we had hot caramel sticking to our teeth

I got a letter in the mail today from Lisa.

Lisa appeared in my life when I was 15, wandered right on in, all wild curly hair moccasins the faint scent of patchouli patchy jeans little girl giggles and calligraphy-penned notes passed through boring classes.

Lisa knew how to find beautiful lace slips and paisley-printed vintage tunics, ancient beautiful wedding dresses and pocket watches, even in the most picked-over of thrift shops. She knew how to scent her letters without getting grease stains, knew how to make moonshinish strawberry wine in secret, squirreled away in parents' attics.

We were, in many ways, the most embarrassing white-girl cliches. But I loved Lisa so hard. Her and the girl I fell in the sort of deep love reserved for in-the-closet-highschool-girls, would always joke that they were stripping me of my innocence. But to me it felt more like they were carefully undressing me, exposing me to the sunlight in ways my pale skin hadn't yet felt.

I can't remember the last time I saw Lisa, with her untamable thatch of hair that made her, with her long slender body, look like a dandelion in the breeze. But hearing from her like this, as she writes to me from across the country - still the same Lisa running with horses and tending farms and feeding the birds and bedding brown-eyed musicians - makes me feel more glad of her existence than ever before.

She is robed in strength and dignity; she smiles at the future.

It's been almost a month since I last posted and an almost comically large quantity of things have changed in my life since.

Disclaimer: This is a somewhat ridiculous post about marriage. Not for those who can't stomach the sickeningly sweet.

A week before I left for Israel, Gab and Ferron and I lounged on the hardwood floor of their apartment, sunlight filtering through the windows in bars that bisected and trisected our lazy bodies, warming us in selective stripes which made me keep taking off and putting back on my cardigan.

"I can't see any reason for getting married," said Gab. I expressed some sort of tepid agreement, mildly acknowledging that I had enjoyed some weddings - they were just not something for me. It seemed like a waste. Of money, of time. Having a huge expensive party for myself? It seemed like it would be lovely and thrilling but also embarrassing and as if it might accidentally tread into the valley of the selfish.

Then, little more than a week later, I found myself chewing my lip with great concentration, willing tears to roll back within me, as my new brother-in-law sang to my elder sister at their wedding. A friend who I had made that day - a brown-eyed bespectacled henna artist with a laugh that hit me tenderly right between my ribs - whispered a translation in my ear.

Eishes chayil is a song from the Book of Proverbs that describes what a virtuous woman should be like. From that description, one might expect something painfully outdated and possibly offensive.

But it is the most beautiful song I have ever heard in my barely-over-two-decades life.

And watching my sister leaning her face on her palm as she listened to my brother-in-law sing to her gave me more happiness than anything I have felt to date. This is no exaggeration.

Anything that can give someone that degree of happiness, completely inadvertently, cannot be anything but good.

And I decided then that marriage is totally a party that I can get behind.

worst suit EVER

One of my least favourite things: body hate.

Being crazy (clinically speaking, anyway) and having an eating disorder (though currently asymptomatic) is like wearing an enormous full-body suit with lead hands and feet which cause you to stoop forever, which causes chafing because the belly of the suit is made out of steel wool. Oh and the suit has built-in goggles which are always dirty and made of frosted glass. Also, the suit is way too warm and you want to take it off SO bad, but you can never ever ever take it off.

So today at my parents' house i tried on a dress my aunt gave me two months ago and when i zipped it up it was decidedly snugger than it was then. I started to freak out, verbally, while my mom was in the next room. "Oh, it's probably your new meds, honey!" she said.

To which my only thought was: ohgodohgodohgod i have lost control over my body i gotta get it back NOW

and what really tops this scenario off is that two of my most special, best supports for body stuff are 1) a health professional i can no longer see because she's in another province and 2) someone who recently has demonstrated that he cannot or will not be a support to me through his complete lack of condolence during another time of need.

i am going crazy (crazier) in this fucking suit, you guys!

taking pictures of a girl who's in a wheat field

My dreams have been startlingly sad lately. I choose to think this the result of the new, sleep-inducing medication I've been prescribed.

Last night after I closed my eyes I desperately wandered a nameless New York metro station, rocking forward on tippy-toes looking for a tall figure in the crowd. Wandered into an underground symphony hall where a beautiful orchestra was practicing Brahms. I sat alone in the huge theatre and began to weep into my bag of candy. I tried to call out a request for Sibelius but my voice wouldn't emit anything but a pale squeak.

When the orchestra took an intermission from rehearsal, I stared into the familiar brown eyes of a cellist and my heart didn't flutter but stung like bitten fingers; itched like a new sunburn. We leaned in and didn't kiss but breathed gently into one another. He pressed two new HB pencils into my open palm and then I was alone in the metro again as trains rushed by.

with your silent brand-new sneakers

In the eight days that I've been here, there hasn't been one day where it hasn't rained (or snowed, in today's case).

Not to be overly dramatic, but I've also already been to the hospital. It's all okay right now, in the immediate sense, but I can't shake this feeling of doom.

She said, in her completely public blog.

On the positive side of things, I have already been to the liberry (liberry! LIBERRY), the statue garden, the teen sex cove, various drinking establishments, the quasi-vegan bakery, and the roastery.

My drawings haven't been very good lately.

Last night Steph and Cat and PD and I curled up in blankets and read out loud to each other whilst drinking peppermint tea. It was really lovely.

That's really all I can report. I'm hoping for feeling better once printmaking starts.

you hear me now.

I am visiting my hometown, which i have been counting down the days to forever.
I have seen three of my dearest friends (feminist posse!).
I have had the opportunity to hang out with my parents quite a bit.

And: I am, of course, unsatisfied. But more than that. I feel as though I'm wrapped up in a soft but strangely itchy veil, and i'm completely naked underneath. I need the veil's protection and it is inhibiting everything, at the same time.

we don't have to be anything quite so unreal

So, school...is done.

I'm strangely not even that ecstatic. But I am really glad it's over. OVER!

My past few weeks have been really lovely and weird. I've been house-sitting at this house with an ungodly loud refrigerator and a suspiciously uncomfortable bed and super loud upstairs neighbours, but somehow this hasn't upset me too much. Instead, I have fitful sleep punctuated with bizarre dreams about refrigerators. It's kind of fun.

I shaved a small band of my head. On the left side of my head. It runs from my temple to the nape of my neck and you can't see it unless i wear my hair up. It feels like a newborn kitten, and I can be seen absent-mindedly stroking the patch behind my left ear (handy because I can adjust my glasses with my right hand at the same time).

Ten days from now, I'll be in Saskatchewan. Before that, I have a tonne of zines to finish and photocopy (on a real tight budget) and a festival to attend. Oy. I need to stop by Midoco and pick up some new pens, as I've been wearing them down like a fiend with everyday drawings. I feel like I'm finally getting somewhere. Maybe.

This summer I want to shriek with giggles and kick my feet, wholly delighted with something ridiculous. I wanna sit in the Cooleymobile at the Teen Sex Cove eating blood orange sorbet and talking shit and listening to silly music. Ohhh and drink baby duck by the Meewasin eat five-cent candy on the rooftops of Broadway listen to new order while i get ready for art shows.

Things are going to go well. I know this.