Cam's Diner
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
Mr Cam's LiveJournal:
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| Saturday, December 1st, 2007 | | 4:35 am |
Single and looking III
Listen to me, getting off on talking about myself. My therapist says it's because I'm going through a period of self-discovery, but I think that's his way of calling me vain. Here are some things I look for in a boyfriend that are, in the words of Alanis Morissette, not necessarily needs but qualities that I prefer.
1. A top. You tell me what to do, and I'll do it. Unless I don't want to. Then I'll stop answering your phone calls.
2. Your profile isn't a dark background with lighter text. It doesn't make me think anything bad about you, I just can't read it very well.
3. A drinker. My ex-boyfriend, Stephen, was a non-drinker, and he was horrified at how much I can put back. Sometimes when I get paid, I go straight to the liquor store and buy bottles in mass quantities. It's not cheaper that way because the government regulates the prices, but I like to line it up on my desk when I get home so I can look at it all at once. Then I scatter the bottles around my house; one in the closet, one in my underwear drawer (in one of my giant Christmas socks, it doesn't hide the bottle very well but I like how the antlers stretch out), one under my pillow, etc. When I'm drunk it's like an Easter egg hunt. Anyway, Stephen once found a bottle of shiraz in the fireplace and said that was ridiculous and enough is enough. I tried to convince him that it fell down the chimney, but he didn't buy that story at all. It was a stupid lie; how would anyone get onto the roof in the first place, never mind drop the bottle without breaking it? I've dropped bottles on grassy fields that shattered open; I would have sucked wine off the ground, too, if there wasn't so much glass. But now I have to maintain the lie whenever I see him, and I know he brings it up on purpose to toy with my conscience. I feel okay lying to ex-boyfriends, though, since they're usually not trustworthy.
4. A conversationalist. I love to talk, although I've been accused of mumbling at the ends of sentences when I realize I've forgotten the thing I really wanted to say.
5. You don't believe in capital punishment. I stole that from Alanis too. But it's kind of presumptuous, killing people because you think they deserve it. Do you know what I mean? Sometimes people -- a lot of the time they're men -- say really mean things to me, and I don't think I deserve that at all, since I try hard to be friendly and considerate. Maybe it's the same with murderers, they just can't gauge an acceptable level of aggression in validating their own anger. I guess if they killed someone they can't be surprised when someone kills them back, though, it's like punching someone in the nose and expecting they'll just walk off crying; I would do that but I'm a pacifist, and I cry easily.
6. Not an actor. I dated an actor last year and things ended terribly.
7. You like dogs. My friends say that's hypocritical because I'm terrified of dogs; I can't even hold the end of a dog's leash for fear it'll turn around and bite me for taking its freedom away. Maybe I could walk a little dog if I drank first, but I wouldn't pick up after it even though there's laws against leaving poo on the ground. It's not the smell or the germs, just the warmth through the plastic bag. Anyway, dogs are really genuine and direct, no funny business or tricks, kind of like straight men. Gay men are more like cats. Though I can't say I like cats, either.
I doubt I can find someone who fits every one of those items. But if you do, please message me. As long as you're not... darn, I should have put that in the list--
8. You're not super ugly. I know that's subjective, and it makes me sound shallow, but it's like art, sometimes art is universally unappealing no matter how famous the artist was before he died. | | Friday, November 30th, 2007 | | 11:26 pm |
Single and looking II
Here's something weird about me -- I have trouble initiating breakups. I know that sounds perfectly normal, and maybe you have the same problem. I have trouble initiating most things, and I find that debilitating to a point. You should know that I am strictly a bottom. So much that I need friends to decide things for me, which shirt to wear, or who to believe, so I don't waste time waiting for things to happen. I hope that doesn't put unnecessary pressure on you; I'm not weirdly submissive or anything, and I'm not going to ask that you hold my head underwater -- how do you even turn that into a fetish? You'd have to do it in a swimming pool, or the ocean, and I hear it doesn't work underwater; it hurts, at least, because the lube washes off after your hand goes in the water. Still, if you like giving orders, go right ahead. I could use the direction. It wasn't long before I found myself repelled by my first boyfriend, Robbie. He would say things like, "I'm going to order the steak... is that okay?" and "I'm going to visit my family in Montreal for Christmas, if that's cool with you." The steak question wasn't terribly out-of-place because