eyePawed

The earbuds fit snugly in my ears. The plastic is hard and sometimes, if I wear them for too long. the cartiledge of my ear gets sore. The key is the snug fit, though. Because it shuts out the sounds of the rest of the world. Cars. People. The wind. Everything. The only thing that gets in is what you want in: your music (or your friends' if you share). And I DO feel like the commercials, like the best thing I could do right now is turn the tunes up loud and dance to a beat that no one else can hear. I imagine dancing in the park in the moonlight tonight. Wet grass soaking through my shoes. Darkness. Sound. And me: moving and getting out of breath. I imagine one of the neighbours unable to sleep, warming some milk and glancing out their window to see a strange girl dancing in the park. Hair loose and wild. I imagine the neighbour watching as the milk boils over. I imagine the neighbour smiling and feeling the knots of tension release. I imagine the neighbour sleeping better because of my dance.

Alternatively, I imagine someone calling the police.

Too Scared To Sleep

patrick said I should revel in all the work i have
to get to a place where i felt comfortable
the personal life can come later

but, i said, i'm worried that later will come and i will be a boring person

impossible, he said

TGFK: Thank God For Kevin

He has the amazing ability to say the right thing at the right time. One of the most amazing things about this ability of his is that he often says the same thing. This is not to say he is boring, not at all. Or that he is redundant. The thing with the things that Kevin says and re-says is they are the *right* things to say. And they relate to a variety of situations. And they are true. And by virtue of being true, these things bear repeating. Partially because we, the people around him, need to hear these things again and again. It's not that we're stupid... maybe forgetful. We are probably smarter than our own good. If we could just listen and remember so that next time we would know: we're exactly in the place we're supposed to be.

But it's nicer when Kevin tells us - or at least when he tells me. I know others who hate it when he says that. But i think they hate it cuz he's right. we are. right here. now.

manu knows where it's at

Parfois j’amerais mourir tellement j’ai voulu croire
Parfois j’aimerais mourir pour ne plus rien avoir
Parfois j’aimerais mourir pour plus jamais te voir

Parfois j’amerais mourir tellement il y plus d’espoir
Parfois j’aimerais mourir pour plus jamais te revoir
Parfois j’aimerais mourir pour ne plus rien savoir

Je ne t’aime plus, tous les jours
Je ne t’aime plus, mon amour

— Manu Chao

But the good news is that i don't hate *everything* anymore. not *everything*. there are still *some* things. no people. i don't hate any people right now. just things.

what has changed since yesterday when i didn't just hate a few things but *everything*? i'm not sure. i've attained a breakthrough in understanding this thing that i'm writing with my friends. the sun has come out. it's warm. i've been cooking dinner and eating more fruit and vegetables. i've stopped riding my bike and started smoking more. and drinking - a glass of wine before bed is always good. or two. red wine. always red. because of the colour. and music. listening to a lot a lot of music.

but there is still this niggling sense meaninglessness - futility - who fucking cares about anything i do, really? my parents like me to do things they can be proud of. i'd like to do things i could be proud of. i listen enviously as my friends discuss writers and books and ideas and wonder, when did things change? was there ever a time when i could have participated in such dialogue? (i don't think there was... i know for certain that philosophy has always irritated me...) can such a taste be cultivated? or am i doomed to be a pragmatic dreamer; trapped in my own whimsical wanderings and an endless 'to do' list.

there's something in me that's dying. i can feel it. my brain cells are atrophying. my vocabulary is shrinking. words spurt, they don't flow anymore. ideas - well i still have one or two of those.

this thing that's dying, will it grow back? if i take the time and stop doing *every*thing *every*one asks of me will i feel flexibility inside my head again? it can't be gone forever.

can it?

and they're off

My friends Maiko and Jamie are leaving for the UK tomorrow. This makes me sad. Not for them! They are off to have adventures and to make theatre and meet new people and do amazing things. I feel sad for me. It feels like the most puny and self-serving of feelings: a tiny child's voice saying, "what about me?"

In the past month I've had to say goodbye more times than I like. I have no doubt I will see my friends again. I have no doubt our friendships will remain strong. But there is this fear lying in wait that *something* may happen. That *something* remains vague and undefined and therefore impossible to address.

So this is my new thing, my new way of saying goodbye: as the loved ones go, or as I leave them (which happens less often) I give them something. It could be a book, a CD, a note, anything really, just some thing. Doing this, I feel like I'm hopping inside their backpacks and travelling part of that distance with them. And when they see that thing, they will remember me. And that will, somehow, keep us all connected.

