Hi. It's nice to meet you. I'm totally really into every single you say, and I'm going to laugh at all your jokes. Because secretly you think you are hilarious, and I'm just confirming that belief, non?
What do you do? Oh, that's awesome. I never knew you could do that with a business degree. Way to not sell out just like 110% of your graduating peers. Oh haha, I'm such a ditz, and so bad at math (flip hair and bat eyelashes). I bet you are really good at math. And science. Such a smart, smart man.
Me? Oh, I have a useless degree. Seriously, I think I will either be a waitress or a stripper when I'm done. Ha, no, I've never been to a strip club before. Have you? Of course, just a laugh. Do they dance like this? (Demonstrate a little, over exaggerating.)
A drink? Sure! Scotch, on the rocks. You're so kind. Ha, I know it's rare, but I totally love Scotch! I'm such an old man! (Look at me, I'm so giggly and girly and interesting and self-deprecating. Do you even know what that means?)
Are you from here? Must be nice to have grown up in the same city all your life...(cue wistful smile). Well, actually, yes, I have travelled. But let's not talk about that (look mysterious and deep). Have you? What's your favourite city? Yes, I've heard that those 2 week tours of Europe are so incredible. A city a day. How... compact. You must have made some really great friends on that trip. Oh, you went with your 5 best friends from high school. Who needs to make friends when you have some along with you, am I right? Right? Haha. Yeah, travelling is so overrated. But it obviously makes you such an interesting person!
What kind of movies do you like to watch? Yeah, horror movies give me nightmares. A friend told me that one was really good though! You silly, I bet you were totally scared. Big, brave boy. I bet you were freaked out. Aww, thanks. I probably would feel way safe if you watched it with me (put hand on arm). You could protect me with your muscles and knives and stuff.
A gun? Oh, for hunting? Oohh, a bow and arrow makes WAY more sense for deer hunting. Silly me, duh, I should have thought of that- lead totally ruins the taste of wild game. Yes, I completely agree! Those stupid activists have no idea what it is like when you're actually out there, in the woods, cold, alone, hungry, with everything trying to kill you. Your dad used to take you? Who do you go with now? Oh, I'm so so sorry to hear that. Your poor mother. Do you see him at holidays at least? Aww. You must have had so much responsibility thrust upon your shoulders, how rough for you. Mmm. Mmhmm. Oh, I see. Oh. Aww. (Various sympathetic noises inserted throughout depressing monologue.)
Another drink? Are you sure? Here, let me pay... oh, fine. You are the best.
Oh, thank you. Ha, that's so sweet. No, YOU should model. This is kind of a secret, but I actually did some modelling once. Promise not to tell anyone though, right? It's just so embarrassing (blush and look modest).
Well, I actually have to go now.
Coffee? I adore coffee. Starbucks is my favourite...sorry, you're right, nothing beats Tim Hortons. But Starbucks is a close second, with it's whipped cream and fruit and burnt beans. Haha, I don't know, I don't think I'm doing anything tomorrow. With you? Sure, why not? We have so much in common, and it's fascinating talking to you, hearing all about your life. My number? Well, how about you give me yours, and I'll text you if I'm free.
Ha, no, I'm not playing that kind of game.
No, I'm serious. I'm tired. My friends are ready to go.
No.
Whatever.
Thank you for the drinks.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Monday, February 11, 2013
March, 2003
There was this one time, when I was 13 or 14, and my grandparents on my mothers side came to visit us while we were living in Perth, Australia. They arrived on what turned out to be one of the hottest weekends of the year- it was 40 degrees plus for 5 days straight- and while it was a shock for them coming from a crisp Vancouver March, it was hard on us too. Luckily, we had a swimming pool in our backyard, a big unheated blue rectangle, surrounded by palm trees and green bushes and a hammock on two sides, and a view of our neighbours backyard on the other side. There was also a tin-roofed shelter type thing, with a large table and chairs under it, and it was there that we often ate lunch or snacks after being in the water.
Because being in the water was the only relief we could get. The house didn't have air-conditioning or heating (quite common in older houses in Australia), and so the heat made being inside unbearable. One memory I have is of my mother hanging bed sheets outside the back of the house to dry (because who needs a clothes dryer when you have the sun, I guess), and running in between the sheets just to feel the cool whisper of the damp cloth on my hot bare skin. It was on the same side of the house as the drying rack that I finally caught one of the small black lizards that I had been trying to capture since arriving. They were tiny, cute, and oh so fast. After showing it to every member of my family, I finally let it go, because I didn't know what to feed it, and we all liked having lizards in and around the house because they ate the spiders.
