Trisha’s posterous

...and spontaneous...reminiscent of the epic U2 Video 'Where the Streets Have No Name, walking through city streets and playing live on the roof of that building B4 the police (aka the Fuzz) came and made them stop.

I love Fergie and the Black eyed peas too...

I bought a little cello key chain at a second-hand store yesterday.  It has a bow and everything.  You can move the bow across the little strings, and the little cello sings.

I think this is serendipitous because a few days ago my 'art therapy' key chain broke, shiny beads scattered over the sidewalk.

I think it was a sign, either bad or good, those scattered beads, my little cello, respectively.

Where one woman's life ends, another woman's life begins.

Things I want to do, the things that keep me going, things that I have to work out:

Never end a sentence on a preposition.  The universe takes note, and you risk being pushed out of yourself as a result of your incompleteness, or under the current of time, inconsequential, forgotten, the bottom of the sea itself, or over a hill that only rolls one way.  You risk ending up being beside yourself for all eternity, disgruntled, fettered by a notion of yourself you can't put your finger on, or becoming snared in the act of crossing the breadth of negative space between two mountains, or following behind that thing that never comes to pass, nostalgia for something that never was.

Your heart will be the broken thing.

You will long for the scratch of a needle on vinyl, Lou Reed singing walk on the dark side as the coloured ladies sing....  but instead you'll be imprisoned by digital.

You will look for the antique piano, the old wooden radio, that flute you played as a little girl, the recorder and the kazoo. 

You will remember that horse in the field, your hands smoothing across the slick rump, but you'll no longer be sure if it was real or if you conjured it into reality from a distant dream.

The glue factory.

You will forever be falling off the edge of things.

You will never get out.

So, things that keep me going, things I hope to do, the bucket list:

Learn to play the cello (minimum of five years of practice), feel that resonance move through you

Pick up your flute again, play green sleeves and a few scales

Grow your garden, the heather and herbs

PhD in Cultural, Social and Political thought within the Faculty of Graduate Studies, anchored to the Department of English; remember to survive the bullshit and bureaucracy, you've done it before and lived to tell about it.

Keep running, break the 10K 50-minute mark.

Buy those slick black rain boots you've always wanted

Grow your hair really long.

Finish your non-fiction book (by Christmas).  Consider it finished even though you may never ever be satisfied with it via your perfectionist nature.

Remember you are not perfect; you are human, and you are good.

Finish your poetry manuscript, by the first day of Spring.

Don't get lost in your abstract thinking.

Don't get lost in prepositions.

Be skeptical of adjectives and 'excessive' emellishments.

Breathe easy every day for at least 5 minutes; it's just life.

,

I think of burgundy wine, or fruit roll-ups.

I wanted to eat the leaves.

I lived on fruit roll-ups in grade 5.

I had my first cap-full of wine when I was 6 years old, around there.

At 8 or 9, I got drunk at a wedding, my aunt and uncle through my step-dad's side.  There were long rows of banquet tables, white tablecloths, shining plates, silverware, candles, everything glowing under dim lighting.  I went from table to table as the night wore on, stealing sips of wine from those cheesy plastic glasses, disposable.

Today, I walked through the Ross Bay Cemetery, sat on a bench, stretched out my legs, these legs that will never, no matter what I do or how far I run, be what I want them to be.  The ocean shone, a sheet of white light flickering, a sailboat way out there, a blue spinnaker blooming as the boat jibed and harnessed the wind again.

I felt dizzy, feverish, nauseous today, have felt this way for a few days.

My burns are healing badly.  It's gross.

Okay, there's the physical summary.

My mind feels slightly more anchored.  I caught myself today feeling like myself.  This wasn't so much an epiphany of realization as it was an epiphany of remembrance.

There you are...I missed you.  I think I missed you...

Small intervals of relief, these moments of remembrance, the weight of the universe lifted, my chest opened, I can breathe more easily, a great burden of self-loathing and yes, such lack of self-respect...wholly lifted also...

To be unburdened. 

Is this how other people live? 

I decided tonight that I would like to learn to play the cello.

I still want to take French classes, re-ignite the language in my brain, get a grip on the verb tenses, retrieve the vocabulary, develop my ear.  Have been listening to CBC Radio, the French station, to that end.

Have four canvasses here.  The easel takes up a considerable part of my living room cuz this living room is about 12 feet by 8 feet, small, is really a bedroom converted into a living room.  I want to make a series of bunny paintings, simple paintings, bunnies indicated in charcoal, shaded in, blurred into the background, varying numbers of bunnies in each painting, but one canvass will contain only one bunny.

