Magdalena O!

I woke up this morning to a sky mexican blue. I woke up from a dream involving one of my cats, Ruffneck. I took him to Toronto Island by boat to let him play in a large field, because he’s never been outside. Except on the way back, he kept trying to wiggle out of my grip and I realized it would have been prudent to bring his carrier. But he’s pretty well behaved, and enough squishing him down on the bench did the trick. The sun burning through my mustard yellow curtains brings so much toned light onto my wood floor, but instead of soaking it in like always, I sit here with the water still dripping from my hair on the laptop, dripping exhaustion, dripping consequence to getting smashed. Too many experiences have very clearly explained to me that drinking, especially hard liquor is just not for me. Although, on Friday, at some art opening I ended up at, there was no hard liquor, there was booze and plenty of it free. Shooting champagne glasses, having the bartender pour almost an entire wine bottle into two wine glasses, shooting faux smiles with all the artists I met during the exhibition earlier, we went to some lounge after where vintage porno was showing and plenty of gorgeous tits, but I needed food and the walk to the nearest pizza place killed me, so ready-to-puke and knowing I was in for a twelve hour work day, I had to go home.

“You just puked up all your food.”

“No, didn’t you see, it was only the cheese.”

The point of it all, I felt like shit and still do. I’m not hungover, I’m just miserable. Although I don’t drink too much as it is, maybe I just won’t do it if I’m really really tired or have to be productive the next two days. It’s funny that alcohol has such a negative effect, and when I party, nothing else even comes close to that.

My hair has a high chance of being dangerously unmanageable tomorrow morning, but I can’t wait up for it to dry. Commuting with the snow conditions is completely draining me. There is so much more I want to say on the topic but my body is falling over. Sometimes I think about people’s alignment to others and I think that it seems many people I know would not want to be aligned with me, especially in the jungle scene. What is it about me exactly that is so stand-offish? Why is it so difficult? Most of the time, this does not bother me at all, but on the rare occasion I wonder what it would be like to be that girl that’s so nice and friendly and non-threatening so that everyone would want to be my friend. Then I realize I have many friends, good friends that are into me because they get it. They are never disappointing and always intriguing. I realize then, that I could never be the ‘generic nice girl’ because I’ve been told, I am too impassionated, my beliefs are too strong and I’m way too serious about the things and people I love. I won’t deny that sometimes I wish I was simpler.

Just as I was finishing this, I got an email from a friend who met my boss last night, and that she was giving me the highest praises. Considering my boss is a mover and shaker in the Toronto arts community, that does feel pretty hot. We all need ego stroking once in a while.

The application was submitted around 1:30pm today at 1 Dundas Street. Since my friend works there, I took a few minutes before work to get a tour of the radio station and somehow didn’t realize that I got into a brief conversation about dubstep with Allan Cross! I didn’t know it was him, and only after J told me I blushed heavily. Allan Cross is my hero, idol and guiding light when it comes to my passion for music and the pursuit of digging for and into music. FUCK! I can’t believe I was so out of it, not to notice his distinct “History of New Music” voice! How could this happen! I should write an ode to him. Maybe J and I can write it side by side, as one of our go-to bonding moments is discussing at length the genius that is Alan Cross. But at least my application is submitted! I can sleep! And now I can live in anxiety until I hear a response in 3-6 weeks!  (My favorite Tragically Hip song is playing outside my office in the kitchen – Bob Caygeon. Yes, there are some Tragically Hip songs that I enjoy and it makes me feel proud to be into something so markedly Canadian.)

I spent the weekend being loved.

“You know what one of the top reasons I keep you around is? You are such a genius! No matter what I ask you, you either know the answer or can synthesize one. There is nothing sexier than a big brain, especially when attached to such a big cock.”

I’ve been getting so much support for my application. A prof at Ryerson, who I have barely conversed with online before, edited by Statement of Interest and I have a few others going over my things. J stuck around with me all weekend going through it, helping with my doc and being chill. Being us again; the awe I have for him never subsides. Still coughing up my lungs, I pulled it together to run around town today finalizing some paper work and meeting with the Chair of the New Media Program at Ryerson. I was bouncing around the whole time, smiling yet with serious game face on when necessary. I think he was impressed with me. I was impressed with him! Rarely ever do I meet an older man who has such a nurturing quality about him, and he completely did. He told me that I seem like a great fit for the program and that my qualifications seem to have led me there! Thursday early afternoon I am handing in my application. I’ve done nothing this week but have this MFA surround me. The energy is overwhelming, and I am glad I have understanding friends who haven’t showed annoyance yet.

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I’ve settled for the Number 1 choice, for the Ryerson MFA. I am in the midst of writing my Statement of Purpose. I am tired and all this school type ish is making me really fucking horny. I always get really horny when I’m studying for exams or writing papers. I can’t imagine what the intensity of grad school will do for my libido if I get in. I’ll need a live-in blow up doll to use at my every whim. Besides that, my stomach is churning out an ulcer-to-be. I have been staring at the screen, at the exact same sentence for what seems like hours now, but it hasn’t and it’s too early to call it a night.

The project would give voice to women who have been victims of this oppressive system that on one hand provides them with care, but on another gives them no other options or autonomy over their lives.

I must move on. FUCK! I can edit it all later. I can edit down 1500 words to 700. I had such a stellar undergrad art school application letter. This isn’t art school or undergrad. Why do I get into these modes of anxiety? All day I was so happy, focussed on the program, my application and the immense gratitude I feel for the universe and those around me for conspiring to make it all happen. All day I have been thinking about The Alchemist. But then I get home, sit in front of this laptop and the fantasy of a celebratory champagne toast of getting in slowly loses its opacity and I’m stuck with insecurity and self-doubt.

If my former profs and peers believe in me, then how can I believe otherwise?