Once, in the winter when it was cooler, I woke up to hear a splashing in the pool, my bedroom window looking directly out to it. I went out my sliding glass door, and saw a rat that had fallen in and couldn't get out. I got my mother, and she called my father, and he said to push it under with the net skimmer and drown it. I think I started crying, and my mom told my dad not to be so callous, and if he wanted to drown it he would have to do it himself because she refused. All this time the rat was swimming, and getting slower and slower, and I finally grabbed the net and scooped it out. Then I dumped it over the neighbours fence, where it lay still, not moving. I ran to the kitchen and cut a chunk of cheese, and dropped it beside the small wet form. I spent maybe 1/2 hour watching over it, willing it to live and run away, before the sun got too hot and I had to go inside. Later that afternoon I checked again and the rat was gone, though the piece of cheese remained, covered in ants.
After that hottest weekend, we took my grandparents out to the country for a weekend. We stayed in a converted school house in the middle of a dry and dusty farm, with a few old eucalyptus trees for shade. Red dirt got into everything. I can't remember what we did, except for once us kids were loaded onto the back of a "ute" (basically a pick-up truck) in the morning, and we drove around with the farmer feeding his sheep. On one of our stops we saw the skeleton of a sheep that had died, and when no one was looking I grabbed the jaw bone (with teeth) and brought it with me. When we got back to the schoolhouse I showed it to my mom, and asked if I could keep it if I cleaned it. She said yes, so I put the bone in a pot and poured boiling water over it to "sterilize" it. I don't think it did the trick, and besides, after a while of sitting in the hot water a smell started to arise that smelt like cooking meat. That's when I dumped out the water and left the bone outside in the sun to dry. I ended up keeping it anyway, and I still have it today sitting on my bookshelf.
One morning in the schoolhouse, I got up early and went into the common area to read a book. I took a seat in the comfiest old armchair, and to my shock and surprise a giant hairy spider the size of my outspread hand ran out from under my bum and disappeared under the chair. I was too sleepy to scream, but instead I jumped up and called for my grandfather, who was making coffee. He and my mother came over, and when I told them about the size of the spider, we all started looking for it- in the chair cushions, under the chair, around the chair. We thought that it would have been impossible for something that size to hide for long, and after a while of not finding it I think we all started to think that maybe I had seen something else, or been confused, or exaggerating. I started to think that maybe I had still been dreaming.
However, eventually my grandfather tipped the chair over and on to its side. And there it was- clinging upside down to the chair springs, front legs waving at us menacingly, was the spider- bigger and hairier than any of us had ever seen before. It wasn't fat like a tarantula; rather, it's legs were thinner and longer and more "muscular" looking. My grandfather killed it with a broom, and when we showed the body to our host out of curiosity, he said that it was a wolf spider, and poisonous, though not deadly so.
Because being in the water was the only relief we could get. The house didn't have air-conditioning or heating (quite common in older houses in Australia), and so the heat made being inside unbearable. One memory I have is of my mother hanging bed sheets outside the back of the house to dry (because who needs a clothes dryer when you have the sun, I guess), and running in between the sheets just to feel the cool whisper of the damp cloth on my hot bare skin. It was on the same side of the house as the drying rack that I finally caught one of the small black lizards that I had been trying to capture since arriving. They were tiny, cute, and oh so fast. After showing it to every member of my family, I finally let it go, because I didn't know what to feed it, and we all liked having lizards in and around the house because they ate the spiders.
Once, in the winter when it was cooler, I woke up to hear a splashing in the pool, my bedroom window looking directly out to it. I went out my sliding glass door, and saw a rat that had fallen in and couldn't get out. I got my mother, and she called my father, and he said to push it under with the net skimmer and drown it. I think I started crying, and my mom told my dad not to be so callous, and if he wanted to drown it he would have to do it himself because she refused. All this time the rat was swimming, and getting slower and slower, and I finally grabbed the net and scooped it out. Then I dumped it over the neighbours fence, where it lay still, not moving. I ran to the kitchen and cut a chunk of cheese, and dropped it beside the small wet form. I spent maybe 1/2 hour watching over it, willing it to live and run away, before the sun got too hot and I had to go inside. Later that afternoon I checked again and the rat was gone, though the piece of cheese remained, covered in ants.