This is what I have noticed (been living the clean healthy lifestyle for a couple of weeks now):

Prolonged dull headache.  Nauseous.  Dizzy and feverish.  Aching guts.  No appetite. 

I don't mean to sound like a hypochondriac (although hypochondria is par for the course with many mental illnesses, something to do with conjuring physical ailments to counter or compensate for mental pain).  But I really am feeling these things.

Also, I am most content when doing something, when engaged (writing, walking, running etc.), but being still is extremely difficult, in the evenings, that's the worst time, time to be filled with something but I don't know what.

I often blog in the evenings, often rambling, because I don't know what else to do. 

Does anyone read this?

What am I doing?

Eighty percent of the time I sleep on the love seat in the living room, curl up, hug a pillow, fall asleep easily these days because of the Trazedone (which I'm taking properly, just as I am now taking the prescribed amount of Wellbutrin daily...no more screwing around).  I have a double-sized bed, but I have this weird need to be in the living room, need to be here, central.  I am driven to be in here, as if I might miss something by leaving, by taking myself into another room.

My sister and I had breakfast at Shine Cafe today.

That cute Scottish waiter was there.

Oh he's so cute.

Okay, this is a wiki-derived sample, excerpt, but interesting none the less.

I started reading this and could not stop.  I felt like Alice in Wonderland.

(Incidentally, the first time I read Alice in Wonderland was in Paris in 2003, (the inferno summer), in Sara's apartment on Rue Lourmel.  I read Alice in Wonderland in Paris, dripping in sweat, drunk on cheap French wine.  Sara's shutters (heavy wooden shutters you pulled down hard from top to bottom in order to block out the light), were closed, so her little apartment was all honey-dipped, orange light, slats of gold wavering across her floor.  She bought the last upright fan in Paris, the display fan, which was missing the cover, so when I pressed my face up against the whirring blades, desperate for relief, I had to be careful of the blades).

I made a mistake in my previous post about Henry Fuc%^^-ing David Thoreau.  I noted Prepositional Logic, but it didn't sit right with me.  I realized later I meant to say 'propositional logic.'  I think I made this error because so much of my meandering and highly illogical rambling involved the notion of prepositions as a kind of foundation for understanding (logically) the nature of our existence.

I got an F on my first ever philosophy essay, term paper.  I cried in the Clerihue Building stairwell, papers crumpled in my hands. 

I said fuck it, went home, rewrote the paper, and got an A.

But anyway....twist on your head.

Do not read this is you already suffer from mental illness as it may consume you whole, OR, definitely read this if you are already mentally ill as it may absolve you of past sins and self-directed criticisms. 

This may save you from yourself, or it may thrust you up so close against your 'self,' that you stand the risk of losing consciousness, and thus, your mind.

Your heart will remain intact.

Love is not logical.

I particularly like the bit on 'intuitionistic logic.'  Who knew there was such a thing?

Bivalence and the law of the excluded middle

Main article: Principle of bivalence

The logics discussed above are all "bivalent" or "two-valued"; that is, they are most naturally understood as dividing propositions into true and false propositions. Non-classical logics are those systems which reject bivalence.

Hegel developed his own dialectic logic that extended Kant's transcendental logic but also brought it back to ground by assuring us that "neither in heaven nor in earth, neither in the world of mind nor of nature, is there anywhere such an abstract 'either–or' as the understanding maintains. Whatever exists is concrete, with difference and opposition in itself".^[28]

In 1910 Nicolai A. Vasiliev rejected the law of excluded middle and the law of contradiction and proposed the law of excluded fourth and logic tolerant to contradiction.^{[citation needed]} In the early 20th century Jan Łukasiewicz investigated the extension of the traditional true/false values to include a third value, "possible", so inventing ternary logic, the first multi-valued logic.^{[citation needed]}

Logics such as fuzzy logic have since been devised with an infinite number of "degrees of truth", represented by a real number between 0 and 1.^[29]

Intuitionistic logic was proposed by L.E.J. Brouwer as the correct logic for reasoning about mathematics, based upon his rejection of the law of the excluded middle as part of his intuitionism. Brouwer rejected formalisation in mathematics, but his student Arend Heyting studied intuitionistic logic formally, as did Gerhard Gentzen. Intuitionistic logic has come to be of great interest to computer scientists, as it is a constructive logic, and is hence a logic of what computers can do.

Modal logic is not truth conditional, and so it has often been proposed as a non-classical logic. However, modal logic is normally formalised with the principle of the excluded middle, and its relational semantics is bivalent, so this inclusion is disputable.

[edit] Is logic empirical?

Here is the link to the general wiki-derived subject heading: LOGIC
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Logic

http://video.google.ca/videosearch?hl=en&source=hp&q=Green%20Day%20when%20september%20ends&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&tab=wv#

I love Green Day and Johnny Ramone too.

