Modern Standard Fuck Me That's Tough

The thing I'm finding about Mandarin or Standard Chinese or whatever the fuck you want to call it (a good warning sign that a language is going to be a massive pain in the ass for an Anglo to learn is that Anglos haven't even settled on what to call the fucker yet) is that getting it into my head is reasonably okay - no less okay than, say, cramming Italian or French into my head was once upon a time. The problem is getting the cunt to stay there. In Vancouver I stopped studying for my nice downtime week of R&R and everything just fell out of my head. And my bastard of an exam is on Friday.

With Italian and French there were hooks keeping it there - still are - the hooks of phrases learnt from the paternal side as a child, the hooks of bilingual writing on a cereal box, and most importantly, I realize now, the hooks of English vocabulary being chock full of Romance vocabulary. English may not seem like a Romance language but when your brain is spasming around trying to process Mandarin and all the little connections in your head are firing as wildly as the popo after the levies break, desperately seeking any, even the most obscure or strangest connection that can be found, between the words you're learning and the words you already know, and it comes up with sweet fuck all - you realize, Anglos learning a fucking Romance language should not be any sort of fucking stretch.

Anyways, I'm pottymouthing, but I'm enjoying it. Also enjoyed going for a canoe this morning with my doublecousin, and also enjoyed seeing her happier than I've ever seen her before. And enjoying being here, enjoying being with Lexie, enjoying all the rest of it. Just not enjoying realizing I'm just two and a bit weeks in here and already getting overwhelmed with lusty nostalgia for the F-word. Emotionally this trip is whizzing by to the point where my heart wants to stop time, but from the point of view of my pantsjungle it's crawling to the point where my poon is ready to hijack a plane and fly into the arms of my old man. I wish my conscious being didn't have to be so fucking schizo about everything.

Pussyodyssey

Canada has a lot of things going for it, but one of them is being close to the US when its dollar is at record-setting lows. Hopefully for me that will last until my trip to New York in September. I'm gonna buy everything. Well, not everything. But I controlled myself at Marimekko Vancouver, buying only one dress, in anticipation of the much cheaper and larger Marimekko New York, where I will do damage. A bit, anyways. By which I mean, maybe one more dress, and a gift card for La New Yorkaise, who is back there and who is marrying yet another French man despite how swimmingly the last ones went . . . by the way, what is this bizarre sado-masochistic love-hate superiority-inferiority schizo relationship non-Canadian Anglos have with the French? The French are just a bunch of people who eat reasonably well, say what's on their minds, and have hideous intergender relationships. Europe is full of them.

Have resettled Lexie away from Sugarplum and here in North Bay with my parents. She never bonded with them in Neil Young country and they, obviously in retrospect, were far too busy for her, what with two kids under three. Almost as soon as I saw her at their place - back covered in matts, like it was when I adopted her from that girl in Toronto with the brain tumour - I decided the F-word was right when he suggested we wait until after we have kids, and they grow a bit, to get some domestic animals in. Not just for the kids, but the animals too. (Not to mention I have a feeling we'll be inflicting the potentially horrible psychological blow of making at least one of our children emigrate at a sensitive age, which will probably be easier if we promise them a dog on the other side of the move.)

Well, thank goodness my parents can take Lexie; even with Magnum and his kid in town, they have a lot of stray affection looking for a home with all the rest of us knocking around the world. And I am as pleased as I can be to be able to spend time with her now, and in future visits home as long as life is granted to us. In her case I don't know how long that will be. She's as big as a whale now, and moves like an old lady. But she knows me and loves me and has either forgiven or forgotten my abandonment and the way I made her take trans-Atlantic plane rides. That's animals. They'll remember love longer than anything else, I think, even when they are vicious death machines.

My violent happy little darling

Now up to one hour in my runs and feeling pretty ace about it, except there's been a revolting new spot of chafe: just over the solar plexus, marring the vista of my spectacular tits. It did lead to some in-house jokes about the original title of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" being "Eczema of the Heart" or "Acute Leprosy of the Heart". Running also continues to make me flatulent, with hilarious results on Sunday morning while I was jogging past the front door of the local cathedral and let go of an absolutely ripping fart just at that point of utter pre-hymn silence right before the organ kicks in. I would never have done such a disrespectful thing on purpose but, frankly, I was tickled pink that I'd done it unwittingly.