After that hottest weekend, we took my grandparents out to the country for a weekend. We stayed in a converted school house in the middle of a dry and dusty farm, with a few old eucalyptus trees for shade. Red dirt got into everything. I can't remember what we did, except for once us kids were loaded onto the back of a "ute" (basically a pick-up truck) in the morning, and we drove around with the farmer feeding his sheep. On one of our stops we saw the skeleton of a sheep that had died, and when no one was looking I grabbed the jaw bone (with teeth) and brought it with me. When we got back to the schoolhouse I showed it to my mom, and asked if I could keep it if I cleaned it. She said yes, so I put the bone in a pot and poured boiling water over it to "sterilize" it. I don't think it did the trick, and besides, after a while of sitting in the hot water a smell started to arise that smelt like cooking meat. That's when I dumped out the water and left the bone outside in the sun to dry. I ended up keeping it anyway, and I still have it today sitting on my bookshelf.
One morning in the schoolhouse, I got up early and went into the common area to read a book. I took a seat in the comfiest old armchair, and to my shock and surprise a giant hairy spider the size of my outspread hand ran out from under my bum and disappeared under the chair. I was too sleepy to scream, but instead I jumped up and called for my grandfather, who was making coffee. He and my mother came over, and when I told them about the size of the spider, we all started looking for it- in the chair cushions, under the chair, around the chair. We thought that it would have been impossible for something that size to hide for long, and after a while of not finding it I think we all started to think that maybe I had seen something else, or been confused, or exaggerating. I started to think that maybe I had still been dreaming.
However, eventually my grandfather tipped the chair over and on to its side. And there it was- clinging upside down to the chair springs, front legs waving at us menacingly, was the spider- bigger and hairier than any of us had ever seen before. It wasn't fat like a tarantula; rather, it's legs were thinner and longer and more "muscular" looking. My grandfather killed it with a broom, and when we showed the body to our host out of curiosity, he said that it was a wolf spider, and poisonous, though not deadly so.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Melting
"Yet let me say, what firmly I believe,
Love can be- ay, and is. I held that Love
Which chooseth from a thousand only one,
To be the object of that tenderness
Natural to every heart; which can resign
Its own best happiness for one dear sake;
Can bear with absence; hath no part in hope-
For Hope is somewhat selfish; Love is not-
And doth prefer another to itself.
Unchangeable and generous, what, like Love,
Can melt away the dross of worldliness;
Can elevate, refine, and make the heart
Of that pure gold that is the fitting shrine
For fire, as sacred as e'er came from heaven!"
-L.E. Landon
John and I argue constantly over everything. He is a dear old friend, but that doesn't mean I have to agree with him. He is so firmly entrenched in his belief in true love, in unconditional, over-the-top, selfless and pure love, that it makes me mad. I try to get him down to earth, but it's like arguing with a saint.
Today I found myself sequestered in an empty classroom with him (after he helped me with my paper), and soon enough we were sitting across the boardroom table from one another shouting with red faces and clenched fists. For the past three months our arguments have always ended up circling back to Love, and the meaning of Love, and historical and fictional examples of Love, but we both get so worked up that after an hour I'm exhausted and drained, yet my spirit is exhilarated. I truly enjoy a good debate with John, and there is never any hard feelings afterward.
Before we left our separate ways, he handed me a small square of folded paper sealed with a red wax stamp (he prefers to do everything with a dramatic flair). He said: This poem will explain everything.
I read it on the walk home. It is beautiful, and begrudgingly I'll admit that maybe he is right.
Love can be- ay, and is. I held that Love
Which chooseth from a thousand only one,
To be the object of that tenderness
Natural to every heart; which can resign
Its own best happiness for one dear sake;
Can bear with absence; hath no part in hope-
For Hope is somewhat selfish; Love is not-
And doth prefer another to itself.
Unchangeable and generous, what, like Love,
Can melt away the dross of worldliness;
Can elevate, refine, and make the heart
Of that pure gold that is the fitting shrine
For fire, as sacred as e'er came from heaven!"
-L.E. Landon
John and I argue constantly over everything. He is a dear old friend, but that doesn't mean I have to agree with him. He is so firmly entrenched in his belief in true love, in unconditional, over-the-top, selfless and pure love, that it makes me mad. I try to get him down to earth, but it's like arguing with a saint.
Today I found myself sequestered in an empty classroom with him (after he helped me with my paper), and soon enough we were sitting across the boardroom table from one another shouting with red faces and clenched fists. For the past three months our arguments have always ended up circling back to Love, and the meaning of Love, and historical and fictional examples of Love, but we both get so worked up that after an hour I'm exhausted and drained, yet my spirit is exhilarated. I truly enjoy a good debate with John, and there is never any hard feelings afterward.
