Monday, March 29, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
your dreams blindfold you by the light you make.
The end of March is hard for me.
The anniversary of J's passing is creeping up. I've been having dreams about his dark brown (almost black eyes) set in his thin face. About how his nostrils flared ever so slightly when he was anxious. I've been thinking about how when he burst into a grin at one of my silly jokes, it never reached those almostblack eyes, and how guilty I feel that I never noticed this fact until after he was gone.
J...if you can read this through some magical afterlifey powers...please know how much I've been thinking of you. Don't feel guilty or sad; I know you had to go and the decision would have been hard enough without having to think of how others would take it. Maybe I was just some peripheral figure at your hellish workplace, but J...you made me happy. I looked forward to heading into that cramped, cold chart room because I knew you'd be there. I knew you'd do your hilarious Ali G impression or tell me about Derrida or that we'd talk about Einsturzende Neubauten. You were truly special to me. I hope you're somewhere, full of light and love and that your beautiful dark eyes are part of your smile now.
On a separate note, late march is also when my stomach starts clenching with the remembrance of love. I don't try to push it out of my mind; I gently allow myself to push at my own swollen heart. In wonder.
The anniversary of J's passing is creeping up. I've been having dreams about his dark brown (almost black eyes) set in his thin face. About how his nostrils flared ever so slightly when he was anxious. I've been thinking about how when he burst into a grin at one of my silly jokes, it never reached those almostblack eyes, and how guilty I feel that I never noticed this fact until after he was gone.
J...if you can read this through some magical afterlifey powers...please know how much I've been thinking of you. Don't feel guilty or sad; I know you had to go and the decision would have been hard enough without having to think of how others would take it. Maybe I was just some peripheral figure at your hellish workplace, but J...you made me happy. I looked forward to heading into that cramped, cold chart room because I knew you'd be there. I knew you'd do your hilarious Ali G impression or tell me about Derrida or that we'd talk about Einsturzende Neubauten. You were truly special to me. I hope you're somewhere, full of light and love and that your beautiful dark eyes are part of your smile now.
On a separate note, late march is also when my stomach starts clenching with the remembrance of love. I don't try to push it out of my mind; I gently allow myself to push at my own swollen heart. In wonder.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
not forests but gentle trees
Here's a factoid for you, tiny readership, which I will now ask you to help demonstrate:
How old are you?
What number sprung to mind when you read that? According to my (mumbles under breath) psychotherapist, if this number is not your actual age, it is often an indicator that part of you is stuck in a traumatic or momentous event that happened during the (inaccurate) year you instantly think of.
I find this fascinating and touching and mildly depressing.
Lately my head has been in my sketchbook and in the clouds. I've been having strange thrilling nerve-wracking dreams. I've been drawing my friends' faces and thinking about how I do and don't want to spend the summer outside of Toronto. I think it will be a good break, but I will miss it terribly. I have a problem with romanticizing whatever I've left or am leaving. Nostalgia addict.
Everything makes me anxious and/or excited these days.
How old are you?
What number sprung to mind when you read that? According to my (mumbles under breath) psychotherapist, if this number is not your actual age, it is often an indicator that part of you is stuck in a traumatic or momentous event that happened during the (inaccurate) year you instantly think of.
I find this fascinating and touching and mildly depressing.
Lately my head has been in my sketchbook and in the clouds. I've been having strange thrilling nerve-wracking dreams. I've been drawing my friends' faces and thinking about how I do and don't want to spend the summer outside of Toronto. I think it will be a good break, but I will miss it terribly. I have a problem with romanticizing whatever I've left or am leaving. Nostalgia addict.
Everything makes me anxious and/or excited these days.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
yours truly, jens lekman
(note: i am not jens lekman)
Today I had a four hour rehearsal for my reading-theatre-class final, then promptly spent the rest of the day changing my clothes every five minutes, bursting into tears, breathing weird, eating a sammich, listening to jens, trying to get people to go drinking with me... and finally watching an episode of kids in the hall, during which i felt like crying because it looks like they are having so much fun at the party in the opening credits (shot in Toronto at the old Guvernment...season 4).
What with my wildly oscillating living arrangements, emotional turmoil(tm), etc., I've been a very silly basketcase lately. I sat down in my poetry class the other day and everyone looked at me expectantly. It turned out I had a seminar presentation worth 1/4 of my final mark. I had no idea. I hadn't done the reading. I didn't even know what day it was; it was amazing that I managed to get there at all.
(Note: it was fine. I did it the next class, and did very well I think.)
I've also forgot doctor's appointments, plans with friends, my age, etc.
The good news is that I've been offered a position as an artist-in-residence in Halifax for a few weeks this september. I'm thrilled at the prospect. Also a little nervous.
Lately my heart feels like a terribly wound up elastic band that keeps being plucked and shot around the room. This is a second-or-third hand metaphor I picked up a coupla years back.
Unfortunately, I suffer from an illness that has the ability to either make me incredibly eloquent or incredibly incoherent. Today it's the latter.
Goodnight.
Today I had a four hour rehearsal for my reading-theatre-class final, then promptly spent the rest of the day changing my clothes every five minutes, bursting into tears, breathing weird, eating a sammich, listening to jens, trying to get people to go drinking with me... and finally watching an episode of kids in the hall, during which i felt like crying because it looks like they are having so much fun at the party in the opening credits (shot in Toronto at the old Guvernment...season 4).
What with my wildly oscillating living arrangements, emotional turmoil(tm), etc., I've been a very silly basketcase lately. I sat down in my poetry class the other day and everyone looked at me expectantly. It turned out I had a seminar presentation worth 1/4 of my final mark. I had no idea. I hadn't done the reading. I didn't even know what day it was; it was amazing that I managed to get there at all.
(Note: it was fine. I did it the next class, and did very well I think.)
I've also forgot doctor's appointments, plans with friends, my age, etc.
The good news is that I've been offered a position as an artist-in-residence in Halifax for a few weeks this september. I'm thrilled at the prospect. Also a little nervous.
Lately my heart feels like a terribly wound up elastic band that keeps being plucked and shot around the room. This is a second-or-third hand metaphor I picked up a coupla years back.
Unfortunately, I suffer from an illness that has the ability to either make me incredibly eloquent or incredibly incoherent. Today it's the latter.
Goodnight.
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