, , she left today. Now she’s far away, train bound for a cold place where everything’s better, where everything’s safe. I wish I were on the train with her, heading farther east. I miss my people there and I’ve gathered new ones. I’m sure I could find somewhere to stay. Nothing like her home, her welcome back to the family. It’s like walking on water, this step out into nothing. I think she’s brave for doing it, but that’s not quite the word. I’m looking for a different description, one that involves more acceptance of fate, of the workings of the general world. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to give her a proper goodbye. I sat in the doctors chair, a machine in front of my face, elaborate workings of lens catchment and vision, as she walked away and then gone. My mother drove her to the train station and I felt a little like there was a detachment. A piece of me feels I’m failing, that I don’t know what to give people. I thought to send her off with music, I thought to send her off with blue sparkle-made rain, but I didn’t send her off with anything. I didn’t know what to do. A part of life stepping away that I might never see again. I suppose it’s what flesh is made of, “it’s harder than I thought.”
She wrote me a poem, she read it to my mother as she left. I’ve been wanting to write her something, but didn’t know what. I suppose this is it. I miss her, but she’s on the road to where she needs to be. What will she do there? I don’t know. Write, I suppose, learn what a new city is like. The two of us are still running parallel on-line, though I’m starting to feel like a I’ve got a high-rise view. My internet kingdom spreading before me, who needs T.V.? This is sponsored by you, my lovelies, and we are beginning to create.
Alastair‘s caught the bug finally. The reason why we call this place a web. We’re building a radio station. Streaming noise with pieces of as much of everything as I can collect. We’ve got listeners, he’s going to taste what I’m always talking about. Media networking, it’s not a waste of time, eradicate the silence. My bang-on daily bread, sweetened with honey friends like driving in a fast, fast car. There’s always so much to learn. I want to be filled until I fly, it’s nice to try and give something back. It’s not culture, but it’s related, a thought balloon from the character in a panel that was thrown away.
Mr. Waits has hit 55. May he long tomcat growl us to sleep, oh yes.
As my prescription has only grown trickier over the years to implement, the shop is requiring a full week in which to properly grind my lenses. I pick up two pairs of glasses on Monday or Tuesday. One is urban black, a witchy thing with a cocktail edge, and the other is shiny fushsia, thin rimmed with a corporate glitter. Both are sweet discoveries and welcome. I hope to throw out a lot of collected things which I have no more use for. Clothing what doesn’t fit anymore mostly, either my shape or personality. Time to go sleek, velvet catch up breath and jewel-tone with a touch of pinstripe.
Ray’s reaction: Hooray! Now we can go to movies that have poorly executed subtitles! On the other hand, I will no longer have even the slightest chance of convincing you that there is picture of Elvis on the wall of the Madame Butterfly set…
My defense is only that it was a dress rehearsal. It is a poor blind to hide behind, (excuse the pun), when seen against the sheer volume of times that I have followed along a ridiculous trail with seriousness when I really should have given the source a pinch. I can only blame the fact that I’m rather trusting.
More media manipulation. Joy.
Today I get my new glasses.
I’ll be able to see for the first time in I don’t know how many years. This is big for me. This is special.
I owe it all to the birthday conspiracy.
Thanks you beyond imagining to James, Sophie, Gavin, Ethan, Jeff, Dominique, Vicky, Ray , and especially Adrian.
- take note: tentative party plans for friday the 17th
*sighs* my mother made me promise that I would tell everyone that she wants to see if anyone wants to pool money to get me a camera, so here. Her addy is vgibson at vix.ca. I wash my hands of this.
I had an evening awhile back with someone that really cemented my self-worth back into my being and I don’t think I’ve had a chance to tell them that. I don’t know how I properly could without explaining the tortuous process of how I lost myself in the first place and it’s not my place to do so. The groundwork isn’t there for my unleashing of torrential emotional explanation. We’re not lovers and we’re not going to be. It’s enough that I have it back, my assumption of self. It’s enough that I know I still have what I used to, that I can be full again.
I’ve been trying to think of the positive. My life is taking off again. I’m stepping back into being a person of dancing shoes and social understanding. I need to leave my house more, facetime in the cold of winter. I have reasons now, I’ve been collecting invitations and friends again to meet in flesh. There’s books to return and people to stomp the stores with. I need to play catch-up with a few friends. Tell them I’m going back to California, to live just outside of L.A. for a month. Tell them everything. How I want to meet people there this time. Meet people and keep them. Drown myself in the ocean of humanity. How I’m planning on running away with the circus. Drafting myself into a pyromania outfit of dancers and sparking machines, explosions of sound, grace, and coloured smoke. I want to tell them about my boy, my darling Alastair, whom I’ve never had time to know and how it hasn’t mattered. How the rapport thing is clicking back into my life. How he’s clever and sweet. More intelligent than I am, but likes my random lessons on biology and social science. How he gets self-conscious when I point a camera at him and makes me laugh. How important that is. How I’m full of joy and soul again. I want to spill all of this on people, sprinkle it on them like a baptism of friendship, but I don’t know if I can.
It feels selfish, but his week I’ve been crying myself to sleep a little. A song will come on my playlist and suddenly I realize there’s this weight hanging upon me. It’s hard to carry, it’s shapeless and I don’t know what to do with it. I miss someone. I found a letter when going through my in-box the other day and it caught in my throat. I couldn’t believe the date on it. It was from so long ago. The last thing they’d sent me. Searching for a picture, I found I’d clicked on their name. The date was from too long ago. I miss them more than I ever thought I would. It was something I hadn’t been thinking about, something that was important but I’d been laying aside. I can’t sleep now. They’re in my head. Granted there are worse things, but this is slightly more persistent than feverdreams with murderous intent. By slightly, I mean my blood is singing with it like the note has been found to make it vibrate and it carries their name. I miss them and it’s heavy. It feels like a death in the family, but I know they could pick up the phone.
I’m young and I hate it. I’m foolish and female and it hurts, but don’t tell anyone.
It’s a secret.