"That's no moon!"

It's horrible to see people's work stepped on. You're always your own worst critic, and it's never great when something doesn't turn out the way you wanted it to. But to have people you trust simply take it and break it and make it how THEY want, without permission? That's a major betrayal.

It always makes me sad when this happens to people. It's happened recently. I don't know the person, but I read their blog, and I like their work, and they worked so hard on this particular thing. It makes me so mad that people would do that - would take something that was someone else's and change it, without permission, for money.


"What world is this? What kingdom? What shores of what worlds?"

You can almost see the wizard through the curtain....

I have so many names sometimes I don't know what to do with myself. Jinks (Jinx), Vj, Cj (Kittynip) - and J, Jay and other permutations of my actual name.

I don't mean to sound as though I don't like it. I do. There is something freeing about having so many names, from so many people. Some of the names I've given myself, but people choose to use them. Some, people have simply given me. Some names are only used by one or two people, and I like that, too.

Identity is a strange thing. Some people change their names legally, for various reasons, but sometimes because the name they were given at birth is not a name they identify with. I understand that - for many years I didn't identify with my name. Well, maybe not as strong as that. I didn't like it, and I hated my surname. I like it now, although I like some of my 'other' names better. Jin(x)ks and J/Jay are two of my favourites, but only a few people call me the former, and only one person uses the latter.

I think how we identify gender-wise has a lot to do with how we identify with our names. I identify more happily with my non-gender-specific, but still slightly feminine, names. I do like my own name, though. God is gracious.

Post gig highs are the best

I got robbed and punched in the face yesterday, and it was still one of the best days of my life. And, ironically, if I hadn't been robbed and punched in the face, it wouldn't have been quite as good.

I also made a shirt in preparation for the gig (Gym Class Heroes):



It doesn't look like that now - sweat+barrier+non-waterproof markers=mess - but at least Travis got to see it before it got wrecked. And he signed it. I love my life.

Counting time....

Did you know that Sanskrit-based languages have ninety six words for love? English, in some ways, is a woefully inadequate language.

In other news:
Plots and plans (and helping hands) can see me through the day.

A veil of what-has-beens.

I am currently plotting something which is simultaneously exciting, diabolical and terrifying.

There are few things more frightening than being spontaneous when you're the kind of person who never stops second guessing themself.

When your brain explodes in fireworks, there's only one thing to do.

I love my family and my friends. They're the most important things in the world to me.

But really? It's ALL about the music.

Second star to the right

I'm about as good as Peter Pan at giving directions. Taking directions isn't my strong point either, making me feel like I'm stuck in a loop of Sinatra, sometimes. You're taught to be independent, but sometimes it backfires.

Whenever someone in a movie falls in love, there's always music. Makes you think that when it happens to you, when you finally realise that you've fallen in love with someone, that's what will happen. You'll hear music; an orchestra, a string quartet, a shoegazer band. In reality, there's no music - mostly it's silence, broken only by the pounding of your heart, the rush of blood in your ears, and your brain screaming wait, what? NO! Maybe some people do get music. The righteous. The innocent. Soul mates. LustLove-at-first-sight. Hormones bouncing around your brain like kids with ADHD, yelling look at me! Pay attention to me! until you have no choice but to listen. So empathetic with everyone else that I manage to miss what's in front of my nose until it's too late.

Epiphanies at the coffee machine are strange, making you feel even more exposed, like everyone knows what you're thinking. Life's too short for any kinds of regrets, so from here on that's it. I won't waste a second, because it's all too precious. I refuse to have any regrets about my life, because what's the point in holding back when maybe you won't even have tomorrow? I don't think I'll stop wearing odd socks, though.

Sometimes - more often than not - people will surprise you. Books judged by cover always turn out to have a twist.

We'll leave you kicking and screaming so you can thank us in the end

Sometimes I wish I could just listen to music normally, instead of like this, like every piece was so goddam important, like if I listen to it wrong it'll screw up the experience of it, or mess me up in some way. Of course, the danger is more that it won't mess me up - the CFOB Mixtape screwed me up to the point that I still can't listen to it like a "normal" album. One day I'll get to the point where I can listen to it when I'm not in the dark, lying on the floor as the music lights up every single one of my synapses like a goddam Christmastree. But not yet. I'm almost afraid to try.

If music didn't get all-the-way into my bloodstream I feel like I might be halfway to normal.

I spent the day with a mane again; the fluffiness almost suffocating me as I tried to move my head. I feel like it should be a fashion statement; really, it's just me being unable to brush out the tangles and giving up halfway through. (I'd turn this into a metaphor about my life, but I'm not quite that cliché.)

Reading an email with different fonts messed with my head today, remembering suddenly that the real difference between an uppercase 'I' with top-and-bottom perpendicular lines and an 'I' without is about forty years and facial hair. Then couldn't see anything else as I looked at the email and had to send it quickly before closing my eyes and trying not to look at any letters for a few minutes while my head cleared. It's more of a problem than it used to be because I know I'm overthinking it; where once I subliminated (because otherwise it drives you crazy) now I see them like crowds in front of me. Overthinking has always been one of my less enviable qualities.

Give me detached existentialist ennui.
Flash.

Love makes you do the wacky.

What is wrong with all of these people who make reality TV shows? And what is wrong with the people who watch them? There is something seriously the matter with our society.

I look at my inbox and I feel as though the world has righted on its axis again, after so long out of kilter. Everything is as it should be again, except for my own feelings, which are not now nor ever will be right, or good, or anything but wrongwrongwrong. If only we could police our feelings, make them as they should be.

November 4th is so close now, I feel like the world has started holding its breath. We're not all US citizens, but anyone who cares about the world cares about the outcome of this election. It doesn't quite keep me awake at night, but it's close. But if it all goes to hell in a handbasket, I doubt I'll just stay in my own country; Canada is looking mighty sweet right now. Prince Edward Island was pretty, and Nova Scotia was awesome too, so it's not like it would be a hardship. 

I have to keep reminding myself that I'm doing pretty well for someone of my age, and the fact that I haven't done the things I wanted to do by this time isn't necessarily the worst thing ever. It's just that not everyone has their dreams come true. Which for some people isn't a problem, but for someone who never stops dreaming, it's somewhat heartbreaking.

The swingin' sixties were not what they seemed, not everyone was lost in a technicolor dream

My friend at work showed me this yesterday. I think the 'third date rule' has changed a little bit in the last 46 years.



It's always strange to see first hand how different social norms are from generation to generation. When my great-grandmother was alive, she didn't like my first tattoo (she never lived to see the others) because, for her, tattoos were only found on sailors, criminals or 'women of loose morals'. She was shocked that my parents were quite happy with me having it.

Part of me thinks that it seems like a simpler time; the rest of me understands that I would not have lasted a week as a teenager back then.

"You're the one that does the nude Hohos!!"

Having problems with impulse control causes problems when it comes to money. I'm aware of this, but I just bought what are possibly the best shoes ever.



Wearing them on the rainy, muddy streets of Manchester first time out was perhaps not the best idea, but I felt a kind of childish excitement in buying these, skipping down the street watching my feet.

Sometimes shoe-buying good for the soul.