that I couldn't offer the totality of my love to him, and relieved that I didn't.

I'm sorry to myself that everything I do is "terribly public". Perhaps I could love someone if I felt that I had any privacy left.

But, I'm coming to terms with my lack of privacy. I put so much of myself in to my public personalities that I don't feel like a fake, but I don't feel like I should hide my thoughts and feelings anymore. Chances are that most people don't care, anyway.

So here it is. My heart on my sleeve.

When I started deleting everything, I stopped writing poetry. I recently started again, but haven't shared anything.

Here is a poem for you. Yes, you.


Tiny fists
the glitter in my peripheral
the tickle of a feather
the last drop of toothpaste
a bus ticket
I can fit it all in my pocket
for you to look at later
in our fortress made of books.




p.s. please don't tell anyone about the time I peed my pants. It was terribly embarassing.