Before we left our separate ways, he handed me a small square of folded paper sealed with a red wax stamp (he prefers to do everything with a dramatic flair). He said: This poem will explain everything.
I read it on the walk home. It is beautiful, and begrudgingly I'll admit that maybe he is right.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Is That All There Is?
I feel that this stolen week (this week I wasn't supposed to be back here yet, this time that forced itself into my life) retaliated from my intrusion and tried it's very best to beat me into an insignificant pulp. Blow after blow rained down, and even after I was lying on the floor, out for the count, it continued to kick me in my metaphorical balls.
This morning, as I have every morning for the past 10 days, I got up early. But this morning, unlike the others, instead of lying in bed with still-tired, burning eyeballs, dreading what new horror would unfold over the course of the day and mentally planning how to navigate the burning remains of the previous day's horror, I sat up warily.
For whatever reason, I had this sense that the worst had passed.
It didn't fill me with joy and happiness. It wasn't like I was sad either, it is just that when you get so used to the idea that whatever you do, or touch, is going to go wrong, and you resign yourself to facing a pack of demons you thought were buried far in your past, you just don't care anymore.
It is an apathetic kind of protective shield.
You tell yourself- hey, it's all burning up around me, you've hit me with your worst shots, and I'll still come out alive.
Bruised, tired in your very marrow, sluggish and slow with wrinkles on your face that weren't there before, falling into new habits that you never dreamed would have to form, your bedside table overflowing with the detritus of what you had no time to clean up the past week- cups of mostly drinken water, mugs with an inch of tea in the bottom, a thermometer with the lid off, books discarded after only a few pages, a bowl with the tell-tale neon yellow ring around the inside that says: chicken soup from a packet was here, mountains of used Kleenex crumpled up with snot and tears, sweaters, socks, a travel magazine, forms for government-issued passes half completed, and at the foot of the bed a heap of all the bed sheets from the bed, greasy with fever-sweats and sadness.
But alive. Not broken completely. There must be something about facing what seems to be the worst, and realizing actually how strong you are. You can give that special, bitter little laugh used by those who walked through flames and say: is that all there is? Really? That's the worst you can do, life? Ha!
This morning, as I have every morning for the past 10 days, I got up early. But this morning, unlike the others, instead of lying in bed with still-tired, burning eyeballs, dreading what new horror would unfold over the course of the day and mentally planning how to navigate the burning remains of the previous day's horror, I sat up warily.
For whatever reason, I had this sense that the worst had passed.
It didn't fill me with joy and happiness. It wasn't like I was sad either, it is just that when you get so used to the idea that whatever you do, or touch, is going to go wrong, and you resign yourself to facing a pack of demons you thought were buried far in your past, you just don't care anymore.
It is an apathetic kind of protective shield.
You tell yourself- hey, it's all burning up around me, you've hit me with your worst shots, and I'll still come out alive.
Bruised, tired in your very marrow, sluggish and slow with wrinkles on your face that weren't there before, falling into new habits that you never dreamed would have to form, your bedside table overflowing with the detritus of what you had no time to clean up the past week- cups of mostly drinken water, mugs with an inch of tea in the bottom, a thermometer with the lid off, books discarded after only a few pages, a bowl with the tell-tale neon yellow ring around the inside that says: chicken soup from a packet was here, mountains of used Kleenex crumpled up with snot and tears, sweaters, socks, a travel magazine, forms for government-issued passes half completed, and at the foot of the bed a heap of all the bed sheets from the bed, greasy with fever-sweats and sadness.
But alive. Not broken completely. There must be something about facing what seems to be the worst, and realizing actually how strong you are. You can give that special, bitter little laugh used by those who walked through flames and say: is that all there is? Really? That's the worst you can do, life? Ha!
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Dinosaurs
I think I should pick up B a present before I go. He has been so good to me while I've been gone; helping me with resume, job, school, life. He likes old things, so it shouldn't be too hard to find something. Maybe at an antique shop? I was going to get him something from the Viking museum in town, the 'Jorvik Centre', but I couldn't remember if it was him who liked Vikings as a boy, or J. Both of them kept pumping my brain full of information about themselves this Fall, and since it was virtually simultaneous, I'm finding it difficult to remember who liked what. I'm pretty sure B liked Vikings, because I am 70% positive that J liked dinosaurs.
I am a terrible person.
I am a terrible person.
