My early morning consisted of more cold pizza, updates from the uprising in Turkey, and stark wonder at the absolute disaster area my room has turned into. What is your place like? Mine looks like I've kept the motor running. I tore it apart before my trip, unable to find something, (plus my coat rack fell down just as I was leaving, taking a shelf with it), returned to the mess, then threw a party, then left town again, and now I'm sitting in the middle of it, overwhelmed. I've put on some music and managed a shower, but now I'm shuffling things around, unable to see an end to the jumble. Piles of books, paper, and electronics all over my desk, a strange miscellany of taxidermy, teacups, and laundry everywhere else. I've been sleeping in a small cocoon of pillows, as the majority of my bed has been turned into a stuff sorting table.
Now I'm tucked in at Kyle's place, situated in an entirely different cocoon of pillows as I write and he tinkers with red velvet waffles with cream cheese sauce. I'm checking mail, writing snippets to people, arranging the pieces of my life into an immediate future. He has just explained to me that red velvet is just a prettied up chocolate, though he doesn't understand why. I returned that the red is to make it sexy, to show it's chocolate that's ready to mate. My music from earlier is still playing. The buttermilk I brought over has gone into the batter. Kyle is making chocolate truffle coffee in time to the tapping of my keys on the keyboard. There are two teenage girls at the kitchen table, quietly in recovery from whatever they were up to last night.
I feel like I'm borrowing someone else's domesticity. I am the house-cat, rock and roll purring, a gray and black creature come in from the cold. I can't express how much I wish I had this myself.
I didn’t get home until four in the morning, but I finally got to sleep at my own house for the first time in something like twelve days. I woke fully dressed, pigtails still in, one forlorn glowstick still clasped around my left arm, remembering only at first that Antonio has pictures of me that will further guarantee – “no career in politics”. I think I was on a table or maybe in a cage. Either way, I look like I’m a lot of fun.
Now to go drag Breakfast out of bed. Alastair, Duncan, Andrew, and Dani. Yes. We’ll be there for awhile, different people at different times. You’re invited too.
You know the way.
Some of us, (me, Navi, Andrew, Michael, Tillie, & Bob), are meeting for breakfast at Urban City on the drive at 12:30pm today (im 50 mins). You should come!
Urban City is here.
12:30pm! DELICIOUS FOODS!
edit: breakfast was a success. Andrew, Navi, Michael, Bob, Erin, Avi, Tillie, Jeanette, and Amanda may all claim victory.
We are now loitering at Andrew’s apartment. You’re still welcome to join us. Directions on request.
Circumstance, strange attempts to convey information that isn’t being said. I feel asleep briefly yesterday, half way across town. I fell down later, washed with lead, like my skin was too heavy for my limbs. I wondered if I should have let anyone touch me, if that was the key that brought down the castle walls. I talked with my mother last night, she seems to be doing well. She’s tired, but these days, aren’t we all? Everyone has too much to do, too little to live on. We’re a batch of children, looking up the sky and hoping for something better to come along and pick us up.
Tiny birds and unexpected candy are the hallowe’en aftermath littering my room. The candy will be consumed, translating well into a litter of empty wrappers. The birds will require more effort. I need to twist their wired feet back into the rail over my window, place them in positions where they might look out at the world. Inside each head, I need to replant dreams. Take tweezers and carefully insert the gleaming ideas like glass beads behind their jet black eyes. I took them out when I brought them in public, so they wouldn’t be damaged from what they saw while riding in my hair.
Today’s Breakfast at the Urban City Cafe will be held at 1:45. Come one, come all. For those not in the know, this is becoming the new institution. It’s almost daily and a bit like an antique social salon. Breakfast is five bucks for a full plate of mostly organic tasty.
I have found my laughter from where it was hiding. This time, for the very first time, it’s allowed out of the closet with tears still in its eyes. When I grew up, I grew up in a strange canadian cultural vacuum. I would stare out the window of the truck at all the houses gliding past and wonder what real people had inside thier houses. What was on the other side of so many doors? I lived in hotel rooms and on some basic level, they’re all the same. Clinical transiency. Fake flowers, soulless bedspreads that match the thick ugly curtains, television remotes that you either find next to the miniature fridge or bolted to the table. Cable is an option, but there’s always an ice machine that clunks in the middle of the night. I used to pad out into hallways and sit against them sometimes, because it was a light I could read by. Anonymous. The trick is that they’re always anonymous. The furniture is not your furniture, the life you live within those walls belongs to no one. I grew up being not real people.
My body jerked me across my bed when I woke up this morning. An unfamiliar hand had touched me on the shoulder. Left over reflexes I really should work on controlling a little better. I was up late, reading, unable to think about my tomorrow. Too many things. I have a livingroom picnic this afternoon with Brian. We’re putting down a blanket and making sandwiches. If I was a better person, I would suggest we pretend we’re on a beach somewhere, but I’m not. So I won’t. Breakfast today with precious friends led into a pleasant walk up the drive and some actual grocery shopping. It’s like my world spun around. A smile has been affixed to my face. Someone I don’t know stopped me on the street on my way home with my bags, “I see you all the time on the drive, but I’ve never talked to you, but today I felt I had to say something. You’re really pretty when you’re happy”. He was my height, with dark brown hair and a slightly crooked baseball hat. I wouldn’t recognize him again.