I'm a vegetarian. Anyway, we didn't kiss until my friend got us drunk one night and pushed our heads together. When we finally found ourselves post-coital, we each rolled over in opposite directions, waiting to be spooned. One morning I snuck into his living room and pushed all his couches against the walls with their backs facing the middle of the room. I know that seems strange. I just wanted to see him mad; I imagined him telling me to put everything back where I found it. I would do that right away, and then we could have better sex. (We often fought about who would have to be the top, passively of course, like, "I can be it, if you really don't want to be." "No, it's okay, I can top you. Are you ready? It it okay if I put it in now?") I waited on the couch until I heard him get up, then I turned around to catch his facial expression. He looked startled at best, then went to make breakfast. Can you believe it? Not one word about the furniture. Later I stuck his toothbrush down the kitchen sink, so he quietly bought a new one. One day while we sat cross-legged on the couch, our noses up against the wallpaper, I slapped Robbie across the face. He shot me a sad kind of smile, like a dog when you say no -- not that I would say no to a dog; they can be vicious, and they never listen to me anyhow -- and he goes, "You can do that again, if you like." I had become an abusive boyfriend. I was so ashamed that I left immediately, and never text messaged him again. I know that story doesn't show me in the best light. But I believe in unconditional honesty, as you know, and now I'm careful to date tops only -- versatile occasionally, when they aren't too flimsy -- so that ugly side of me doesn't appear again without warning. | | 11:25 pm |
Single and looking
Not to sound desperate or anything. But I'm the kind of person who jumps right into a relationship. I start calling you my boyfriend right off the bat. If I notice that makes you uncomfortable, I might only call you boyfriend in secrecy, like, when I'm having a slumber party with my girlfriends. Then comes our first date. I'm not into holding back -- you find out everything eventually, right? -- so I'll be exactly like myself. I wasn't always like that. For example, my previous boyfriend, Chuck, would always come into the bathroom with me. Even if we were at a restaurant together, which is totally weird, because we'd leave the table empty; you'd think we'd run off without paying our bill. It's not so bad in a club where you've already paid for your drinks, and you expect to get eyed at the urinal. That was another thing about him that bothered me: he had one of those pee fetishes. But he was upfront about it, which in retrospect is an admirable quality I ignored at the time. Anyway, I never wash my hands after peeing. As long as you don't touch it, and none splashes onto the backs of your hands, why bother, right? But I would always wash them in front of Chuck for fear of being judged. Finally I couldn't take it anymore; I felt like an OCD hand washer and I was replacing my hand cream at least once every week. One day we were in the bathroom at Stepho's -- and it was especially embarassing this time, I realized after, because our waiter was hovering just outside the door -- I now wonder why we couldn't pay the bill before we peed; I was naive although I felt self-aware at the time -- I didn't wash. I just zipped up and walked out, smiling at the waiter of course, to show that we intended to pay, and then out comes Chuck scowling at me. "You don't wash?" he asked. "No," I said. "I don't." That, I think, was my only moment of true honesty throughout our relationship of three weeks, which is why I include it in my profile, even though it sounds like a minor event in the scope of all my twenty one years. He broke up with me, just like that. He walked out. Later I emailed him to ask for his share of the bill (we racked up a good hundred dollars on beer alone; that's why we were peeing so often) and to this day he hasn't paid me back. The point is: It's worth it to be Genuine, Sincere, and Forthcoming. GSF. Gay Straight Female. No, wait, that doesn't work. | | Monday, June 11th, 2007 | | 10:44 pm |
| | Sunday, April 22nd, 2007 | | 8:33 pm |
A decision
From now on, I'm not interpreting indirect communication. Me and Alex sat down to coffee yesterday in cushy chairs by the window, and a frazzled-looking man ducked into our vision and mumbled something like, "Um, I was sitting there just now. This is my cat." And then I see this frightened cat in a plastic kitty carrier, peeking through the breathing holes. Of course empathy kicks in, and I almost leap up, apologizing, "I should have noticed your cat in that box, and you taking ten minutes in the bathroom." But instead I'm like, "Oh, so it is" and smile at him. He picked up his cat, simmering, and left without asking for his seat back. Should I have felt like an jerk? I didn't. I dug my ass into that pleather, made two rather large indents. Maybe that's the one and only thing I prefer about Davie Street. If that was my Starbucks, they would have fought me for it. I just have to make sure I don't become an asshole. | | Thursday, March 29th, 2007 | | 12:11 am |