Monday, January 7, 2013
I sometimes get the impression that I've painted myself into a corner, so to speak, by the actions I've taken, the way I've dealt with the things tossed my way. I get this sense of claustrophobia and see doors slamming shut, windows being locked.
It's scary to care about people. It's frightening to have people in your life. They seem to send off these invisible streamers that catch, grip your skin, knot in your hair. You can't run with their emotions hanging off you. It's heavy, it weighs you down, pulls you down, like quicksand. Ties you to the ground. In one place.
Maybe that's what is so appealing about getting on a plane, or train, or in the car for a long trip. For a few hours, or even days, weeks, you get the sense that you've lost those ties, those tails dogging you. And it's exhilarating to be so light. Dizzy with the freedom and with the loss of other people's feelings, you can accomplish whatever you want in the manner you'd like.
It's scary to care about people. It's frightening to have people in your life. They seem to send off these invisible streamers that catch, grip your skin, knot in your hair. You can't run with their emotions hanging off you. It's heavy, it weighs you down, pulls you down, like quicksand. Ties you to the ground. In one place.
Maybe that's what is so appealing about getting on a plane, or train, or in the car for a long trip. For a few hours, or even days, weeks, you get the sense that you've lost those ties, those tails dogging you. And it's exhilarating to be so light. Dizzy with the freedom and with the loss of other people's feelings, you can accomplish whatever you want in the manner you'd like.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
London
My wonderful mother has been constantly showering my sister and myself with little gifts ever since we arrived here. Just little things, like new stockings, or new make-up; luxuries neither of us can afford since leaving home.
Yesterday she presented me with a little red book she picked up at an Oxfam: A first edition, signed copy of A Book About Books, by Robert Blatchford. She knows how much I love used books- the feel of them, the smell, the falling-out pages, and if you're very lucky- marginalia by previous owners.
I was trying to read some of it yesterday, but written in 1903 by someone who educated themselves by reading Charles Dickens, it was slow going. Still, this passage jumped out at me "as if it was written in my soul, from me to you" (Tangled Up in Blue, Bob Dylan) :
"How London grows upon one! At first the endless whirl, the cruel rush and greedy hurry of it, with all the misery, vulgarity, snobbery, and vanity of the crowd, the tragedies of its dismal streets, the poverty and ignorance of the workers, and the monotonous ugliness of their surroundings, sicken and dismay you. The pain and the shame of it are more than you can bear. You want to get away- away to the cool beaches and unsullied seas, or to the clean and quiet streets and the clean and quiet life of some sleepy old market town.
But, imperceptibly, London tightens its grip upon you. The mysterious and awful magnetism of the crowd hold you. You mix with the unnumbered, nameless millions until the swirling tides and feverish currents of the great human sea seem to carry you away."
(Robert Blatchford, A Book About Books)
Having gone to London this weekend for the first time since I was 17, I know just what he was talking about. And, really, replace "London" with the name of any major city- Rome, Athens, Paris, Istanbul, Cairo, York the Saturday before Christmas, haha- and it feels the same.
Yesterday she presented me with a little red book she picked up at an Oxfam: A first edition, signed copy of A Book About Books, by Robert Blatchford. She knows how much I love used books- the feel of them, the smell, the falling-out pages, and if you're very lucky- marginalia by previous owners.
I was trying to read some of it yesterday, but written in 1903 by someone who educated themselves by reading Charles Dickens, it was slow going. Still, this passage jumped out at me "as if it was written in my soul, from me to you" (Tangled Up in Blue, Bob Dylan) :
"How London grows upon one! At first the endless whirl, the cruel rush and greedy hurry of it, with all the misery, vulgarity, snobbery, and vanity of the crowd, the tragedies of its dismal streets, the poverty and ignorance of the workers, and the monotonous ugliness of their surroundings, sicken and dismay you. The pain and the shame of it are more than you can bear. You want to get away- away to the cool beaches and unsullied seas, or to the clean and quiet streets and the clean and quiet life of some sleepy old market town.
But, imperceptibly, London tightens its grip upon you. The mysterious and awful magnetism of the crowd hold you. You mix with the unnumbered, nameless millions until the swirling tides and feverish currents of the great human sea seem to carry you away."
(Robert Blatchford, A Book About Books)
Having gone to London this weekend for the first time since I was 17, I know just what he was talking about. And, really, replace "London" with the name of any major city- Rome, Athens, Paris, Istanbul, Cairo, York the Saturday before Christmas, haha- and it feels the same.
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