Lovely dirt

Mr. C has the best view. You can see the sunrise over the lake, and Toronto being Toronto you have a gorgeous shoreline of rotting factories and tumble-down smokestacks. Wish I had a camera for y'all. I wonder if it was growing up in a forest that makes me love urban decay. Maybe it's Toronto. Daily Dose of Imagery, linked in the sidebar, is heavy into the beautiful urban decay of Toronto. I just read Camera Lucida, a Gigi loan, by Roland Barthes. Pretty yummy, and it's made looking at photographs more fun. I can't wait until the defense is over! I'll forget the Canadian cannabis industry and the French language and read semiotics books and Jung and study Italian and smoke reefahhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Today, my dulcet darlings, is the 250th birthday of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Oh, Mozart. I bet in 1756 God realized the end of January was the most depressing time of the year, so he threw down a bit of fucking perfection to make the world a better place. Can we please invent some new adjective to describe Mozart? Some mix of 'lovely' and 'perfect' and 'spell-binding'? Saying Mozart is perfect is like saying the Beatles were kinda nice and the Temptations had decent harmonies. To celebrate, Gigi is taking me to Mozart: A Life in Letters tonight. I'm wiggly with excitement because it's Mozart, and it's mostly singing. This is going to be a long day. I want to go now! NOW!

Last night my analyst and I worked with a dream whose dénouement featured me and Gigi struggling to explain to one of my ex-boyfriends why Sebastien from Invasions barbares was hot - in non-physical terms so Ex wouldn't feel inadequate. As if hearing things like 'he's hot because he's supremely competent without having to talk much' isn't going to make somebody in the mood for inadequacy feel inadequate. Anyways, at the end of the session the analyst delivered it:

'You have a problem with men.'

Ah, all is clear now. Cue Eroica, please.

Really, last night it came clear that I can roll around in singledom like a happy little pig in shit as much as I want but the men I love - my family, my friends, any possible male spawn - deserve more affection and understanding than I give now. I think this is what bothers me about the self-help industry oriented around gender relations. There's a lot more to gender relations than romance, yet that industry objectifies the opposite sex through the prism of romance because that's what pre-occupies most people enough to pay for help with. But these tend to be the easiest formed and easiest broken emotional bonds. So do they really deserve so much proportionate attention? Is the fact that I can take my non-naked men for granted a reason to take them for granted? Surely not.

Moving on. Riding the metro when I'm snaked always opens up paranoid and shocking visions of human existence. Last night I was borrowing a handsome man-purse that I'd used to get my thesis out of Kinko's without getting hurt, obviously worth a couple hundred, and I think it made more people approach me for money than I get when I'm wearing my six-year-old courrier bag. Anyways, that made the paranoia a touch worse, so when I was tired of it I started reading Naked Pictures of Famous People, the Jon Stewart book Lady gave me for Jesus's birthday. Oh, how I laughed. I think that was the first time I've laughed alone in public since the glass-dick joke FEB told me in 1999 popped into my head while I was shopping at H&M this summer. People don't laugh enough.