Also tickled pink, guiltily, by reports from Sugarplum that Lexie now gets along with the other cat in the household, a gentle Tom, well enough to viciously attack Sugarplum while she attempted to bathe and groom him. As far as I'm aware, it is the first time Lexie has left actual gouges on a person. The story goes that this tom, who has been loved and taken care of all his life (vs Lexie, who was neglected for the first several years of hers to the point of occasionally having to fend for herself, I believe) and is as gentle as a feather, was crying and hissing, but not offering any violence, as Sugarplum cut some matts out of his hair and bathed him. Finally his crying got so bad that Lexie, who had been watching the proceedings intently, launched a vicious attack on Sugarplum.

I feel very bad indeed for Sugarplum, and damn relieved that she's the sort of person who understands that sort of behaviour, and damn happy for Lexie. It was always a point of guilt for me that she was an only-pet; it made me feel bad when we left her alone for any length of time. So I always promised myself that when we got a new cat, we'd get two - or get a kitten and a puppy at the same time - or something, so that they'd be able to give each other some sort of company when the humans were otherwise preoccupied. But I assumed that Lexie was too used to being an only cat, that she was too old to deal with a change in circumstances like that, and that the reason it was going to work at Sugarplum's house with the resident tom was that the place was big enough for them to have seperate territories. It is a really beautiful surprise for me that they are getting along now. Like, little tears of happiness surprise. I think my darling girl is really in a better place in more ways than one now.

Mrs. Slocum weeps

Sorry. No heart for the food stuff today. I'm going to spend this evening stroking my pussy, and for once I don't mean . . . oh for fuck's sake.

I guess in one way I'm feeling better about Lexie. The vet, who feels really bad about what happened, and I had a good talk about it when he came round to trim her fingernails and fill out her forms; if she's happy at Sugarplum's, and I'm sure she will be, that's excellent, and if she's not happy at Sugarplum's and comes to Australia after all, at least we'll be settled down by then, and in all honesty there's no way to look at the situation without having to admit dropping her off in Canada tomorrow is the best thing for her.

But I'm so fucking sad. It's like being dumped by a guy you really love because he has to fly back to Mars or else he'll slowly choke on Earth's oxygen-rich atmosphere, and neither of you are into the long distance thing. She's been my constant companion of years and years; my comfort when things were shitty and my darling when things were lovely; my dainty little southern belle, despite being so fucking fat; my familiar, my outlet for all the excess tenderness I used to waste tending to my own useless mental complexes.

She's moving in with Sugarplum tomorrow, close to where Neil Young grew up for awhile, in the Kawarthas. As soon as I realized that I started getting "Helpless" stuck in my head and it's got progressively sadder with every repeat. Thank god it's the Nick Cave version, or else I'd be cripplingly sad over a cat while a tomcat croons in my head.

(The F-word and I were just talking about Neil Young, in relation to where Lexie is going to be living and in relation to "Helpless" being stuck in my head, and he asked if I liked Neil Young, and I think I actually burst into laughter at the idea of liking Neil Young. Coming home from a long day at work, wondering what to listen to, and deciding - "yep, I'm going to listen to some nice Neil Young" - it's less ridiculous but no less hilarious than the idea of doing the same with Bob Dylan. But actually I really do like Neil Young, and have ever since I saw him in concert, and I would really love to see him in concert again, but the idea of sitting around listening to one of his records still makes me laugh out loud.)

Anyways, this is how I'm feeling. Now excuse me while I go cruising for some pussy:

The Red Dragon's got no more patience

Oh dear. Being temporary and imposed is still really not stopping the present situation from becoming stiflingly oppressive. I don't remember the last time I was this miserable and bleak in this awful sort of unremitting way. And since I'm cruising the Dragon* that's translating into a general unfocused fury.