the way Vancouver works
In the warm centre of yesterday, Tyler and I walked down Davie Street to English bay, which is where the gays gather after the clubs have rejected them. It's like they trickle down from the best clubs, Celebrities and the O, because they were too poor for Yaletown, but if you're too old for those you get pushed down to Numbers and Pumpjack, and when you don't know anybody there, you start rolling downhill, stop at the liquor store, then get halted by the sand, wishing there was somebody out there you're compatible with. That all sounds kind of bleak. I am sorry. We drank red wine out of plastic cups. There was an older man walking down the beach with a huge smile on his face. That's already rare for Vancouver, and I'm making an effort to smile more, so I wink at him and say hi there. He comes and sits down, tells us he's lonely and enjoys taking walks because of it, and I act so friendly, like, here's a lonely old straight man who just wants some human interaction. I'm all about that. Then finally he goes, "So, I went to the doctor the other day." And I'm feeling smug and drunk enough to tell myself I'm doing something right if this guy is confiding in me his health problems already, how comfortable people are with me! I'm a decent person after all. "No AIDS," he said. "No cancer, no STDs, nothing like that. I'm totally clean." For a moment, my faith in humanity was blown. I wish people would be more forward about hitting on each other. We need a special word, and you'd say it even before you introduce yourself. And it should be casual, like asking somebody for the time. "Hey, I'm interested in having a brief sexual encounter with you. Do you mind?" And you'd be like, "not at all, you seem like a decent guy." Or you'd say, "no, I'm looking for a relationship, and would become too invested too quickly, making this an unpleasant experience for both of us." But okay, sincerity is out. Fine. I say, "my friend and I love to be taken out for dinner. We were just saying we could use some steak," and, as if this is no insult, he says, interested, "Do you?" And Tyler already has a sugar daddy who takes him nice places, so he says he wants to go to Gotham Steakhouse in Yaletown, which would cost this man $100 minimum for us three. But he had already admitted to packing boxes for a living, so he said no, and we said no, and then we kept saying no until he left us alone. Then we were really hungry from talking about steak, so we went to McDonald's and I spent my last $5. Living here is so easy. | | Tuesday, January 9th, 2007 | | 5:46 pm |
on The End
My collegue has suggested that, as I submit my poetry to be published in journals and contests and beyond, it will be wise to not have it printed for viewing anywhere else. She is right. This prompts the end of my poetic Livejournal. Thank you for reading these experiments in writing. I had a number of excuses as to why I required a LJ of rough draft poetry (as backups, to keep track of when I wrote them, and others) but underneath was the simple satisfaction of knowing I was published somewhere I knew other people would get to read what I am writing. Your compliments are an enormous self esteem boost that have driven me to keep pen to paper. If you are interested in keeping up with my newer work (there will be newer work) I will be delighted to send it to anyone -- my friends, the ones who left flattering comments without leaving their names, people who don't like me at all. If you are willing to read my writing, that's good enough for me: caml@interchange.ubc.ca Keep an eye out for my upcoming chapbook of poetry, WARNINGS OF DANGER. You will be able to order copies from me directly by paying a Printing Fee, for the costs of putting the book together, and one for Food, which, as a writer, I am always needing to afford. Thank you so much. | | Friday, January 5th, 2007 | | 8:36 pm |
on ACF
Although I said I would kill you there were too many witnesses there who would have been drunk enough to join the fight, swipe the broken beer bottle from my trembling fist. The first time we came to ACF I promised I would better control myself, my blood alcohol and enjoy the concert without screaming or losing my shoes. I threw them at Matt Good. That’s why he hates UBC now. We leave with tension hanging between us thick enough for anyone to notice but the rest were lost and blind in their own stories; sorting through a graveyard of shoes and umbrellas like geologists baffled by the number of histories found here, emotions that will be overwhelmed by tomorrow’s hangovers, turned over and discarded like abandoned shoes. | | 8:10 pm |
habit
My hair straightener is hot enough to cook bacon when I insert it lengthwise. It is peeled from its neighbour then grasped between 200-degree tongs pinched by the root then scorched into hardened strands. The clumps that sizzle and burn were the greasiest. | | Tuesday, January 2nd, 2007 | | 3:00 pm |
used book
Creased spine, broken. A jacket drapes over its spine like clothing, my fingers press into the same faded words every night. Pages fall open. Double doors fall open. An invitation inside— the truth as yellow and wrinkled as the skin of the dancers who reveal themselves. | | Wednesday, December 6th, 2006 | | 10:05 pm |
