TAT.WAM.ASI.

isohiko

so strange

I think about dying, so he’d know I really couldn’t live without him.

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wamwamwam

Toronto diaries

wamwamwam

The smell of cigarette smoke comes into my bed from I don’t know where and it is suddenly cold. I can’t help but think of ghosts.

Everyday I say to myself, tomorrow will be the day when you will sleep and eat like you are supposed to and work like you are supposed to and you must somehow, somehow do what you are supposed to do and I am crying now to write of it because why? Why am everyday setting myself up to fail- every single day? I am afraid that I will fail out of this program. I am afraid that I will disappoint my supervisor. But I am struggling to do the things I know I must do to prevent these fears from realizing themselves… because I am so afraid.

I am thinking about style. How the abstract discussion of these feelings is so often boring and how the writing of them fails to really resonate with The Reader. How I must show you myself, a beautiful naked body sweating under a heap of blankets. There is a lump in my throat. Silence is ringing in my ears. I cannot hear the trains because it’s 3:45 in the morning, a moment in the short stretch of time during which they do not run. This little blue room, cold and quiet and my little pink body in it- now that you can see the shape and colour you can begin to feel for yourself my despair.
I am lonely.

I have resolved to begin to leave my phone at home during work hours as part of operation Hermit Card (doing what I am supposed to do). It is difficult because this is how I keep in touch with my friends and family. This phone is a wellspring of love and entertainment and all manner of positive feelings. That’s why it’s 3:50am and I am on it instead of forcing myself to sleep somehow.
But I am ready to admit that it is holding me back from doing what I am supposed to do and not only that but from Being Present.

I have just worked out that it’s not tobacco I am smelling but rooibos tea in a mug on my bedside table, gone cold.
and now I will really and truly put this phone down and go to sleep.
Good night.

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A year later, at 3:50am, nothing has changed

deuxencore

shootmeadub

in a mood to get nutted in and have a baby

deuxencore

paging @wamwamwam

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Research Interests:

dazeddigital

11:47AM Nov 19

The laundry is a problem. We have been putting it off these past two weeks and now it’s Saturday and the dry cleaners on Gimpie Street is closed. I found that out after walking over there with our laundry in a big duffel bag. I walked past a building that handles scrap metal recycling and I felt unsafe for no other reason than that everyone keeps telling me how dangerous it is in Woodstock, don’t go out after dark, be careful, two people were stabbed and killed on this street last month. A short man in a red sweater said “Good Morning!” and I felt bad for being so paranoid. Anyways, the dry cleaners which I was hoping was also a laundromat was closed and I had to turn around and head back to the loft.

Brasley made me a Nescafé instant cappuccino. I tidied up and tried to solve the laundry problem but I think we’re shit outta luck until Monday. That’s pretty much been our whole morning. Staying in bed late and chilling. And yeah, we are still playing Pokémon go.

November 19 9:28 AM

There is a saxaphonist downstairs at the Woodstock school for music which is on next floor down, right below us. This morning they are playing the song Summertime. I am listening to that and to the wind, the howling wind. The best word to describe it is battering. This loft/penthouse is actually a small box built up on the roof. The wind, the south easterly they call The Cape Doctor, the wind that blows down off the mountaintop, it comes to batter our walls, doors and windows and there is nothing at all to stand in its way because we are high up on the roof, above every other building. So as I lie in my bed with the white curtains drawn across window before me, and white walls on my left and right, I feel like I’m in a tent in the arctic tundra and the wind is battering the canvas. So there is the wind and there is the saxophone, which has stopped just now, precisely at the moment when I finished this paragraph. Oh, never mind, it seems the musician was just taking a break. He’s playing again.

I dreamed I was at a dinner party, and my hosts had three blonde children. They were eating some kind of mini wheats as a snack and one was complaining about it. I told him he was spoiled.

I am not feeling as anxious as I was the past two days. I am breathing steadily and looking forward to today, which is B’s 30th birthday.