Looking Into My Past

Did you ever make one of those time capsule things when you were a kid? I always wanted to. I imagined collecting a whole bunch of different things--pictures, momentos, lists of my favourite songs and movies and games, who my friends were, who I was--and burying it in a box in my yard. Of course, I never got around to actually doing it.

I keep several small decorated wooden boxes on my desk, for tucking stuff into when I want to keep it but don't want to think about where to put them at that moment. I used to use them a lot more when I was in university a few years back, for keepsakes. Now they dutifully serve as bookends for my collection of Nintendo games (Nindendo-ends?).

Fast forward to yesterday, when I decided I really wanted to find an old necklace to wear. Thinking I may have stashed it in one of the boxes during a recent move, I started going through them.

It was really, really weird. As if I were looking back on myself as I was 4 years ago.

Paper stars. Love notes from an old boyfriend. A grocery list. Photographs. Half a loose-leaf diary entry. Movie stubs. Tickets from a visit to the AGO. A souvenier magnet. An old skeleton key (as cliche as that is; it was a gift from a friend, who picked it up at a lawn sale of sorts in rural France, of all places). An old ring.

Of course, my necklace wasn't there.

Ode To The One That Got Away (or, The One I Thought Got Away, But Really Turned Out To Be A Small Fry In The Ocean)

Dismissive
I think back
To you
To our time together
And that is the word that pops into my head.
You treated me like a tag-along
A follower
Someone to morph and mold and change
I became a non-entity
I only wanted to please
I began to enjoy Eric Clapton, Chili Peppers, Jamaican curries
I watched Bubba Ho-Tep and chortled along with you
I sipped wine and read Buddhist teachings
I drank tea in small, out-of-the-way shops
I listened to Lauren Hill and Why? and Wyclef Jean
I loved your hands and your beard and your hugs and your cock

Then you left

And I think part of the reason that killed me so much
Was
Who was I?
I was a no-body
I needed someone to lead me
To show me who to be
So I floated
For too long I floated
Waiting for someone else to come along
And while I floated, I tried to change back to the person I had been
But I couldn’t
So I became someone new
Someone you wouldn’t recognize
And I liked it
I liked this new me
Because it was me, and not you

Then you came back

And I thought, One night
One night couldn’t hurt

And it didn’t
Because I finally realized
That you had no idea
About anything
You are not cultured
You read to seem worldly, and yet you are indelibly stuck in the here
Your hands were filthy
Your hugs held me down, made me slouch and contort and make myself smaller to fit into your arms
You could no longer please me

And I was free.

Welcome to my Masturbatory Musings

When I was in high school, I had a blog. At the time, it was the 'cool thing to do'. I quickly abandoned it, as my page visit counter never increased outside of my own browsing. Back then, the acceptance and recognition of others meant so much to me. Now, I realize that even if no body ever reads this, it will still have served a purpose: catharsis, to get feelings and ideas and emotions out of myself and onto everyone and no one at all.