Hopefully things will start looking up after I go through the fucking Cavalry of giving away Lexie - oh holy fuck, what an awful thought. Thank god it's to Sugarplum. I can't imagine how I'd be doing if I was poor, and couldn't afford to bring her back to Canada - having to put her into a shelter or something - fuck. Or if Sugarplum couldn't take her, and I had to give her away to someone who wouldn't be able to give her a better living situation than I could, so I'd have to feel guilty on top of just fucking bereft.

Anyways. The clouds lifted briefly the other night, actually. I was walking home from a pleasant smokeratif - naughty of me to get so hooled in company when I should have been working on the apartment but we all have our break-points - walking back to more packing and cleaning and organizing, but nicely snaked and ready to be in a tired-but-brave kind of mood instead of the standard fucking misery.

The weather’s been clearer than usual lately. It was the sunset – kind of early, it’s getting dark here already, and that bugs me what with the SAD - but then it was okay, because I glanced up and there was a sunset going down on Rue Americaine, where Horta’s house is, glancing warmly off the shiny Art Nouveau bricks. A plane flew above me into the blushing sky, leaving a white streak across the shining violet. I relaxed. I took a big gulp of air.

And swallowed the vilest lungful of pure unadultered garbage breath my body’d ever been subject to. I have no idea where it came from but it was like stepping in dogshit for your circulatory system. I’m serious, I’m not just being a Canadian used to rarified mountain air blowing in over the trembling pines.

So yeah, I pretty much hate this place. I’ve never been so ready to split from somewhere, including Paris, and I was out of Paris the second I finished my final exam. But I didn’t hate Paris so much as some of the people in it. Here – I hate it. I hate pretty much everything about it because even the nice things come served in a turd. And if I didn't hate it on its own fucking merits I'd hate it because it's the inhuman shithole peopled by cunts who're forcing me to give away my cat. All the twee fuckery is not simply Latin and picturesque; it's fucking unlivable, like Spain drained of all the charm, kindness and beauty.

And my arsehole neighbours still have their fucking abandoned swimming pool up and my flat is still fucking full of mosquitoes, and it's autumn, for fuck's sake.

*Not to mention, gagging over the irony of how my efforts to save the world, and my laundry, by using DivaCups are going rather poorly as I'm on my FOURTH now. The F-word accidentally threw out the first, and two more were in my luggage as what got stolen on my way to Canada - more on that some other day when I have less fury to vent about other things.

Gah

Things are looking quite bad for the cat, my public tears don't seem to have the power they once did, and my last-ditch hope in the matter is that the Belgian ministry will accept the Australian ministry's permission to not be fucking noobs in the case. In a nutshell, my vet can complete the lacking formallity in an afternoon, but in that case the ministry still won't accept his prior rabies vaccinations and blood tests - we'd have to start again and that means Lexie spending an unacceptably long time in quarantine. In which case she's much better off moving in with Sugarplum.

Well, she is in any case. I think that is adding an extra dimension of pain to the situation, but is also a mighty reassurance: she would have been much better off there in the first place, but I just wanted her to stay with me so much, and maybe this is all me being unacceptably greedy. Well, of course it is.

And my landlord has started being bullying. I can deal with bullies well in English, particularly the sexist sort, like him, who try to bully women and then are all nicey-nicey with men; those type tend to buckle like poorly made bridges in an earthquake when you demonstrate a touch of spine and shouting. But in French I find them crippling. So the F-word is mostly taking over landlord-us relations. I just can't bear it anymore.

And work. And all that. Fuck. If I wasn't going on vacation tonight, I'd be fucking shit myself with the sort of generalized stress.

The cat

Is coming with us to Australia. Nobody wants her. Fine. I do.

Thanks for all the sweet fuck all, world.

Paging Dr. Dolittle

I'm not the world's most enthusiastic or emotional person, I've noticed. Probably not even in the top ten. But one thing I do know is that I love my cat so damn much. I'd never had a pet with a personality before her, and that combined with me being the youngest child meant that until Lexie moved in with me there was a certain kind of love, the love of being relied upon, that I'd never known.

