I suppose I find out tomorrow

I’ve just been outbluffed. I sat back a minute. I really do wonder about this. My thoughts are uncertain, stopped. I don’t know if I have a reaction beyond “oh”. Frivolity has been whisked off like a cloth revealing a concept beautiful somehow in a darker way than I care to look at. Another step into my life being invisible. How is it that people talk about these things? There’s an epiphany and they pick up the phone. I only know it because I’ve been on the other end. Myself, I am left floundering. I suspect that I haven’t anyone to talk to in the right way. The water’s over my head and looking up to where the air meets the surface doesn’t help. No one has any clue as to what I want to talk about. I need names to be real, not only labels for the other person to file to the appropriate story. The people around me aren’t involved. Part of me hates being young. There’s not enough experience in my head, not enough learned. I need to build still. I need to Know.

Once when I was little my family stayed briefly with a pastor at Shawnigan Lake. He was a quiet old man who never walked with a wooden stick. When my parents had a gig in town, he taught me chess. During the day, he took care of a challenged boy sometimes, when parents were at work. It was one of the very rare occasions I ever met anyone around my own height so I was quite taken with the thought of spending time with him. I suppose he must have been twelve. We were out on the old wooden dock one middle of summer afternoon. The heat shimmering off the water, and looking around the lake, there are almost only dark green trees. Tall conifers with the occasional boat tied to them. We were on the end, leaning over as far as we dared, trying to see the bottom of the lake against the glare. Logic told us the sun would let us see the whiskery fish at the bottom that the fisherman would sometimes pull up. Suddenly, laughing, he pushed me and I went in. My corduroys greedily took the water and doubled my weight. Too young to ever be taught how to swim, I was unsteady, I was thrashing. I came up under the dock. And again. I could hear the hollow footsteps of the boy running away as I fought. Finally, I let myself drift to the bottom, where the sun lit the water brightly all around me. One of the whiskery fish swam past and I blinked, reaching for it. With my feet touching the silty mud bottom of the lake, I felt no panic at all. After all, having my bathingsuit on under my clothing made being in the lake alright. That’s what you wear when you’re getting wet. Letting go of my very last breath of air, I leaned peacefully backwards into the water to watch the bubbles gleam their way to break the surface. A white haired pixie looking up through water about to die. No one came running. No one ever saw. Now too many years of working with visuals say I would put a girl singing with a guitar over such an image. Then, it was the sound of water quietly against the shore and the deeper sucking sounds of the dock above me. My own moment and I saved myself by accepting everything. I would follow the bubbles. Struggling suddenly I leaped off the bottom and after the silver, almost leaving my shoes in the muck. When my hand hit the last slippery rung of the ladder I needed air so badly that my eyes had shut down. I tore myself blind out of the water. So desperate to breath that with my first inhalation came a pint of water. Everything burned. Alone on the dock wretchedly coughing, I decided I could stand before I could. I fell, smashing myself into the dock. When I could walk, I trailed water all the way up the shore to the cabin, where I found my mother changing the diaper of my brother on the hood. Looking up, I watched her heart stop. When I saw that she almost fell, that’s when I broke. Cried then, but not before. I remember helpless for perhaps the first time in my life because I couldn’t communicate to her. I felt useless to express how I felt about this moment and everything involved because she was not there.

I get that a lot these days.

whimsy needs licking

I give in. You all win. I will never have another snarky comment on either Tom Petty or anyone remarking on my hat in regards to Tom Petty. Kyle, the blessed boy he most certainly is, sent me the video for Can’t Come Around Here No More, a piece of media that various sundry have been insisting that I see for about five years now. My reaction? Dave Stewart must be Mine. I will keep him under the bed in a specially constructed happy cage until he gives me every last Art Direction idea he has ever had. That, and damn, I’m going to watch it again now. Higher quality! Higher quality!

Yeah – I’m going to make some of this soup now….

Just a tiny note. This is the second weekend someone has arrived without warning with food. You all must perish delightful deaths. I wish a thousand skilled concubines upon each of you. They have chocolate too, and strawberries, and whipped cream. Notwithstanding my loathing for mango, I feel like a guilty whore. You People have to stop being nice to me!! I’m not deserving!

tick.. .tock… tick… tock… wait – someone gossiped about me??

Waking up panic striken because the phone is ringing and my clock says work starts in three minutes. The phone was for Gavin and it’s one more time I have changed the time on the clock trying to shut off the alarm. There was a message from Jacques, he called maybe somewhere around four or five. Damned Fringers. I didn’t pick up. Today I get to find out that gossip says we may be dating.  The most amusing  people have unexpected ideas about me. I can only think it’s because I got a ride home with him on Friday. Drunk people make interesting conclusions. It’s good to swim out of that final bit of sleep laughing.

This also made me laugh. Actually out loud. A man on the subway finally had enough of the evangelists and spur of the moment decided to sing show tunes at them. Showtunes won.

Blast. Work. The first child entered chat right this moment to the tiny sound of a snare drum. Would people be kind enough to save me a little from the monotony and send me new music?

Go here, enter my foxtongue shaw e-mail, pick something interesting, hit send.


wanted to hold his hand

I’m tired right now, uplifted a ridiculous amount and humming to pop music. Slightly out of place, but no matter. Spent an aimless evening with Alistair sketching pieces of our lives for eachother. In the car, go left, now north. Top ten in the charts of “we are young and we have nothing to do”. Went to Lynn Valley, but not to the bridge, went to the shore, but didn’t climb the Q. Instead we stood by the water. Perhaps water is calming a little because as a species we tend to stare out over it. Depending on the conversation, it helps to have a skyline on the other end. Something definite twinkling on the other side of that black rolling eternity. There’s a gap in the bars, wide enough to slip through without effort. I turn and take bars in each hand, pick one foot up and lean out. Insane moment I used to fight every time I stood there. That final splash would be cold like ice never will be. As a non-sequiter, he pegged me right damn and center. “You hold people close and far away all at the same time” Took him a week. In a quiet peaceful way I’m impressed. More so as he isn’t bothered anymore.

I’m not speaking very well. Little food and little sleep make for a dulled girl. I don’t know why I write as much as I do, I only know it’s something I do. Take away my books but don’t take away my pen. What would there be left to do then? I apologize that your friends lists are so flooded with nothing in particular.