Last night - SEN5ES

My friends and I gathered for a SEN5ES party - each couple of people responsible for bringing an activity that would stimulate the senses of the others. We spent the evening in a loft apartment furnished with red velvet curtains, food, wine, candles and coloured lights. We ate fruit we had never eaten before. We sat with our feet in a warm bath while guessing smells with our blindfolds on. We massaged and were massaged, listened to a story of sounds and lit sparklers.

Later we walked outside with a small dog and bought cigarettes at the 7-Eleven.

The night was windy - threatening rain. Kevin got soaked taking the dog for a walk.

And for a while, I lay down, wrapped in a crocheted blanket that reminded me of my Dad's house. My eyes were closed. I could hear what the others were saying as they gathered around the table. But in my mind's eye there were so many other people present. People who were striking because of their extreme ordinariness. They were not beautiful, not ugly - but just regular, all different shapes and ethnicities. And I as passed through their midst, as they passed by me, their form would shift from ordinary person to ordinary person. Like facets of a crystal. So many people.

Coming home felt so good. To lie down in my own bed and listen to my music and to be alone. That was the sixth sense stimulated for me: my sense of self.

...later that same day...

quelle journée! J and I wrote and wrote and wrote and got some great work done. I feel exhausted and ready to spend some friend time. And now, after a day of not really feeling hungry, I want some FOOD!

i don't feel like quitting anymore. maybe i'll just take an extended leave of absense...

quitting

Today i want to quit all of my jobs. and i've just gotten up. all of them. i even want to quit some of the things i do in my life that are not jobs - like having friends. i feel like i'm taking care of people all the time. ALL the time. And then things fall - inevitably - between the cracks. Here I stand, above the cracks, looking down and wondering, "if I untwisted a coat hanger would I be able to pick that back up again...?" But some things, when they fall, just fall. And I'm tryiing to know which relationships to invest in. I'm trying to know how to best maintain clarity and understanding. I'm trying to push myself out of my shell. How can it be that I am THIRTY years old and still haven't figured out how to communicate, in the moment, about what I'm feeling? How?!

And i can't even begin to *think* about the stuff that's fallen through the cracks because i'm just looking on the debris of the stuff i've just dropped on the floor which i desperately want to clean up before more of it falls between the cracks. Irrecoverable.

When do i give up and just admit that i live in a messy house?

pilgrimage

...this one's for k + m...

Tonight I met a woman who thought she had met me before. She's visiting from Montreal and we were both in the audience for a dance show inspired by rice. She was so thoughtful and articulate. We paused to speak on the stairs in the theatre, she a couple steps higher so I had to look up to her. I can't remember her name.

When I asked what brought her to Vancouver she said, "how do I explain this?"

She went on to tell me how eight years before she had come to the city to visit her son who was living here at the time and dealing with mental illness. "Two months later he didn't feel there was anything for him to live for and he took a bunch of pills. He killed himself. Now, I come back every year in May, when the rhododendrons and the azaleas are blooming, because it reminds me of the last time I saw him alive."

"You're on a pilgrimage," I said.

"Yes," she said, touching my shoulder, and added, "thank you for your tears."

Then she continued down the stairs and away from me.

When I die, will my mother go back to the place where we shared our last happy moments? Will my friends hold dinner parties in my honour and prepare all my favourite foods and complain because my versions were just that tiny bit tastier? Will my past lovers cry in the bathroom, transported to tears by finding one of my long hairs clogging their drains? Certainly I will be remembered, but for how long? How long? And if I'm dead, will it really matter anyway?

I want to have many lovers - romantic and otherwise - and for each of them to only have me. I want them to turn away from the world when I go: certain that without me there is no meaning to life. I want their experience of me to be the manifestation of a singular love.

But love is like sourdough starter: the more flour and sugar you feed it, the bigger it grows and you have to make bread or else it will overflow all over your counter and make a mess. The only way to stop the growth is to freeze it, in the dark and the cold. My love is an active culture and I'd like to keep it that way. Demanding all of another's love and attention will lead to a deep freeze, to stasis. So I'm willing to share, trusting that some biological magic will ensure that when spread around and fed properly love becomes thicker, stronger, more dense, concentrated and packed with punch.

We can all use some sustenance on our pilgrimages, and love is our manna from heaven.