I hope there is a heaven and I hope it sounds like this song and I hope Johnny Ramone lives there.

I hope it's okay to air band in heaven.

A friend said a while ago, "Don't go into those rooms, there's nobody there."

I know it.

I know.

The subject heading: Formal Demand

"This letter is a Formal Demand for Repayment in full of your Student Loan indebtedness in the amount of $34, 676.74 plus applicable interest as of the date of this letter."

(The letter is dated September 11, 2009).

I remember September 11th, day of terror.  I was eating sushi with my sister in her car on the top of Mount Tolmie.  Sushi and sunomono salad, that sweetened vinegar, crab meat (when I still ate meat) and cucumber, refreshing.  And tomago on rice wrapped in seaweed.

There was seaweed (creek weed) in St. Joseph's Creek, in Baker Park, across the street from Grandma's house on 14th Avenue back in my home town.  When I was young, I dipped my feet into this creek, hopped across on rocks, sometimes crouched in the middle of the creek, reached in and stroked the creek weed, that cool slime, deadly it seemed, the kind of slime that could strangle you in two inches of creek water.  Later, in high school, I stood on the red wooden bridge over St. Joseph's Creek, in all the seasons, up to my kneecaps in snow in the winter months.  I stood there crying, listening to Sinead O'Connor on my yellow Sony Sports Walkman, smoking cigarettes, aching, wanting to die, really, wanting it to be over, because I was a freak, no one talked to me, I spoke to almost no one for two solid years, missed forty something days of school in grade 11 and 12, got truancy letters home, I was chubby and shy; a real bright kid, you know? 

I didn't wear lip gloss.

My sister and I ate tomago on rice wrapped in seaweed.  I ate seaweed but I've never eaten creek weed.

September 11th for us was a warm autumn day, clear skies, could smell the yellowed straw-like grass wind-swept over stone, yellow grass rippling all down the steep rocky cliff of the hill, could smell the earth, dry dirt, even the stone.  The hill had become altered, a quieted hill, its internal vibrations buffered but not silenced. 

We got out of the car and stood at the railing and looked out at the city, our island town, the  Straight of Georgia sparkling in the distance, haze on the horizon. 

I saw live footage of people, real flesh and blood people, falling like ants from the towers.  It took my breath away; exhilarating, terrible.

My sister said, "Something's different."

I thought, "everything is different, but it's only different in its sameness, the scope broadened and yet narrowed."  I suppose I was thinking of existence, the thread of mortality, experience, the non-quantitative kind, the kind of existence outside of time (as if there's any other kind).

My sister said, "It's the clouds.  All the planes have been landed.  The clouds are softer, like when we were kids."

A friend recently wrote to me how the sun, that light, is so bright it swallows you, "an epiphany of non-existence."  (That's yours.  That is beautiful.  Thank you).

Creek weed and seaweed.

I never ate creek weed but I felt its cool slime in my hands.

That creek weed in my hands.  I was a girl then.

Has it all led up to this?

Yes, of course, everything inevitably leads up to "this."

Where else would it lead?  To that or nowhere?  Even that or nowhere is inevitably a version of "this."

Insert class logic "here" <-- another version of 'this,' though prepositional as opposed to the pronoun-ed reduction of being.

Here this.

Reestablish the above argument using prepositional logic, compare it to the class logic version.  You will find neither heart or soul in either.

Just close your eyes and feel the unquantifiable flash of "non-existence."

So yes, it has inevitably led up to this; a letter registered to me.  Legal action pending.  Financially destitute.

I actually, out loud, laughed when I read the letter.  It tickled me in a strange place that is neither funny nor bleak.  It tickled my emptiness.

"Lots of people get the emptiness.  It takes real guts to get the hopelessness.)- Revolutionary Road

Thus I began that weak human process of rationalization which always leads to nothing close to the truth.  Because how can rationalization find the truth?

I refolded the letter, slipped it back inside the envelope, stuffed it in my bag.  I thought, well, what can I do?  I cannot pay this money back in full.  I have nothing, no money, no car, no assets. 

I don't have a kitchen sink.

Maybe that's alright.  Like for real, maybe that's completely alright, even good.

(There are so many people who have less, who have neither property or a home or food or a reason to live).

So shut the fu^%^ up, Trish.

Let it go.

I thought, remember On Walden.  Remember transcendentalism.  Take this as an opportunity to get back to the truth.

Creek weed in my hands; that imagination and bravery.

I still love you, Henry David Thoreau.

PS.

I'm totally fucking screwed.

But hey, it's alright. 

I'm letting go.