Sure I'd had men who thought they needed me, but when you're young and hearty that's not like being relied on, not like a child relies on its parents or the way I rely on my older brothers. Nothing had ever relied on me, not that I'd noticed anyways, not until Lexie, and I'd never loved anything the way you love something that relies on you. I'd always only felt the sort of selfish love of the youngest girl - a relying love, a love that didn't question whether or not it was loved back because it knew it was - and nothing had ever loved me like that. Until Lexie; I know she loves me like that, or the cat equivalent. And the love that responds to that - it's something very special.

Not to say Lexie's dependent. That's the thing about Lexie. I know that if I died tomorrow she'd be okay. She's a cat for god's sake, they've taken over Chernobyl. And not only is she a cat, she was a feral cat for years before she moved in, and was used to killing or foraging her own dinner. If I could just manage to break the window before I died, the thought has gone through my head on occasion, she would be just fine. She'd manage. I've seen her bat birds out of the sky, bash mices' brains out, nearly rip a raccoon's nose off once . . . And I'd look at friends' cats - noisy mewling clingy whorish things that would sit on laps and things like that, things Lexie wouldn't dream of doing, and I'd feel so proud of my cat, who wasn't a great big suck but who could still communicate affection as though she knew that you were both good and equal souls before the Lord, and you happen to be the one who brought home the kills for dinner. A little prance to meet you, a shivering tail, loving headbutts, company on the yoga mat and quiet staring until you brush her. That's all and it's plenty.

And now I'm moving to Australia, and have an awesome job and an awesome man and everything's awesome, and there's this horrible big fly shitting in my ointment, and that's that she can't come with me.

She could, though, and at this point it's even looking likely, despite the three months of quarantine that the vet warned me lots of animals don't survive. Because nobody wants her. Nobody wants this fucking awesome cat that I love. It hasn't been a worry up until now as a good friend in Canada was going to take her, but that fell through, and now the best offer I've got is a friend's father's farm, strictly as a working cat, with a bunch of other working cats - no more warm hearth, no more brushing - but maybe she'd like it? Maybe she'd like scrapping all day with other cats and kiling mice and hanging out in a barn? Would it be better or worse than three months in quarantine?

This is fucking brutal, you know, because she can't tell me which she'd rather do. I'm aware of how ridiculous that sounds, but you know, there it is, she's my cat. I basically swore I'd do the best I could to take care of her by adopting her, and here I am, considering which of two options is going to fuck her over less, and utterly unable to get her opinion on it, and incapable of knowing whether or not she is sufficiently attached to me to make it worthwhile to keep her in something as tortuous as quarantine for months.

And nobody wants her because she's not some crappy little cute kitten, she's an old fat cat who I love and think is the best fucking cat in the world. And people just want fucking ewok-faced cutey-pie Kylie Minogue type kittens who don't even know how to piss in a litterbox.

Ah fuck.

Three rotten things happened last night

1. The Chaser's War on Everything ended forever. Australians apparently have the same habit of axing television programmes before they run out of ideas and turn into painful, undead farce (seasons 5-7 of the Sopranos, anyone?) that the British have. And that's one of the few things I admire about the British. But as a North American, that's foreign to me (every season following the first of Sex and the City, anyone?) and so I'm still so sad they're gone. They say they'll be back with something else, but who, oh who, will embarass themselves with Australian politicians in the meantime, giving me an indirect study of that country's political firmament?

Two fave moments - one from the first season, one from the last:






Sigh.

2. I finished Adam Bede. There's no more, it's over. Heartbreaking. But I'm still chuffed that I've got four more Eliot monsters to wade into, and after finishing the book I opened it again at random and all the words were still there, thankfully. It will be a good re-read, and a frequent one. Being a stoner I love re-reading books. On the second read, after a few pipes, it's like a fucking private cinema in my brain. And any cinema featuring my new crush Adam is going to be hot.

3. Lexie fell off some boxes. I think her leg is broken. Unutterably distressing, but she doesn't seem to be in distress, she's putting some weight on it, and I'll take her to the vet this afternoon. If she needs some focussed attention I'll have to put off my departure for Lisbon until Monday, and that will be on the fucking overnight coach - there are either no planes left, or they're prohibitively expensive. Oh well. I won't care if she'll be okay. I was absolutely distraught until she started purring, and I realized cats aren't horses, and we won't have to shoot her if it actually is busted. So all will be well, I hope.