Not Recommended For Those Sensitive to Loss

There are days when you're just so soaked in sadness that the tears ooze from you. These are the days when you remember the dead. Not the happy times or the chance that in some time and some new space you'll be with them again. No. These are the days when you remember just that you will never be near them the way you were that day, that moment, that thirty seconds when everything was perfect. The sun cast a warm golden light. A blanket or a sweater provided a gentle tactile warmth that made you feel the slightest bit sleepy. Their body kept you warm and your chests rose and fell in synchrony. The air was sweet and clean, and all you heard was a heartbeat. This is the day that you remember how distant that moment is and how impossible it is to regain that feeling. When you finally realize that they are no dead, just gone, the tears stop. There is no catharsis. There is no sigh of relief. Just a sadness that swallows everything from within you, as though your soul was a parasitic ebb at the end of an expansive vacuum, waiting to swallow you whole. It's the days like this that you forget that there was joy in your life. You forget that there was ever anything good or warm in that moment. These are the moments when your soul is taken and turned over and over inside an hourglass so that no time passes and no respite comes. You roll endlessly until you have no strength to exist. When you finally drift back into consciousness nothing has changed. You are a little numb, a little lost for joy, and the burden of your sadness stays with you while you walk on into the day and try to work through the emptiness.

Active

This is the first time in several days that I have been fully functional before noon. I like the feeling of getting out of bed and starting my day early, I just don't seem to have the will to do it. Or maybe just the sense. Either way, it's something I feel I should make a serious commitment to. I remember as late as two years ago I would be out of bed by 7:15 am every weekday, enjoying the quiet of the street before all the morning traffic, the sounds of the birds, the rustle of the leaves on the tree outside my bedroom window, the occasional car on the wet pavement outside. I remember the brisk cool air in the store as I would rush from the heavy back door to the front counter to turn off the alarm. I remember the worn plush slip-cover on the chair, how it felt against my hands and legs as I kneeled down to turn off the alarm and grab a few coins from the rollers to buy breakfast. I remember the heavy knock of the bolt on the front door, and how I would have to pull the door towards myself just a little to slip the lock shut again. I remember that first breath of fresh, dewy spring air mingled with tar from newly laid asphalt. I remember the walk to school, the wet sidewalk, the wet sand in my flip-flops, the cool breeze, and the flitting sunlight falling against my skin. I remember the sounds, the birds, the trees, my shoes, the sand, and the traffic picking up behind my as I walked away from Ridout.

The most beautiful and peaceful moments were on that street, in those shoes, under the shade of those trees. I never shared those moments with anyone. When I go back there in a matter of days I will struggle to relive the beauty of those days and I will not match it. I will sleep in, be distracted by traffic and children, and be inhibited by the changes in my life. I only grasp the beauty and peace of that time years later, when I have forgotten all that distracted me from it then, but before I can forget what distracts me now. I don't know if I am sad. I suppose it's a sort of wistful sadness, the sort of feeling that comes not from heartbreak, but simply from knowing. Knowing how distant that time and place have become. Knowing that no matter how I try I will never regain those days and those sensations. There really is no way for me to end today. I could go on interminably, I want to go on interminably, half-willing to believe that if I do eventually I will be back there, but there is no road back. There is no real chance of regaining it. I can only move forward and hope that somehow I will stumble back into that place with all its beauty and serenity.

(((Doing)))

I have not written in a few days because, frankly, I have not had anything of interest to write about. However, something occurred to me just a few moments ago, and I thought that I would, in my own rambling and incoherent way, share it with you. Among many of my friends, the term booyeah has caught on in recent years. I am fairly certain that I know the general cause of this recent addition to our vernacular. My concern, however, lies in the particular pronunciation that my friends have adopted. At my earliest exposure to the term, I was under the impression that it was to be pronounced boo-YA. My friends, however, have adopted a very particular boo-YEAH pronunciation. Where, then, did I find this curiously unique pronunciation? Normally I adopt mannerisms and expressions through mimicry, but I have not adapted to the booyeah norm. Peculiar.

Just When You Thought You Were Safe

I was under the impression that the chickens and I had made peace. I stopped eating them years ago, and although they still seemed a little unstable to me, they didn't bother me for quite some time. This evening, however, when I checked my e-mail account, I found a veiled threat sent to me via my father's e-mail account. It seems the Nation of Chickens has kidnapped my family and is holding them hostage, forcing my father to send me disturbing messages via the internet. If you don't believe me just take a look at these eyes.