my job
My mind is a battlefield of imagery and body parts chopped up, strewn about like the leftovers of something more meaningful. It is littered with ideas. They dart their beginnings from between my lips like a slippery tongue. I grab them by the capital letter, try to draw them out in strings. | | Monday, December 4th, 2006 | | 10:52 pm |
proposal
I have laid down my proposal like a baby and you regard it as a delicate thing that I have brought into the world you imagine my legs parted under the table dug deep into carpet but that is where I have hidden my hands that tangle, squirm make tiny fists | | Sunday, November 26th, 2006 | | 12:26 pm |
first snowfall: November 26, 2006
We plod across False Creek fifty-year-old mirrors. That is not to compare you to a clumsy oval of glass but I have gathered the sky on my surface, watched a white bone of light jump from your chin to cheek. With some chagrin frozen to your lips you say it’s been years and still here we are walking. I notice a crescent moon rise on your forehead, the wetness of snow piling on your cheek glistens in each of my glass eyes. | | Wednesday, November 22nd, 2006 | | 9:30 pm |
I notice
I notice that the pigeons are thinner this year. You are slumped next to me, chain smoking at the bus stop. In June they were plump and footless. I mention this casually enough, an outsider’s point of view. Ignoring me you stare at your winter boots. I notice one tiptoe in circles around you on pink dinosaur feet, extend its swan neck forward, nod its head wildly. You wait for the bus oblivious to the ankle-high world of pigeons. You frown and you sit and you wait. I notice and I notice and I notice. | | 8:48 pm |
on Vancouver rain
If I spill my guts today on Robson Street when you ask to see blood splayed across the ashvault they will flow into gutters, November rain cleansing my insides and the pavement washed clean— “I’m alright” I will say instead: a compromise while time pours through me my red memories turn pinkish-gray. Sensing heavy rain, rich Vancouverites will open umbrellas in my direction my jacket sopping, my skin saying this city dilutes me | | Tuesday, November 21st, 2006 | | 12:38 am |
on inspiration
There’s a quality about you-characters that I’d like to see more of in my city. My you-characters are all over: assholes, lovers, tricksters— all those who impress me. I sometimes love them and other times it’s hate. I haven’t decided which I prefer. But when it comes to poetry there’s a certain intensity escaping like winded screams or trapped in abstract cyclic thinking: the stuff emotional breakdowns are made of— this is inspiration. There’s nothing inspirational about like. | | Saturday, November 18th, 2006 | | 4:44 pm |
on noncommitment IV
In Vancouver, attached is meant in the literal sense and everyone here is attached. It may have to do with umbrellas and our instinct to hide underneath with somebody dry four hands stacked up the handle. I want to snap these couples apart. Take their umbrella in both hands break it over my weathered thighs but this never works. Attached is stronger than my words. I press my lips together a sideways umbrella stem. | | Tuesday, November 14th, 2006 | | 12:35 am |
on self restraint
He holds me in his two hands the way that only a lover may do. I have allowed him this. He asks for our history, squeezing me. I give it to him. This is another item I must be willing to concede. By the end I have balanced our politics with his. New stories harden in white crusts on his pillow case. The next morning he fills my stomach with cold cereal and my mouth with his tongue. Temporary things. Still I feel wrung out. At your apartment you pour coffee into faded mugs and put one in my two hands. It is half full, a white swirling universe. I take you in my two arms, not squeezing, then we sit apart telling stories as I try my best not to overflow. | | Sunday, November 12th, 2006 | | 4:31 pm |
The things you say
Lying on my back your face is a moon and I reach to touch it. Inky words rain from your pale lips becoming larger as they fall reflected in my open eyes lit up like cities watching an eclipse. The things you say fall in sentences so thick I can grasp onto them like the rungs of a ladder. | | Saturday, November 11th, 2006 | | 5:58 pm |
un petit mort
I spent so long trying to tell you in a roundabout way that I hate you. I tried saying I hated your clothes and the way that you act when you are around your friends, and your friends, and the sound that my cell phone makes when you call me. You called so often, making sure I was still around to talk to. I tried not answering my phone so you started dropping by my home every morning and I stopped answering the door but you crawled through my bedroom window and slipped under the sheets and inserted yourself into me. As you cummed I thought this is it, I’m not doing this just because there’s some of you in my body right now. As I pulled away, you died a little. |
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