Slashes

I wrote a painting a few days ago. I tried to post it on the underground but it doesn't seem to translate very well into type-face. There is definitely something to be said for penmanship. I wonder how much more interesting books would be if they were all just photocopies of handwritten manuscripts*. The slant of the author's hand. The illegibility of the most inspired sections, when the author had to rush fervently to save all her words in ink and paper so that they wouldn't slip away. The scratches, the scribbles, and the spelling errors. Especially the spelling errors.
*I cannot decide if it is redundant to say "handwritten manuscript". While I am reasonably certain that contemporary manuscripts are not, for the most part, handwritten, there is still a certain echo in the pulse of both words. Like two very old men, dusty and tanned, who share the same heartbeat.

My Cousin the Commie

Disclaimer: Curiosity is not to be confused with caring.
I often wonder what a select few of my cousins think of my lifestyle and social and ideological moorings. The cousins with whom I have had the most contact throughout my life are all fairly average, materialist, capitalist conformists. They strike me as the type of people who would hold my type of people in utter and complete contempt. Of course, I would by no means be surprised if they were not aware of my uncoventional opinions and behaviour. I'd like to engage them in "hypothetical" discussions of politics, philosophy, and economy. Unfortunately I fear that the conversation would quickly degenerate to the subject of cars.

OMG

You must, you must, YOU MUST check this kid out!

Post Script

Okay, I know it appears before everything else but it really is an afterthought. More to the point, Ottawa actually looks like this.

When Friends Don't Know They are Friends

The scholastic year is coming to a close and I can feel my soul slowly creeping back in. My mind has been buzzing with activity in the past few weeks. I 'm philosophzing like nobody's business. The paintings are starting to parade again and it's all I can do to hope that I make it through the next three months (flash forward one and one half months) not only intact but intelectually and artistically plumper than I am now. Thanks to Damon for being damon.

She's Back

Unfortunately, my evil roommate has returned from the depths of New Brunswick. My three full days of peace and quiet were wonderful. No nagging. No slamming of dishes, doors, and furniture. No abuse of my precious mikey. No verbal and psychological assaults while I'm clearly occupied with more important matters. Chelsea keeps telling me there's only a month left but I don't know that I'm willing to let any more of her shit slide. Perhaps evil roommate is the first archenemy of the underground. I haven't used the word hate in any sincere context in several years, and I resent that this actually seems to be a viable course of action at present. I don't know how to react to people who try to make things easier for themselves at the expense of others, other than to get angry.

The Underground Has Gone International

Authority figures everywhere beware! Or at the very least, authority figures in English and French-speaking countries beware!

Yes, In Fact, Nickelback is That Bad!

I find it odd that even though you tell someone you cannot stand something, and give them a detailed explanation of why you cannot stand said thing, they still insist on informing you that said thing really is all wonderful and butterflies. What the hell? That's like telling someone who had to have their left arm amputated due to complications from a piercing that piercings are risk-free and fool-proof.

I Projectile-Peed My Pants

This was only the beginning. Late yesterday evening, after returning from the second of my many dinner engagements, Raja, Chelsea and I decided that it was payback time. We had yet to find a solution to our egg dilemma. I am referring, of course, to the eggs that caused our rather unpleasant case of food-poisoning earlier this week. Rather than simply throwing them into the garbage chute, we went on a campus-wide smash and bash vengeance fest. Unfortunately, we ended up in the alley right outside of our own apartment, and the contents of approximately four rotten eggs mysteriously found themselves on the walkway. Ever the responsible vandals, we decided we had better try and clean the mess as best we could. Unfortunately neither I nor Chelsea had brought our keys. As both of our room mates were somewhere between Markham and New Brunswick, we were faced with a certain challenge in terms of re-entering the apartment. After much running about, I managed to weasel my way back in, and we proceeded to take a few jugs of water into the alley and wash off the eggs. It was at this point that Meg from across the way happened to walk by and inquire as to what we were doing. I told Meg that some irresponsible hoodlums had egged the walkway and that we had taken it upon ourselves to clean up the mess before it became a nuisance. She was quite impressed and thanked us for our efforts.

No Offence

Please do not take offence, but the entirety of the membership has been, well, dismembered. I've finally found a comment host, so now all of your wonderful and whimsical thoughts have a happy new home. I know you must feel sad. This blog has, of course, been an important part of all of our lives, but don't fret! Now you don't have to log into blogger to make fun of me! You can do it at the click of a button!

The Way His Shirt Cuts in at the Waist

There is little that I find more attractive than a man in a well-tailored, ironed white button down and black pants. That three inch expanse of white cotton held so closely in place by a thin black belt and the rim of luxe black mid-weight fabric, just barely hiding a sweet strong angular waste is all it takes to send me into a reverie. This is the sort of thing that I imagine inspired Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Sarah it's your birthday
Happy birthday Sarah
Yeah!
Presents and cake to come!
Happy Birthday! - oh wait, I said that already
Yeah Doubly Good

Getting Ready to Get Ready

I know what I want to do. Now I just need ideas. Anyone up for confusing the world one person at a time?